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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
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 THE 
 ENGLISH AND FOREIGN 
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL LIBRARY. 
 

 
 WORKS BY J. G. FICHTE. 
 
 JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE'S POPULAR WORKS : The Vocation 
 of The Scholar The Nature of the Scholar The Vocation of Man The 
 Characteristics of the Present Age The Doctrine of Religion, or The 
 Way towards the Blessed Life Outlines of the Doctrine of Knowledge. 
 Translated by WILLIAM SMITH, LL. D., with a Memoir of Fichte by the 
 same, Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes post 8vo, cloth, price 2is. 
 
 THE SCIENCE OF RIGHTS. By J. G. Fichte. Translated by A. E. Kroager. 
 With Introduction by Professor W.T.Harris. Post 8vo, cloth, price I2s.6d. 
 
 THE SCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE. By J. G. Fichte. Translated by A. E. 
 Krceger. With Introduction by Professor W. T. Harris. Post 8vo, 
 cloth, price los. 6d. 
 
 - 
 
 NEW EXPOSITION OF THE SCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE. By J. G. Fichte. 
 Translated by A. E. Krceger. 8vo, paper, price 6s. 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR, AND ITS MANIFESTATIONS. By J. G. 
 Fichte. Translated by William Smith. Post 8vo, cloth, price 33. 
 
 THE CHARACTERISTICS OF THE PRESENT AGE. By J. G. Fichte. Trans- 
 lated by William Smith, Post 8vo, cloth, price 6s. 
 
 MEMOIR OF JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE. By William Smith. Post 8vo, 
 cloth, price 45. 
 
 FICHTE'S SCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE : A CRITICAL EXPOSITION. By C. C. 
 Everett, D. D. Foolscap 8vo, cloth, price 55. 
 
 LONDON : TRUBNER & CO. : LUDGATE HILL.
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
 
 t
 
 THE 
 
 POPULAR WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM SMITH, LL. D. 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR 
 
 ,lFourt() IBlrttion, in Ctoo Volumes 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 TRUBNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL 
 
 1889.
 
 V.I
 
 R 
 
 To the Memory 
 
 f 
 THOMAS CARLYLE 
 
 these volumes are 
 respectfully and gratefully inscribed
 
 PREFATORY NOTE TO THE FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 OVER forty years have elapsed since these translations of 
 the popular philosophical works of JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE 
 were first published in 1845-49. At that time comparatively 
 little attention had been directed in this country to the strictly 
 philosophical literature of Germany, and no one had even at- 
 tempted any popular exposition of transcendental idealism. But 
 many varied influences, notably the writings of Coleridge, 
 Emerson, and Carlyle, had combined to awaken among us 
 a sense of dissatisfaction with the common philosophy, and a 
 desire for higher and more spiritual views of man and the 
 universe. In the hope of contributing to the fulfilment of that 
 desire, I ventured to undertake the task of making known to my 
 fellow-countrymen, in their own tongue, a new mode of thought 
 in which this highest region of enquiry had been approached 
 by a profound and earnest German thinker, of whom it had 
 been truly said that " a soul so calm, so lofty, massive, and 
 immovable, has not mingled in philosophical discussion since 
 the time of Luther." The hope thus entertained has been 
 realized to an extent far beyond what I could then anticipate. 
 By kind acknowledgments that have reached me from many 
 quarters, both here and in America, as well as by the issue of 
 successive editions of these writings, I am warranted in the 
 belief that the seed thus sown has borne fruit in due season and 
 in many fields. In the preparation of these volumes for a fourth 
 edition they have been once more subjected to careful revision ; 
 and in now taking final leave of them I venture again to in- 
 dulge the hope that, favoured by the wider interest now taken 
 in the higher philosophy, they may still be found a help and 
 encouragement to the earnest student in his search, amid the 
 doubts and confusion of our time, for some reassuring glimpse of 
 the ' Divine Idea of the World.' 
 
 W. S. 
 
 LENNOX LEA, MIDLOTHIAN, 
 
 September 1889.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 MEMOIR OF FICHTE 
 
 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR 
 
 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR 
 
 THE VOCATION OF MAN
 
 ERRATA. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Page 5, line 19, for Neiderau, . . read Niederau. 
 
 57, 3, for Lieb, .... read Lieb'. 
 
 77, 27, for " Algemeine, rtad " Allgemeinc. 
 
 88, 25, for by, read by. 
 
 109, 2 of note, for begrissen, read begriffen. 
 
 171, ,, 15, for alread, . . . read already. 
 
 ,, 186, 10, for means supplying, read means of supplying. 
 
 275, 16, for every, . . . read ever. 
 
 293, 7, for or, .... read of. 
 
 303, last line, for be be tested, , read be tested.
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE. 
 
 AT the time of the great religious division, when Germany 
 was torn by internal factions and ravaged by foreign 
 armies, when for thirty years the torch of devastation 
 never ceased to blaze, nor the groan of misery to ascend 
 on high, a skirmish took place near the village of Ram- 
 menau, in Upper Lusatia, between some Swedish troops 
 and a party of the Catholic army. A subaltern officer 
 who had followed the fortunes of Gustavus was left on 
 the field severely wounded. The kind and simple-heart- 
 ed villagers were eager to render him every aid which 
 his situation required, and beneath the roof of one of 
 them, a zealous Lutheran, he was tended until returning 
 health enabled him either to rejoin his companions in arms 
 or to return to his native land. But the stranger had 
 found an attraction stronger than those of war or home, 
 he continued an inmate in the house of his protector 
 and became his son-in-law. The old man's other sons 
 having fallen in the war, the soldier inherited his simple 
 possessions, and founded a family whose generations flowed 
 on in peaceful obscurity until its name was made illus- 
 trious by the subject of the following memoir. 
 
 The village of Rammenau is situated in a beautiful and 
 well-cultivated district, diversified by wooded slopes and 
 
 A
 
 2 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 watered by numerous streams. Its inhabitants are a frugal 
 and industrious people, and preserve, even to the present 
 day, the simple and unaffected manners of their forefathers. 
 Amid this community, withdrawn alike from the refine- 
 ments and the corruptions of more polished society, the 
 descendants of the Swedish soldier bore an honourable 
 reputation for those manly virtues of our nature which 
 find in poverty a rugged but congenial soil. Firmness of 
 purpose, sterling honesty in their dealings, and immovable 
 uprightness of conduct, became their family characteristics. 
 From this worthy stock the subject of our memoir took his 
 descent. The grandfather of the philosopher, who alone 
 out of a numerous family remained resident in his native 
 place, inherited from his predecessor, along with the little 
 patrimonial property, a small trade in ribbons, the product 
 of his own loom, which he disposed of to the inhabitants 
 of the village and its vicinity. Desirous that his eldest son, 
 Christian Fichte, should extend this business beyond the 
 limited sphere in which he practised it himself, he sent 
 him as apprentice to Johann Schurich, a manufacturer of 
 linen and ribbons in the neighbouring town of Pulsnitz, in 
 order that he might there learn his trade more perfectly 
 than he could do at home. The son conducted himself 
 well during his apprenticeship, rose high in the esteem of 
 his master, and was at last received into the house as an 
 inmate. He there succeeded in gaining the affections of 
 Schurich's daughter. This attachment was for some time 
 kept secret, in deference to the pride of the maiden's 
 father; but his prejudices having been overcome, young 
 Fichte brought home his bride to his native village, and 
 with her dowry he built a house there, in which some of 
 his descendants still follow the paternal occupation. 
 
 JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE was their first child, and was 
 born on the 19th May 1762. At his baptism,an aged relative 
 of the mother, who had come from a distance to be present
 
 HIS EARLY EDUCATION. 3 
 
 at the ceremony, and who was revered by all men for his 
 wisdom and piety, foretold the future eminence of the 
 child ; and as death soon afterwards set his seal upon the 
 lips by which this prophecy had been uttered, it became 
 invested with all the sacredness of a deathbed prediction. 
 Their faith in this announcement induced the parents to 
 allow their first-born an unusual degree of liberty, and by 
 thus affording room for the development of bis nature, 
 the prediction became in some measure the means of se- 
 curing its own fulfilment. 
 
 The boy soon displayed some characteristics of the fu- 
 ture man. He seldom joined the other children in their 
 games, but loved to wander forth into the fields, alone 
 with his own thoughts. There he would stand for hours, 
 his eyes fixed on the far distance, until he was roused 
 from his trance and brought home by the shepherds, who 
 knew and loved the solitary and meditative child. These 
 thoughtful hours, in which the first germs of his spiritual 
 nature were unfolded, left impressions upon him which the 
 cares of future years never obliterated, and they always 
 continued among his most cherished recollections. His 
 first teacher was his own father, who, after the business of 
 the day was over and the garden work finished, instructed 
 him in reading, and told him the story of his ownjour- 
 neyings in Saxony and Franconia. He was an eager 
 scholar, soon mastered his Bible and Catechism, and even 
 read the morning and evening prayers to the family circle. 
 When he was seven years of age, his father, as a reward 
 for his industry, brought him from the neighbouring town 
 the story of Siegfried. He was soon so entirely rapt in 
 this book, that he neglected his other lessons in order to 
 indulge his fancy for it. This brought upon him a severe 
 reproof; and finding that the beloved book stood between 
 him and his duty, he with characteristic determination 
 resolved to destroy it. He carried it to the brook which 
 ran by his father's house, with the intention of throwing
 
 4 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 it into the water, but long he hesitated before accomplish- 
 ing his first act of self-denial. At length he cast it into 
 the stream. No sooner, however, did he see it carried 
 away from him, than regret for his loss triumphed over 
 his resolution, and he wept bitterly. His father discovered 
 him, and learned the loss of the book, but without learning 
 the reason of it. Angry at the supposed slight cast upon 
 his present, he punished the boy with unwonted severity. 
 As in his childhood, so also in his after life, did ignorance 
 of his true motives often cause Fichte to be misunder- 
 stood and misrepresented. When this matter had been 
 forgotten, his father bought him a similar book, but the 
 boy refused to accept it, lest he should again be led into 
 temptation. 
 
 Young Ficbte soon attracted the notice of the clergyman 
 of the village, an excellent man who was beloved by the 
 whole community. The pastor, perceiving that the boy 
 possessed unusual abilities, allowed him frequently to 
 come to his house in order to receive instruction, and re- 
 solved, if possible, to obtain for him a scientific education. 
 An opportunity of doing so accidentally presented itself. 
 When Fichte was about eight or nine years of age, the 
 Freiherr von Miltitz, being on a visit to a nobleman re- 
 sident in the neighbourhood, was desirous of hearing a 
 sermon from the pastor of Rammenau, (who had acquired 
 some reputation as a preacher), but had arrived too late 
 in the evening to gratify his wishes. Lamenting his dis- 
 appointment, he was told that there was a boy in the vil- 
 lage whose extraordinary memory enabled him to repeat 
 faithfully any address which he had once heard. Little 
 Gottlieb was sent for, and appeared before the company 
 in his linen jacket, carrying a nosegay which his mother 
 had placed in his hand. He astonished the assembled 
 guests by his minute recollection of the morning's dis- 
 course and the earnestness with which he repeated it 
 before them. The Freiherr, who belonged to one of the
 
 REMOVAL FROM HOME. 5 
 
 noblest families in Saxony, and possessed a high reputation 
 for his disinterested benevolence and unaffected piety, de- 
 termined to make further inquiries respecting this extra- 
 ordinary child ; and the friendly pastor thus finding the 
 opportunity he wished, easily persuaded him to undertake 
 the charge of the boy's education. The consent of the 
 parents having been with difficulty obtained, for they 
 were reluctant to expose their son to the temptations of 
 a noble house, young Fichte was consigned to the care 
 of his new protector, who engaged to treat him as his 
 own child. 
 
 His first removal was to Siebeneichen (Sevenoaks), a 
 seat on the Elbe belonging to the Freiherr. The stately 
 solemnity of this place and the gloom of the surrounding 
 forest scenery weighed heavily upon his spirits : he was 
 seized with a deep melancholy, which threatened to in- 
 jure his health. His kind protector prudently resolved 
 to place him under the care of a clergyman in the neigh- 
 bouring village of Neiderau, who, although himself without 
 family, had a great love for children. Here Fichte spent 
 the happiest years of his boyhood ; receiving the kindest 
 attentions from the good pastor and his wife, whom he 
 soon learned to regard as his foster-parents, and whose 
 names he never mentioned in after years without the 
 deepest and most grateful emotion. Here the foundation 
 of his education was laid in a knowledge of the ancient 
 languages; and so rapid was his progress, that his in- 
 structor soon found his own learning insufficient for the 
 further superintendence of his pupil's studies. In his 
 twelfth year he was sent by the Freiherr von Miltitz, 
 first to the town school of Meissen, and soon afterwards 
 to the public school of Pforta near Raumburg. 
 
 The school at Pforta retained many traces of its monk- 
 ish origin : the teachers and pupils lived in cells, and the 
 boys were allowed to leave the interior only once a- week,
 
 6 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 and then under supervision, to visit a particular play-ground 
 in the neighbourhood. The stiffest formalism pervaded 
 the economy of this establishment, and every trait of in- 
 dependence was carefully suppressed. In its antiquated 
 routine, the living spirit of knowledge was unrecognised, 
 and the generous desire of excellence gave place to the 
 petty artifices of jealousy. Instead of the free communi- 
 cation, kind advice, and personal example of a home, 
 secrecy, distrust, and deceit were the prevalent character- 
 istics of the school. 
 
 When he was scarcely thirteen years of age,Fichte entered 
 this seminary ; and his protector von Miltitz dying soon 
 afterwards, he was henceforward alone in the world, cast 
 upon his own resources, trusting to his own strength and 
 guidance. So soon was he called upon to exercise that 
 powerful and clear-sighted independence of character by 
 which he was afterwards so much distinguished. 
 
 The strange world into which he now entered, the 
 gloom and confinement he encountered, so different from 
 the free atmosphere of his native woods and mountains, 
 made a deep impression on the boy. His sadness and 
 tears exposed him to the mockery of his school-fellows : 
 he wanted prudence to disregard them, and courage to 
 to complain to a teacher. 
 
 He determined to run away. Shame, and the fear 
 of being sent back to Pforta, prevented him from return- 
 ing to his foster-parents : he conceived the idea of seek- 
 ing some distant island, where, like Robinson Crusoe, 
 he might lead a life of perfect freedom. But he would 
 not steal away, he would make it evident that necessity 
 drove him to the course he adopted. He warned his 
 senior, who oppressed him severely, that he would no 
 longer suffer such treatment, and that if it were not 
 amended he would leave the school. His threat was of 
 course received with laughter and contempt, and the boy 
 now thought he might quit the place with honour. An
 
 SCHOOL AT PFORTA. 7 
 
 opportunity was soon found, and he took the road to 
 Raumburg. On the way he remembered the maxim of 
 his old friend the pastor, that every undertaking should 
 be begun with a petition for divine aid. He sunk to his 
 knees on a rising ground. During prayer he called to 
 mind his parents, their care for him, the grief which his 
 sudden disappearance would cause them. " Never to see 
 them again ! " this thought was too much for him : his 
 courage and his joy in regained- freedom were already 
 gone. He determined to return and confess his fault. 
 On the way back he met those who had been sent after 
 him. When taken before the Rector, he admitted that it 
 had been his intention to run away, but at the same time 
 recounted so ingenuously the motives which had induced 
 him to take this step, that the Rector not only forgave 
 him his fault, but resolved to take him under his own 
 special protection. He obtained another senior, who soon 
 gained his affections, and was afterwards his companion 
 and friend at the University. 
 
 From this time Fichte's residence at Pforta became 
 gradually more agreeable to him. He entered zealously 
 upon his studies, and found in them occupation, interest, 
 and spiritual nourishment. The defects of his previous 
 education were soon overcome by industry, and he found 
 himself once more comfortable and happy. Among those 
 older scholars with whom Fichte now associated, a spirit of 
 independence sprang up, they laboured assiduously to set 
 themselves free from the degrading influences of the school- 
 system, and from the antiquated and worn-out notions held 
 by most of the teachers. The praise or blame of these 
 masters was little valued among them if they could secure 
 the esteem of each other. Books imbued with the new 
 spirit of free inquiry were secretly obtained, and, in spite 
 of the strictest prohibitions, great part of the night was 
 spent in their perusal. The works of Wieland, Lessing, 
 and Goethe were positively forbidden ; yet they found
 
 8 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 their way within the walls, and were eagerly studied. 
 Lessing's controversy with Goze made a deep impression 
 upon Fichte : each successive number of the Anti-Ooze he 
 almost committed to memory. A new spiritual life was 
 awakened within him : he understood for the first time 
 the meaning of scientific knowledge, and cast off the 
 thraldom of scholastic pedantry. Lessing became to him 
 an object of such deep reverence that he determined to 
 devote his first days of freedom to seek a personal inter- 
 view with his mental liberator. But this plan was frus- 
 trated by want of money ; and when afterwards it might 
 have been carried into execution, an untimely death had 
 deprived Germany of her boldest thinker. 
 
 In 1780 Fichte, then eighteen years of age, entered 
 the University of Jena. He joined the theological faculty, 
 not so much, probably, by his own choice as by desire 
 of his parents and protector. By his interest in other 
 branches of science, and by the marked direction of his 
 mind to clearness and certainty of knowledge, it soon be- 
 came evident that he would not accept the shortest and 
 easiest way to the completion of his studies. Nothing 
 definite is known of the early progress of his mind, but his 
 later productions leave no doubt of its general tendency. 
 He must soon have been struck with the disparity between 
 the form of theology as it was then taught, and the wants 
 of a philosophic intellect. Fichte's, nature could only be J 
 satisfied with a consistent theory, deduced, through all its 
 ramifications, from one fundamental principle. We may 
 conjecture what doubts and obscurities dogmatic theology 
 must have presented to his mind at this time, when we 
 recollect that, even at an after period of his life, he still 
 interested himself in the task of reconciling faith with 
 knowledge, revelation with science. He attended a 
 course of Dogmatics by C. F. Pezold, at Leipzic, to which 
 place he had removed from Jena ; and in the attempt to
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL STUDIES. 9 
 
 attain a clear comprehension of the theological doctrines 
 of the attributes of God, the creation, the freedom of the 
 will, &c., he encountered unexpected difficulties, which led 
 him into a wider circle of inquiry, and finally drove him 
 to abandon the theological for the philosophical point of 
 view. Thus his philosophical speculations had their origin 
 in an attempt to create a tenable system of dogmatics, and 
 to obtain light on the higher questions of theology. 
 
 Some hints as to the early direction of his philosophical 
 studies may be gathered from his letters written about this 
 time. The question which chiefly engaged his attention 
 seems to have been that of Liberty and Necessity. Re- 
 jecting the doctrine of Free-will considered as absolute 
 indifferent self-determination, he adopted the view which, 
 to distinguish it from fatalism, may be named determinism. 
 Every complete and consistent philosophy contains a de- 
 terministic side, for the thought of an all-directing Unity 
 is the beginning and end of profound investigation. Fa- 
 talism sees in this highest Unity a dark and mysterious 
 Nemesis, an unconscious mechanical necessity : determi- 
 nism sees in it the highest disposing Reason, the infinite 
 Spirit and God, to whom the determination of each living 
 being is not only to be referred, but in whom alone it be- 
 comes clear and intelligible. 
 
 Fichte seems to have adopted this view apart from any 
 foreign influence; for he was as yet unacquainted with 
 Spinoza, its most consistent expounder, whom he had only 
 heard spoken of as an abstruse atheist. He communicated 
 his opinions to a Saxon preacher, who had the reputation 
 of distinguished philosophical attainments, and was well 
 versed in the Wolffian metaphysics. He was informed 
 that he -had adopted Spinozism, and it was by receiving 
 from his friend a copy of Wolff's refutation ~ of Spinoza 
 that he first became acquainted with that profound and 
 systematic thinker. He engaged in the study of Spinoza's 
 Ethica, and that great work made a deep impression upon 
 
 B
 
 10 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 him, as it does upon all earnest students. Prolonged 
 investigation, however, rendered him dissatisfied with 
 these views ; the indestructible feeling of internal inde- 
 pendence and freedom, rendered doubly powerful by the 
 energy of his own character, could neither be removed, 
 nor explained on an exclusively deterministic theory, which 
 must ultimately have come into collision with his deepest 
 spiritual want, to look upon freedom self-determination 
 as the only true and real being. This original tendency 
 of his mind prepared him for the subsequent enthusiastic 
 reception of the doctrines of Kant, and is, in fact, the very 
 root of his own " Wissenschaftslehre," which in this respect 
 stands opposed to the doctrine of Spinoza, although there 
 is, notwithstanding, an essential affinity between these two 
 greatest systems of modern philosophy. Thus has every 
 great theory its foundation in the individual character, 
 and is indeed but the scientific expression of the spiri- 
 tual life of its originator. 
 
 Amid these lofty speculations, poverty, the scholar's 
 bride, knocked at his door, and roused him to that struggle 
 with the world, in which so many purchase ease with 
 degradation, but in which men such as he find strength, 
 confidence, and triumph. His generous benefactor was 
 now dead, and he was thrown on his own resources. 
 From 1784 to 1788 he earned a precarious livelihood by 
 acting as tutor in various houses in Saxony. His studies 
 were desultory and interrupted ; he had not even the 
 means of procuring books ; the strength which should 
 have been devoted to his own mental cultivation was 
 wasted in obtaining a scanty subsistence. But amid all 
 his privations his courage never deserted him, nor the in- 
 flexible determination, which was not so much an act of 
 his will as a law of his nature, to pursue truth for her own 
 sake and at all hazards. " It is our business," says he on 
 another occasion " it is our business to be true to our-
 
 PECUNIARY DIFFICULTIES. 11 
 
 selves : the result is altogether in the hands of providence." 
 His favourite plan of life at this period, and for a long time 
 afterwards, was to become a village pastor in Saxony, and 
 amid the leisure which he should find in that occupation 
 to prosecute, without disturbance, his own mental culture. 
 But his theological studies were not completed, and he 
 was without the means of continuing them. In 1787 he 
 addressed a letter to the President of the Consistory,request- 
 ing to be allowed a share of the support which many poor 
 students enjoy at the Saxon Universities, until the following 
 Easter when he should be ready to present himself before 
 the Consistory for examination. "I have never," he says, 
 " partaken in the public provision for students, nor have I 
 enjoyed an allowance of any kind, although my poverty 
 can be clearly proved. Is it not possible, then, to allow 
 me a maintenance sufficient for this short time, that I may 
 be enabled to devote myself to theology until Easter ? . 
 
 . . . Without this, my residence at Leipzic is of no 
 avail to me, for I am compelled to give all my time to 
 heterogeneous pursuits, in order that I may even live. . 
 
 . . . . Should it please you to grant my request, I 
 assure you by all that I hold sacred, that I will devote 
 myself entirely to this object ; that I will consecrate my 
 life to the Fatherland which supported me at school, and 
 which since then has only become dearer to me ; and that 
 I will come before the High Consistory prepared for my 
 examination, and submit my future destiny to its wisdom." 
 No notice was taken of his request, partly, it may be 
 conjectured, on account of doubts which were entertained 
 of his orthodoxy a reason which closed the gates of pre- 
 ferment against his friend Weisshuhn and many others. 
 
 In May 1788 every prospect had closed arouod him, and 
 every honourable means of advancement seemed to be 
 exhausted. The present was utterly barren, and there 
 was no hope in the future. It is needful that natures
 
 12 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 like his should be nurtured in adversity that they may 
 discover their own strength ; prosperity might lull into an 
 inglorious slumber the energies for whose appearance the 
 world is waiting. He would not disclose his helpless 
 situation to any of his well-wishers ; but the proud con- 
 sciousness of his own worth enabled him, amid unmerited 
 sufferings, to oppose the bold front of human dignity 
 against the pressure of outward circumstances. 
 
 It was the eve of his birthday. With unavailing anxiety 
 he had again pondered all his projects, and found all alike 
 hopeless. The world had cast -him out, his country 
 refused him food, he thought his last birthday was at 
 hand ; but he was determined that his honour, all that 
 he could now call his own, should remain unsullied. Full 
 of bitter thoughts, he returned to his solitary lodging. 
 He found a letter awaiting him : it was from his friend 
 the tax-collector Weisse, requesting him to come imme- 
 diately to his house. He there placed in Fichte's hands 
 an offer of a tutorship in a private family in Zurich. The 
 sudden revulsion of feeling in the young man could not be 
 concealed, and led to an explanation of his circumstances. 
 The offer was at once accepted, and, aided by this kind 
 friend in the necessary arrangements, he set out for Swit- 
 zerland in 1788. His scanty means compelled him to 
 travel on foot, but his heart was light, and the fresh hope 
 of youth shone brightly on his path. 
 
 He arrived at Zurich on the 1 st of September, and im- 
 mediately entered upon his office. His employer was a 
 wealthy citizen of Zurich who, having raised himself above 
 many of the narrow prejudices of his class, had resolved to 
 bestow a liberal education upon his children. A boy of 
 ten and a girl of seven years of age were committed to 
 Fichte's care. In the prosecution of his duties he soon 
 found himself hampered by the prejudices of the mother, 
 who became jealous of her children being educated for any
 
 RESIDENCE AT ZURICH. 13 
 
 higher position than that of mere citizens of Zurich. Al- 
 though the father, who was a man of considerable intelli- 
 gence, was fully sensible of the benefits which a higher 
 education must necessarily confer upon his family, yet his 
 partner raised such a determined opposition to his plans, 
 that it required all Fichte's firmness of purpose to main- 
 tain his position. These duties occupied him the greater 
 part of the day, but he also engaged in some minor literary 
 pursuits. His philosophical studies were in the meantime 
 laid aside. At the request of a friend who had sketched 
 out the plan of a scriptural epos, he wrote an essay on 
 this form of poetry, with special reference to Klopstock's 
 Messias. He also translated some of the odes of Horace, 
 and the whole of Sallust, with an introduction on the style 
 and character of this author. He preached occasionally in 
 Zurich, at Flaach, and at several other places in the neigh- 
 bourhood, with distinguished success. He likewise drew 
 out a plan for the establishment of a school of oratory in 
 Zurich, which however was never realized. 
 
 In the circle of his friends at Zurich were Lavater, Stein - 
 bruchel, Hottinger, and particularly the Canons Tobler 
 and Pfermiger. In his letters he speaks also of Achelis, a 
 candidate of theology from Bremen, and Escher, a young 
 poet, as his intimate friends : the latter died soon after 
 Fichte's departure from Switzerland. 
 
 But of all the friendships which he formed here, the 
 most important in its influence upon his future life was 
 that of Hartmann Rahn, whose house was in a manner 
 the centre of the cultivated society of Zurich. Rahn was 
 the brother-in-law of Klopstock, with whom he had formed 
 a close friendship during the poet's visit to Switzerland 
 in 1750, and with whose eldest sister Johanna he was 
 afterwards united. From this marriage with Klopstock's 
 sister sprang, besides several other children, their eldest 
 daughter Johanna Maria, then about thirty years of age, 
 who at a later period became Fichte's wife. The fouiida-
 
 14 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 tion of her character was deep religious feeling, and an 
 unusual strength and faithfulness of affection. Her 
 mother dying while she was yet young, she had devoted 
 herself entirely to her father, and to his comfort sacri- 
 ficed worldly show and many proffered alliances. As 
 her family occupied a much higher station in point of 
 worldly importance than any to which Fichte could, at 
 that time, reasonably aspire, her engagement with him 
 was the result of disinterested attachment alone. Ficbte's 
 love was worthy of the noble-minded woman who called it 
 forth. It was a devotion of his whole nature, enthusias- 
 tic like his love for his country, dignified like his love of 
 knowledge, but softened by the deepest tenderness of an 
 earnest and passionate soul. But on this subject he must 
 speak for himself. The following are extracts from letters 
 addressed to Johanna Rahn, while he resided at Zurich, or 
 during short occasional absences. They reveal a singu- 
 larly interesting and instructive picture of the confidential 
 relations subsisting between two minds, in whom the 
 warmest affections and deepest tenderness of which our 
 nature is susceptible were dignified by unaffected respect 
 for each other, and ennobled by the purest aspirations of 
 humanity. It is necessary to premise that the termi- 
 nation of his engagement, at Easter 1790, led to the 
 departure from Zurich which is alluded to in some of 
 these passages. Fichte, tired of the occupation of a tutor, 
 particularly where his views of a generous, comprehensive, 
 and systematic education were thwarted by the caprices 
 and prejudices of others, was desirous of obtaining a 
 situation of a higher nature, and Rahn, through his con- 
 nexions in Denmark, endeavoured to promote his views.
 
 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 15 
 
 ^Letters to gioijanna &ai)n, 
 
 " I hasten to answer your questions ' Whether my 
 friendship for you has not arisen from the want of other 
 female society ? ' I think I can answer this question de- 
 cidedly. I have been acquainted with many women, and 
 held many different relations with them. I believe I 
 have experienced, if not all the different degrees, yet all 
 the different kinds, of feeling towards your sex, but I have 
 never felt towards any as I feel towards you. No one 
 else has called forth this perfect confidence, without the 
 remotest suspicion of any reticence on your part, or 
 the least desire on mine to conceal anything from you, 
 this wish to be wholly known to you even as I am, this 
 attachment, in which difference of sex has not the remotest 
 perceptible influence (for farther can no mortal know his 
 own heart), this true esteem for your spiritual nature, 
 and acquiescence in whatever you resolve upon. Judge, 
 then, whether it be for want of other female society that 
 you have made an impression upon me which no one 
 else has done, and taught me a new mode of feeling. 
 'Whether I will forget you when distant?' Does man 
 forget a new mode of being and its cause ? " 
 
 " The warm sympathy which appears in all these in- 
 quiries, the delightful kindness you have shown me on 
 all occasions, the rapture which I feel when I know that 
 I am not indifferent to such a person, these, dearest, de- 
 serve that I should say nothing to you which is profaned 
 by flattery, and that he whom you consider worthy of 
 your friendship should not debase himself by a false mo- 
 desty. Your own fair, open soul deserves that I should 
 never seem to doubt its pure expression, and hence I 
 promise, on my side too, perfect openness."
 
 16 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 " ' Whether there can be love without esteem ? ' Oh 
 yes, thou dear, pure one ! Love is of many kinds. Rous- 
 seau proves that by his reasoning, and still better by his 
 
 example. ' La pauvre Maman ' and ' Madame N ' 
 
 love in very different fashions. But I believe there are 
 many kinds of love which do not appear in Rousseau's life. 
 You are very right in saying that no true and enduring 
 love can exist without cordial esteem ; that every other 
 draws regret after it, and is unworthy of any noble human 
 soul. 
 
 " One word about pietism. Pietists place religion 
 chiefly in externals ; in acts of worship performed mechan- 
 ically, without aim, as bond- service to God ; in orthodoxy 
 of opinion, &c. &c. ; and they have this among other cha- 
 racteristic marks, that they give themselves more solicitude 
 about others' piety than their own. It is not right to hate 
 these men, we should hate no one, but to me they are 
 very contemptible, for their character implies the most 
 deplorable emptiness of the head, and the most sorrowful 
 perversion of the heart. Such my dear friend can never 
 be ; she cannot become such, even were it possible which 
 it is not that her character were perverted ; she can 
 never become such, her nature has too much reality in it. 
 Your trust in Providence, your anticipations of a future 
 life, are wise and Christian. I hope, if I may venture to 
 speak of myself, that no one will take me to be a pietist 
 or stiff formalist, but I know no feelings more thoroughly 
 interwoven with my soul than these are." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " I am oo ce more within these walls, which are only 
 dear to me because they enclose you ; and when again 
 left to myself, to my solitude, to my own thoughts, my 
 soul flies directly to your presence. How is this ? It is 
 but three days since I have seen you, and I must often be 
 absent from you for a longer period than that. Distance 
 is but distance, and I am equally separated from you in
 
 1 LETTERS TO JOHANNA RAHN. 17 
 
 Flaach or in Zurich. But how comes it that this absence 
 has seemed to me longer than usual, that my heart longs 
 more earnestly to be with you, that I imagine I have not 
 seen you for a week ? Have I philosophized falsely of late 
 about distance ? Oh that our feelings must still contra- 
 dict the firmest conclusions of our reason I " 
 
 " You know doubtless that my peace has been broken 
 by intelligence of the death of a man whom I prized and 
 loved, whose esteem was one of the sweetest enjoyments 
 which Zurich has afforded me, and whose friendship I 
 would still seek to deserve ; and you would weep with me 
 if you knew how dear this man was to me." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Your offer of Friday has touched me deeply ; it has 
 convinced me yet more strongly, if that were possible, of 
 your worth. Not because you are willing, for my sake, to 
 deprive yourself of something which may be to you a 
 trifle, as you say it is, a thousand others could do that, 
 but that, although you must have remarked something of 
 my way of thinking (' pride" the world calls it), you should 
 yet have made that offer so naturally and openly, as if 
 your whole heart had told you that I could not misunder- 
 stand you ; that although I had never accepted aught 
 from any man on earth, yet I would accept it from you ; 
 that we were too closely united to have different opinions 
 about such things as these. Dearest, you have given me 
 a proof of your confidence, your kindness, your (dare I 
 write it ?) love, than which there could be no greater. 
 Were I not now wholly yours I should be a monster, with- 
 out head or heart, without any title to happiness. 
 
 " But in order to show myself to you in a just light, 
 you have here my true thoughts and feelings upon this 
 matter, as I read them myself in my own breast. 
 
 "At first I confess it with deep shame at first it 
 roused my pride. Fool that I was, I thought for a mo- 
 ment not longer that you had misunderstood what I 
 
 c
 
 18 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 wrote to you lately. Yet even in this moment I was more 
 grieved than hurt : the blow came from your hand. In- 
 stantly, however, my better nature awoke ; I felt the 
 whole worth of your heart, and I was deeply moved: Had 
 not your father come at this moment, I could not have 
 mastered my emotions : only shame for having, even for a 
 moment, undervalued you and myself, kept them within 
 bounds. 
 
 " Yet I cannot accept it : not that your gift would 
 disgrace me, or could disgrace me. A gift out of mere 
 compassion for my poverty I would abhor, and even hate 
 the giver : this is perhaps the most neglected part of my 
 character. But the gift of friendship, of a friendship 
 which, like yours, rests upon cordial esteem, cannot pro- 
 ceed from compassion, and is an honour, not a dishonour. 
 But, in truth, I need it not. I have indeed no money by 
 me at present, but I have no unusual disbursements to 
 make, and I shall have enough to meet my very small 
 regular expenses till my departure. I seldom come into 
 difficulties when I have no money, I believe Providence 
 watches over me. I have examples of this which I might 
 term singular, did I not recognise in them the hand of 
 Providence, which condescends even to our meanest wants. 
 
 " Upon the whole, gold appears to me a very insignifi- 
 cant commodity. I believe that a man with any intellect 
 may always provide for his wants ; and for more than 
 this, gold is useless ; hence I have always despised it. 
 Unhappily it is here bound up with a part of the respect 
 which our fellow-men entertain for us, and this has never 
 been a matter of indifference to me. Perhaps I may by 
 and by free myself from this weakness also : it does not 
 contribute to our peace. 
 
 " On account of this contempt of money, I have, for 
 four years, never accepted a farthing from my parents, 
 because I have seven sisters who are all young and in 
 part uneducated, and because I have a father who, were
 
 LETTERS TO JOHANNA RAHN. 19 
 
 I to allow it, would in his kindness bestow upon me that 
 which belongs of right to his other children. I have not 
 accepted even presents from them upon any pretence ; 
 and since then, I have maintained myself very well, and 
 stand more h mon aise than before towards my parents, 
 and particularly towards my too kind father. 
 
 " However, I promise you (how happy do I feel, dear, 
 noble friend, to be permitted to speak thus with you !) 
 I promise you, that if I should fall into any pecuniary 
 embarrassments (as there is no likelihood that I shall, 
 with my present mode of thinking and my attendant 
 fortune), you shall be the first person to whom I shall 
 apply to whom I shall have applied since the time I 
 declined assistance from my parents. It is worthy of 
 your kind heart to receive this promise, and it is not un- 
 worthy of me to give it." 
 
 "Could anything indemnify me for the loss of some 
 hours of your society, I should be indemnified. I have 
 received the most touching proofs of the attachment of 
 the good old widow, whom I have seen only for the third 
 time, and of her gratitude for a few courtesies which were 
 to me nothing, absolutely nothing, had they not cost 
 me two days' absence from you. She wept when I took 
 my leave, though I allowed her to expect that she would 
 see me again before my departure. I desire to lay aside 
 all vanities : with some, such as the desire for literary fame, 
 I have in a certain degree succeeded ; but the desire to 
 be beloved beloved by simple true hearts is no vanity, 
 and I will not lay it aside. 
 
 " What a wholly new, joyful, bright existence I have 
 had since I became sure of being yours ! how happy I 
 am that so noble a soul bestows its sympathy upon me, 
 and such sympathy ! this I can never express. Would 
 that I could, that I might be able to thank you.
 
 20 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 " My departure, dearest, draws near, and you have dis- 
 covered the secret of making the day which formerly 
 seemed to me a day of deliverance the bitterest in my 
 life. I shall not tell you whether the day is settled or 
 not. If you do not absolutely command it, you shall not 
 know of it. Leave-taking is bitter, very bitter, and even 
 its announcement has always something painful in it. But 
 one of us and I shall be that one must bear the con- 
 sciousness that thenceforth (but only for a time, if God 
 does not require the life of one of us) we see each other 
 no more. Unless you absolutely require it, you shall not 
 know when I am with you for the last time." 
 
 * # * * . * 
 
 "Bern or Copenhagen, Lisbon, Madrid or St. Peters- 
 burg, are alike to me, so far as I myself am concerned. I 
 believe that I am able to endure all climates tolerably 
 well. The true cold of winter, such as we find in Saxony, 
 
 is never very oppressive to me On this 
 
 account I am not afraid of Copenhagen. But I would 
 rather, dearest, be nearer thee. I am deeply moved by 
 your tenderness ; I think of you with the warmest grati- 
 tude. On this matter I feel with you, even although I 
 cannot entirely think with you. Letters go to Copenhagen, 
 for example, as securely as to Bern, and create as much 
 pleasure there. Journeying is journeying, be it long or 
 short, and it is already almost indifferent to me whether 
 I shall travel ten or a hundred miles. So my understand- 
 ing decides, and I cannot refute it, however willingly this 
 deceitful heart would do so. 
 
 "On the whole, I think of it in this way: the great 
 end of my existence is to acquire every kind of education 
 (not scientific education, I find much vanity in that, 
 but education of character) which fortune will per- 
 mit me. 
 
 " Looking into the way of Providence in my life, I find 
 that this is the plan of Providence itself with me. I have
 
 LETTERS TO JOHANNA RAHN. 21 
 
 filled many situations, played many parts, known many 
 men, and many conditions of men, and on the whole I 
 find that by all these occurrences my character has be- 
 come more fixed and decided. At my first entrance into 
 the world, I wanted everything but a susceptible heart. 
 Many qualities in which I was then deficient I have since 
 acquired ; many I siill want entirely, and among others 
 that of occasionally accommodating myself to those around 
 me, and bearing with false men, or men wholly opposed 
 to my character, for the sake of accomplishing something 
 great. Without these qualities I can never employ the 
 powers which Providence has bestowed upon me as I 
 could with them. 
 
 "Does Providence then intend to develope these capa- 
 cities in me ? Is it not possible that for this very purpose 
 I may now be led upon a wider stage ? May not my em- 
 ployment at a Court, my project of superintending the 
 studies of a Prince, your father's plan of taking me to 
 Copenhagen, may not these be hints or ways of Provi- 
 dence towards this end ? And shall I, by confining myself 
 to a narrower sphere, one which is not even natural to me, 
 seek to frustrate this plan ? I have no talent for bending ; 
 for dealing with people who are opposed to me in charac- 
 ter ; can only succeed with brave, good people ; I am too 
 open ; this seemed to you a reason why I was unfit to go 
 to a Court ; to me, on the contrary, it is a reason why I 
 must go there, to have an opportunity of acquiring that 
 wherein I am deficient. 
 
 " I know the business of the scholar ; I have no new 
 discoveries to make about it. I have very little fitness 
 for being a scholar a matter; I must not only think, I 
 must act : least of all can I think about trifles ; and hence 
 it is not exactly my business to become a Swiss professor, 
 that is, a schoolman. 
 
 " So stand my inclinations : now for my duties. 
 
 " May not Providence, who must know better than
 
 22 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 I for what I am fit and where I am wanted, may not 
 Providence have determined not to lead me into such a 
 sphere ? And may not the favour bestowed upon me by 
 you, whose -destiny seems to be bound up with my own, 
 be a hint, and your proposal a way, of this Providence ? 
 May not my impulse towards the great world be a delusion 
 of sense, of my innate restlessness, which Providence would 
 now fix ? This is as possible as the first ; and therefore we 
 must just do in this matter what depends upon us, and 
 leave the rest to God's guidance. 
 
 " Now I think that the way which you propose cannot 
 have the effect you expect from it. My essays cannot 
 create what is called a ' sensation ; ' this is not in them, 
 nor in me. Many would not even understand their con- 
 tents ; those who did understand them, would, I believe, 
 consider me as a useful man, but comme ily en a beaucoup. 
 It is quite another thing when one takes an interest in 
 the author, and knows him. 
 
 " If you should be able to excite such an interest among 
 your relatives, then indeed something more might be ex- 
 pected. But the matter does not seem pressing. Before 
 all things there must Be a professorship vacant at Bern, 
 and indeed such a one as I could undertake. Then it 
 would be difficult, during my stay here, to make a copy 
 of my essays. And perhaps I shall write something 
 better afterwards, or I may hit upon some arrangement 
 in Leipzic respecting these essays, which can easily be 
 made known in Bern. At all events, you shall know, and 
 every good man who takes any interest in me shall always 
 know, where I am. At the same time I entreat of you, 
 although I know your good will towards me does not need 
 the request, both now and after my departure to omit 
 no opportunity which presents itself of doing me any 
 service, and to inform me of it. I believe in a Providence, 
 and I watch its signs. 
 
 " I have but one passion, one want, one all-engrossing
 
 LETTERS TO JOHANNA RAHN. 23 
 
 desire, to work upon those around me. The more I act, 
 the happier I seem to be. Is this too delusion ? It may 
 be so, but there is truth at the bottom of it. 
 
 " But this is no delusion, that there is a heaven in the 
 love of good hearts, in knowing that I possess their sym- 
 pathies, -their living, heartfelt, constant, warm sympathies. 
 Since I have known you intimately, this feeling has been 
 mine in all its fulness. Judge with what sentiments I 
 close this letter." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " So you desire this bitter leave-taking ? Be it so, but 
 under one condition : I must bid you farewell alone. In 
 the presence of any other, even of your excellent father, 
 I should suffer from the reserve of which I complain so 
 much. I depart, since it must be told, to-morrow eight- 
 days. This day week I see you for the last time, for I 
 set out very early on Sunday. Try to arrange that I may 
 see you alone : how it is to be arranged I know not, but 
 I would far rather take no leave of you at all, than take 
 a cold formal one. 
 
 " I thank you heartily for your noble letter of yester- 
 day, particularly because your narrative confirms me so 
 strongly in a much-cherished principle. God cares for us 
 He will forsake no honourable man." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " And so be convinced that nothing can turn my thoughts 
 from you. The reasons you have long known. You know 
 my heart ; you know yourself; you know that I know you : 
 can you then doubt that I have found the only woman's 
 soul which I can value, honour, and love ? that I have 
 nothing more to seek from the sex, that I can find no- 
 thing more that is mine?" 
 
 Towards the close of March 1790, Fichte left Zurich on 
 his return to his native land, with some letters of recom-
 
 24 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 mendation to the Courts of Whtemberg and Weimar. 
 He was once more thrown upon the world ; his outward 
 prospects as uncertain as when he entered Switzerland 
 two years before. Poverty again compelled him to travel 
 for the most part on foot ; but, as before, the toil of his 
 journey was lightened by a high sense of honour, an in- 
 flexible courage, an unwavering faith ; and to these was 
 now added a sweeter guide a star of milder radiance, 
 which cast a soft but steady light upon the wanderer's 
 way and pointed out to him a happy though distant place 
 of rest. His love was no fleeting passion, no transient 
 sensibility, but united itself with his philosophy and his 
 religion in one ever-flowing fountain of spiritual power. 
 The world might turn coldly away from him, for it knew 
 him not ; but he did not stoop to its meannesses, because 
 he did not seek its rewards. He had one object before 
 him the development of his own nature ; and there was 
 one who knew him, whose thoughts were with him from 
 afar, whose sympathies were all his own. His labours 
 might be arduous, but they could not now be in vain ; 
 for although his future calling did not as yet lie before 
 him in perfect clearness, yet his integrity of purpose and 
 purity of feeling unconsciously preserved him from error, 
 while the energy of his will bore him bravely onward 
 over the petty obstructions of life. 
 
 He arrived at Stuttgart in the beginning of April, but 
 not finding his recommendations to the Wirtemberg Court 
 of much advantage he left it after a short stay. On his 
 way to Saxony he visited Weimar. He did not see Herder, 
 who was ill ; nor Goethe, who was absent on his Italian 
 tour ; nor Schiller, who was at that time commencing his 
 labours as Professsr of History at Jena He returned to 
 Leipzic about the middle of May, his small stock of money 
 exhausted by the expenses of his journey ; and was kindly 
 received by his friend Weisse, through whose recommen- 
 dation he had obtained the appointment at Zurich. Dis-
 
 RESIDENCE AT LEIPZIG. 25 
 
 covering no prospect of obtaining any preceptorship of a 
 superior kind, he engaged in miscellaneous literary occu- 
 pations in order to procure a livelihood. He conceived 
 the plan of a monthly literary journal, the principal objects 
 of which should be to expose the dangerous tendencies of 
 the prevalent literature of the day, to show the mutual 
 influence of correct taste and pure morality, and to direct 
 its readers to the best authors both of past and present 
 times. But such an undertaking was too much opposed 
 to the interests of the booksellers to find favour in their 
 eyes. " I have," he says, " spoken to well-disposed people 
 on this matter, to Weisse and Palmer ; they all admit that 
 it is a good and useful idea, and indeed a want of the age, 
 but they all tell me that I shall find no publisher. I have 
 therefore, out of sorrow, communicated my plan to no 
 bookseller, and I must now write, not pernicious writ- 
 ings, that I will never do, but something that is neither 
 good nor bad, in order to earn a little money. I am now 
 engaged on a tragedy, a business which of all possible 
 occupations least belongs to me, and of which I shall cer- 
 tainly make nothing; and upon novels, small romantic 
 stories, a kind of reading good for nothing but to kill 
 time ; this, however, it seems, is what the booksellers will 
 take and pay for." 
 
 So far as his outward existence was concerned, this resi- 
 dence at Leipsic was a period of harassing uncertainty too 
 often approaching the verge of misery, full of troubled 
 schemes and projects which led to no result. He could 
 obtain no settled occupation, but was driven from one ex- 
 pedient to another to procure the means of subsistence. 
 At one time he gives " a lesson in Greek to a young man 
 between 11 and 12 o'clock," and spends the rest of the day 
 in study and starvation. His tragedy and novel-writing 
 could not last long, nor be very tolerable while it did last. 
 In August he writes " Bernstorff must have received my 
 letter and essay ; I gave it into Herr Bohn's own hands, 
 
 D
 
 26 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 and he promised to take care of it ; yet I have no answer. 
 A lady at Weimar had a plan to obtain for me a good 
 situation ; it must have failed, for I have not heard from 
 her for two months. Of other prospects which I thought 
 almost certain, I shall be silent. As for authorship, I 
 have been able to do little or nothing, for I am so distrac- 
 ted and tossed about by many schemes and undertakings 
 
 that I have had few quiet days In short, 
 
 Providence either has something else in store for me, and 
 hence will give me nothing to do here, as indeed has been 
 the case ; or intends by these troubles to exercise and in- 
 vigorate me still further. I have lost almost everything 
 except my courage." Again we hear of a distant prospect 
 of going to Vienna to prosecute his literary schemes, and 
 thus of being nearer nay, when on his way, of even 
 visiting Zurich. And then again "This week seems to 
 be a critical time with me ; all my prospects have van- 
 ished, even this last one." But his strength never failed 
 him ; alone and unfriended, he shrank not from the con- 
 test. Adversity might roll her billows over his head, but 
 their force was spent in vain against a soul which she 
 could bend to no unworthy deed. 
 
 And yet he was not alone. A fair and gentle spirit was 
 ever by his side, whispering to him of peace, happiness, 
 and love. " In the twilight," says he, " before I light my 
 lamp, I dream myself back to thee, sit by thy side, chat 
 with thee, and ask whether I am still dear to thee ; ask 
 indeed, but not from doubt I know beforehand that thou 
 wilt answer yes. I am always with thee on Saturdays. I 
 cannot give up those Saturday meetings. I think I am 
 still in Zurich, take my hat and stick, and will come to 
 thee; and then I remember, and fret at fortume, and 
 laugh at myself." 
 
 And again, " Knowest thou all that thou art to me, 
 even in this separation ? When I feel vexed that of all 
 my thoughts there is scarcely one which I can pour forth
 
 RESIDENCE AT LEIPZIG. 27 
 
 confidently into any human breast, then I think thee to me, 
 and tell them all to thee. I imagine what thou wouldst 
 answer me, and I believe that I hit it pretty nearly. 
 When I walk alone, thou art by my side. When I find 
 that my walks hereabouts lose their charms for me, either 
 through force of habit, or from the sameness which is 
 their prevailing character; then I show them to thee; 
 tell thee what I have thought, or read, or felt here; 
 show thee this tree under which I have lain and medi- 
 tated, this bench on which I have conversed with a 
 friend, and then the dull walk acquires a new life. 
 There is a garden in Leipsic which none of my acquain- 
 tances can endure, because it is very unfrequented, and 
 almost wholly obscured by a thick alley. This garden is 
 almost the only one which is still dear to me, because it 
 is that to which I first resorted in my transition state from 
 boyhood to youth, with all the fresh out bursting feelings 
 of that spring-time in which I felt so much. Here I 
 often lead thee to walk, and recount to thee the history 
 of my heart. 
 
 " Farewell, and remain the protecting spirit of my 
 solitude." 
 
 Thus amid the desolation of his outward prospects the 
 current of his affections seems to have flowed with a fuller 
 and more powerful tide. Like a strong man proud of his 
 own strength, he bore the burden of privation and ne- 
 glect ; but in the secret chamber of his heart there was a 
 fountain of untold bliss which sweetened even the bitterest 
 trials : there he found a refuge from unworthy thoughts, a 
 strong support in the conflict with misery and want. 
 
 " Thou dear angel-soul," he writes, " do thou help me, 
 do thou keep me from falling ! And so thou dost. What 
 sorrow can grieve, what distress can discourage me, so long 
 as I possess the firm assurance that I have the sympathy 
 of the best and noblest of women, that she looks upon 
 her destiny as inseparably bound up in mine, that our
 
 28 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 hearts are one ? Providence has given me thy heart, and 
 I want nothing more. Mine is thine for ever." 
 
 Of a project for engaging him in the ministry he thus 
 writes : " I know my opinions. I am neither of the Lu- 
 theran nor of the Reformed Church, but of the Christian ; 
 and were I compelled to choose, I should (since no purely 
 Christian community now exists) attach myself to that 
 community in which there is most freedom of thought and 
 charity of life ; and that is not the Lutheran, I think. 
 . . . . . I have given up these hopes in my father- 
 land entirely. There is indeed a degree of enlightenment 
 and rational religious knowledge existing among the 
 younger clergy of the present day, which is not to be 
 found to the same extent in any other country of Europe. 
 But this is crushed by a worse than Spanish inquisition, 
 under which they must cringe and dissemble, partly be- 
 cause they are deficient in ability, partly because in con- 
 sequence of the number of clergy in our land their services 
 can be spared, while they cannot sacrifice their employ- 
 ment. Hence arises a slavish, crouching, hypocritical 
 spirit. A revolution is indeed impending : but when ? 
 and how ? In short, I will be no preacher in Saxony." 
 Thus were finally overthrown the early aspirations of his 
 parents regarding his future career. 
 
 The only record that has been preserved of the opinions 
 he entertained at this time on the subject of religion is a 
 remarkable fragment entitled " Aphorisms on Religion 
 and Deism." The object of this essay was to set at rest 
 the much-vexed questions between Philosophy and Chris- 
 tianity, by strictly defining the respective provinces of each; 
 by distinguishing between the objective reality which rea- 
 son demands of Philosophy, and the incarnate form of 
 truth which Religion offers to the feelings and sympathies 
 of men. In the adaptation of Christianity to the wants 
 of the sinner, in its appeal to the heart rather than to the 
 understanding, he finds the explanation of its nature and
 
 KANTIAN PHILOSOPHY. 29 
 
 purposes : " Those who are whole need not the physician, 
 but those who are sick." " I am not come to call the right- 
 eous but sinners to repentance." This fragment, by its 
 distinct recognition of the radical difference between feel- 
 ing and knowledge, and the consequent vanity of any at- 
 tempt to decide between the different aspects which the 
 great questions of human destiny assume before the cog- 
 nitive and emotional parts of our nature, may be looked 
 upon as the stepping-stone to that important revolution 
 in Fichte's mental world, to which the attention of the 
 reader must now be directed. 
 
 The Critical or Kantian philosophy was at this time the 
 great topic of discussion in the higher circles of Germany. 
 Virulently assailed by the defenders of the existing sys- 
 tems, with Herder at their head, it was as eagerly support- 
 ed by a crowd of followers who looked upon Kant with an 
 almost fanatical veneration. Fichte's attention was turned 
 to it quite accidentally. Some increased success in teach- 
 ing during the winter of 1790, rendered his outward cir- 
 cumstances more comfortable than before, and left his 
 mind more at liberty to engage in serious study. He 
 plunged with enthusiasm into the new philosophy. 
 
 The system of religious necessarianism before alluded 
 to, which frequently shows itself in his letters, was by no 
 means in harmony with the natural bent of his character. 
 His energy of will and restless spirit of enterprise assort- 
 ed ill with a theory in which he was compelled to regard 
 himself as a passive instrument in the hands of a higher 
 power. This inconsistency must have often suggested 
 itself to him before he met with its remedy ; he must 
 have frequently felt that the theory which seemed to 
 satisfy his understanding stood in opposition to his feel- 
 ings. He could not be contented with any superficial or 
 partial reconcilement of this opposition. But he was now 
 introduced to a system in which his difficulties disap- 
 peared ; in which, by a rigid examination of the cognitive
 
 30 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 faculty, the boundaries of human knowledge were accu- 
 rately defined, and within those boundaries its legitimacy 
 successfully vindicated against scepticism on the one hand 
 and blind credulity on the other; in which the facts of 
 man's moral nature furnished an indestructible foundation 
 for a system of ethics where duty was neither resolved into 
 self-interest nor degraded into the slavery of superstition, 
 but recognised by Free-will as the absolute law of its being, 
 in the strength of which it was to front the Necessity 
 of nature, break down every obstruction that barred its 
 way, and rise at last, unaided, to the sublime conscious- 
 ness of an independent, and therefore eternal, existence. 
 Such a theory was well calculated to rouse Fichte's en- 
 thusiasm and engage all his powers. The light which he 
 had been unconsciously seeking now burst upon his sight, 
 every doubt vanished before it, and the purpose of his 
 being lay clear and distinct before him. The world, and 
 man's life in it, acquired a new significance, every faculty 
 a clearer vision, every power a fresh energy. But he must 
 speak for himself: 
 
 Co iacijeltg at Bremen. 
 
 " The last four or five months which I have passed in 
 Leipzic have been the happiest period of my life ; and 
 what is most satisfactory about it is that I have to thank 
 no man for the smallest ingredient in its pleasures. You 
 know that before leaving Zurich I became somewhat sick- 
 ly; either through imagination, or because the cookery 
 did not agree with me. Since my departure from Zurich 
 I have been health itself, and I know how to prize this 
 blessing. The circumstances of my stay in Zurich, and 
 still more of my travels, had strained my fancy to an 
 unnatural height. When I came to Leipzic my brain 
 swarmed with great plans. All were wrecked ; and of so 
 many soap-bubbles there now remains not even the light 
 froth which composed them. This disturbed my peace
 
 KANTIAN PHILOSOPHY. 31 
 
 of mind a little, and it was half in despair that I joined a 
 party to which I ought long ere now to have belonged. 
 Since I could not alter my outward circumstances, I re- 
 solved upon internal change. I threw myself into philo- 
 sophy, and, as you know, into the Kantian. Here I found 
 the remedy for all my evils, and joy enough to boot. The 
 influence of this philosophy, and particularly the moral 
 part of it (which however is unintelligible without previous 
 study of the Critique of Pure Reason), upon the whole 
 spiritual life, and particularly the revolution which it has 
 caused in my own mode of thought, is indescribable. To 
 you, especially, I owe the acknowledgement that I now 
 heartily believe in the Freedom of Man, and am well 
 convinced that it is only on this supposition that Duty, 
 Virtue, or Morality of any kind, is so much as possible ; 
 a truth which indeed I saw before, and perhaps acquired 
 from you. Further, it is very evident to me that many 
 pernicious consequences to society flow from the com- 
 monly-received principle of the Necessity of all human 
 actions ; that it is the source of a great part of the immo- 
 rality of the so-called higher classes ; and that if any one, 
 accepting this principle, yet preserve himself pure from 
 such corruption, it is not on account of the innocence, much 
 less the utility, of the principle itself. Your uncorrupted 
 moral feelings guided you more truly than did my argu- 
 ments ; and you must admit that, in the latter respect, 
 error is pardonable. A multitude of others, who do not 
 err, have to thank, not their greater acuteness, but their 
 inconsequential reasoning. I am also firmly convinced 
 that there is no land of enjoyment here below, but a land 
 of labour and toil, and that every joy of life should be 
 only a refreshment and an incentive to greater exertion ; 
 that the ordering of our fortune is not demanded of us, 
 but only the cultivation of ourselves. Hence I do not 
 trouble myself about outward things, endeavour not to 
 seem, but to be; and it is to these convictions that I am
 
 32 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 indebted for the deep tranquillity of soul which I enjoy. 
 My external circumstances suit well with these dispositions. 
 I am master of no one, and no one's servant. I have no 
 farther prospects : the present constitution of the church, 
 and indeed the men who compose it, do not please me. 
 So long as I can maintain my present independence, I 
 shall do so at all hazards. 
 
 "You ask whether I contribute to the journals ? No, to 
 none of them. It was my intention, at first, to write for 
 the ' Bibliothek der Schonen Wissenschaften." But all is 
 anarchy there. Weisse is called the editor, but the book- 
 seller is the editor ; and I will have nothing to do with a 
 bookseller in matters of this kind. I sent my essay upon 
 Klopstock's Messias to B. for the ' Deutsche Museum.' 
 He replied, that he feared the poet, who had for some 
 time honoured him with his friendship, would take it ill 
 if he should publish an essay which might put his Messias 
 in danger, &c. &c. I was satisfied with his answer, for I 
 had already repented of the sin. If ever I become an 
 author, it shall be on my own account. Moreover, author- 
 ship as a trade is not for me. It is incredible how much 
 labour it costs me to accomplish something with which 
 after all I am but half satisfied. The more I write, the 
 more difficult does it become. I see that I want the 
 living fire." 
 
 On the same subject he writes to his school and college 
 friend Weisshuhn : 
 
 " I have lived in a new world since I have read the 
 Critique of Practical Reason. Principles which I believed 
 were irrefragable, are refuted ; things which I thought 
 could never be proved, as for example, the idea of abso- 
 lute Freedom, of Duty, are proved ; and I am so much the 
 happier. It is indescribable what respect for humanity, 
 what power this system gives us ! But why should I say 
 this to you, who have known it longer than I have done ? 
 What a blessing to an age in which morality was torn
 
 KANTIAN PHILOSOPHY. 33 
 
 up by the roots, and the name of Duty obliterated from 
 every vocabulary ! " 
 
 And with still greater warmth he speaks of his new 
 studies to Johanna Rahn : 
 
 " My scheming spirit has now found rest, and I thank 
 Providence that, shortly before all my hopes were frus- 
 trated, I was placed in a position which enabled me to bear 
 the disappointment with cheerfulness. A circumstance 
 which seemed the result of mere chance, led me to give 
 myself up entirely to the study of the Kantian philosophy, 
 a philosophy that restrains the imagination which was 
 always too powerful with me, gives reason the sway, and 
 raises the soul to an indescribable elevation above all 
 earthly concerns. I have accepted a nobler morality, and 
 instead of occupying myself with outward things, I employ 
 myself more with my own being. This has given me a 
 peace such as I have never before experienced : amid un- 
 certain worldly prospects I have passed my happiest days. 
 I shall devote some years of my life to this philosophy ; 
 and all that I write, at least for several years to come, 
 shall be upon it. It is difficult beyond all conception, 
 
 and stands much in need of simplification 
 
 The principles, it is true, are hard speculations which have 
 no direct bearing on human life, but their consequences are 
 most important for an age whose morality is corrupted at 
 the fountain-head : and to set these consequences before 
 the world in a clear light, would, I believe, be doing-it a 
 good service. Say to thy dear father, whom I love as my 
 own, that we erred in our inquiries into the Necessity of 
 human actions, for although we proceeded with accuracy, 
 we set out from a false principle. I am now thoroughly 
 convinced that the human will is free, and that to be 
 happy is not the purpose of our being, but to deserve 
 happiness. I have to ask pardon of thee too, for having 
 often led thee astray by such assertions. Achelis was 
 right, without knowing it indeed ; and why ? Henceforth 
 
 E
 
 34 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 believe in thine own feelings ; thou mayst not be able to 
 confute opposing reasoners, yet they shall be confuted, 
 and are so already, though they do not understand the 
 confutation." 
 
 Inspired with this enthusiastic admiration for the Cri- 
 tical Philosophy, he resolved to become the exponent of 
 its principles, and to rescue it from the obscurity which 
 an uncouth terminology had thrown around it. Such an 
 attempt had indeed been made already, and was still 
 being made, by a host of commentators, but the majority 
 of these were either deficient in capacity, or, actuated by 
 sordid motives, had eagerly seized the opportunity of gain 
 which the prevalent excitement afforded, and crowded 
 the literary market with crude and superficial productions. 
 Fichte accordingly commenced an expository abridgment 
 of Kant's Critique of the faculty of judgment. It was to 
 be divided into two parts, the one devoted to the power 
 of aesthetical, the other to that of teleological judgment. 
 The first part was completed and sent to his friend Weiss- 
 huhn for correction, but the progress of the work was 
 interrupted by events which caused him to leave Leipzic : 
 it was never finished, and no part of it was ever published. 
 
 Interesting, and remarkable too, in this connexion, is 
 the following passage from a letter written about this 
 time to a literary friend : 
 
 "If I am not deceived by the disposition of youth, which 
 is more ready to hope than to fear, the golden age of our 
 literature is at hand ; it will be enduring, and may per- 
 haps surpass the most brilliant period in that of any other 
 nation. The seed which Lessing sowed in his letters, and 
 in his ' Dramaturgic,' now begins to bear fruit. His prin- 
 ciples seem every day to be more extensively received, 
 and made the foundation of our literary judgments ; and 
 Goethe's 'Iphigenie,' is the strongest proof of the possibility
 
 ANTICIPATIONS. 35 
 
 of their realization. And it seems to me that he who in 
 his twentieth year wrote the l Robbers,' will, sooner or 
 later, tread in the same path, and in his fortieth become 
 our ' Sophocles." 
 
 And so it was ! He who in his twentieth year wrote 
 the "Robbers," did literally in his fortieth produce his 
 " Wallenstein," followed in brilliant succession by " Mary 
 Stuart," "The Maid of Orleans," and, last and brightest 
 of the train, by " William Tell," a parting gift to the 
 world from the " Sophocles " of Germany. 
 
 And now the time drew near which was at once to ter- 
 minate his struggles with fortune, and realize the dearest 
 wish of his heart. He had received many pressing in- 
 vitations from Rahn to return to Zurich, but he had 
 hitherto declined to do so until he should be enabled to 
 earn for himself a name and position in the world. " It 
 would be disgraceful," said he, "were I to re-appear in 
 Zurich, without having accomplished anything since I 
 left it. What should I call myself ? Suffer me at least to 
 vindicate my claim to the name of a Scholar." No prospect, 
 however, appearing of a permanent settlement in Germany, 
 it had been arranged that he should return to Zurich in 
 1791, to be united to her whom he most loved and hon- 
 oured upon earth. The noble-minded woman who was 
 now to bind herself to him for ever, had resolved that 
 henceforth he should pursue his literary undertakings free 
 from the cares of life. But Fichte looked forward to no 
 period of inglorious repose ; his ardent spirit had already 
 formed a thousand plans of useful and honourable activity. 
 " Not happiness, but labour," was his principle a princi- 
 ple which ruled all his actions, in prosperity as well as in 
 adversity. His letters to Johanna Rahn, in anticipation 
 of this joyful event, breathe the same dignified tenderness 
 which characterized their earlier correspondence :
 
 36 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 " And so, dearest, I solemnly devote myself to thee, 
 consecrate myself to be thine. I thank thee that thou 
 hast thought me not unworthy to be thy companion on 
 the journey of life. I have undertaken nrnch : one day, 
 God grant it be a distant one ! to take the place of 
 thy noble father ; to become the recompense of thy early 
 wisdom, of thy child-like love, of thy steadfast virtue. The 
 thought of the great duties which I take upon me, makes 
 me feel how little I am. But the sense of the greatness of 
 these duties shall exalt me, and thy love, thy too favour- 
 able opinion of me, will lend to my imperfection all that 
 I want. There is no land of happiness here below, I 
 know it now, but a land of toil, where every joy but 
 strengthens us for greater labour. Hand in hand we shall 
 traverse it, and encourage and strengthen each other, until 
 our spirits may it be together ! shall rise to the eter- 
 nal fountain of all peace. I stand now in fancy at the 
 most important point of my earthly existence, which 
 divides it into two different, very different portions, and 
 marvel at the unseen hand which has led me through the 
 first dangerous part, through the land of perplexity and 
 doubt ! How long had I despaired of such a companion as 
 thou, in whom manly dignity and female tenderness are 
 united ! What if I had contented myself with some deco- 
 rated puppet of thy sex ? That Being who rules all things 
 was kinder to me than, in the feeling of my unworthiness, 
 I had dared to wish or hope; I was led to thee. That 
 Being will do yet more for me. We shall one day, O dear- 
 est, stand again at the partition- wall which shall divide 
 our whole life into two parts, into an earthly and a spi- 
 ritual ; and then shall we look back upon the latter part 
 of the earthly which we shall have traversed together, as 
 we do now upon its first part ; and surely we shall then, 
 too, marvel at the same wisdom which now calls forth our 
 wonder, but with loftier feelings and with clearer insight. 
 I love to place myself in that position
 
 LETTEKS TO JOHANNA RAHN. 37 
 
 " The surest means of acquiring a conviction of a life 
 after death is so to act in this life that we can venture to 
 wish for another. He who feels that if there be a God he 
 must look down graciously upon him, will not be disturbed 
 by arguments against his being, and he needs none for it. 
 He who has sacrificed so much for virtue that he looks 
 for recompense in a future life, needs no proof of the real- 
 ity of such a life ; he does not believe in it, he feels it. 
 And so, thou dear companion for this short life and for 
 eternity, we shall strengthen each other in this conviction, 
 not by arguments but by deeds." 
 
 LEIPZIG, 1st March 1791. 
 
 " At the end of this month I shall be free, and have 
 determined to come to thee. I see nothing that can pre- 
 vent me. I indeed still await the sanction of my parents ; 
 but I have been for a long time so well assured of their 
 love, almost, if I may venture to say it, of their deference 
 to my opinion, that I need not anticipate any obstacle 
 on their part. 
 
 ***** 
 
 "And now, dearest, I turn to thee, passing over all 
 things unconnected with thee, which therefore do not 
 interest me. Is it true, or is it but a sweet dream, that 
 I am so near to the one best joy of my life, the posses- 
 sion of the noblest of souls, chosen and destined for me 
 by the Creator from among all other souls ? that my 
 happiness, my peace, shall be the object of your Avishes, 
 your cares, your prayers ? Could my feelings but flow to 
 thee, warm as at this moment they are streaming through 
 my heart, and threatening to burst it asunder ! 
 
 " Accept me then, dearest maiden, with all my faults. 
 How glad am I to think that I give myself to one who 
 can take me with these faults; who has wisdom and 
 strength enough to love me with them all, to help me 
 to overcome them, so that I may one day appear with 
 her, purified from all blemish, before Him who created
 
 38 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 us for each other ! Never have I been more sincerely 
 penetrated by this feeling of my weakness, than since I 
 received thy last letter, which reminds me of the poverty 
 of all that I have said to thee ; which reminds me of the 
 vacillating state of mind in which I have written to thee. 
 
 what a man I have been ! People have sometimes 
 attributed to me firmness of character, and I have been 
 vain enough to accept their flattery as truth. To what 
 accident am I indebted for this opinion, I who have 
 always allowed myself to be guided by circumstances, 
 whose soul has constantly taken the colours of surround- 
 ing events ? With great pretensions, which I could never 
 have maintained, I left Zurich. My hopes were all 
 wrecked. Out of despair, more than from taste, I threw 
 myself into the Kantian philosophy and found peace, for 
 which in truth I have to thank my good health and the 
 free flight of my fancy, and even deceived myself so far 
 as to believe that the sublime thoughts which I imprint- 
 ed upon my memory were natives of my soul. Circum- 
 stances led me to another employment less satisfactory to 
 the mind ; and the change in my mode of living, the 
 winter, which never agrees with me, an indisposition, 
 and the troubles of a short journey, these things could 
 disturb the deeply-rooted peace of the philosopher, and 
 bring me into a frightful humour ! Shall I always be thus 
 tossed to and fro like a wave ! Take thou me, then, thou 
 brave soul, and strengthen this indecision. 
 
 " Yet while I lament my inconstancy, how happy am 
 
 1 that I can pour out these complaints to a heart which 
 knows me too well to misunderstand me ! One of my 
 feelings I can acquit of all fickleness : I can say it boldly, 
 that I have never been untrue to thee, even in thought ; 
 and it is a touching proof of thy noble character, that 
 amid all thy tender cares for me, thou hast never been 
 anxious about this. 
 
 " The day of my departure is not exactly fixed, and I
 
 DISAPPOINTMENTS. 39 
 
 cannot determine it until I am about to set out. But it 
 will be one of the first days of April. I shall write to 
 thee of it, and I shall also write to tbee on my journey." 
 
 And now all his brightest dreams were about to be 
 fulfilled, his cup was brimming with anticipated delight, 
 the draught of joy was almost at his lips, when it was 
 rudely dashed from his grasp. The day of his departure 
 was already fixed, when the bankruptcy of a mercantile 
 house to which Rahn had entrusted his property, threw 
 the affairs of the latter into disorder, and even threatened 
 to reduce him to indigence in his old age. Happily a 
 part of his property was ultimately saved; but, in the 
 meantime at least, all plans which were founded on his 
 former prosperity were at an end. His misfortunes brought 
 upon him a lingering sickness, by which he was reduced 
 to the brink of the grave. His life was preserved by the 
 tender and unremitting cares of his daughter. In those 
 dark years, when scarcely a ray of hope broke the gloom of 
 present calamity, her conduct displayed that high-minded 
 devotion which bears inevitable suffering without a mur- 
 mur, and almost raises the passive above the active virtues 
 of our nature. 
 
 As for Fichte, he had now become inured to disap- 
 pointment. His courage soon returned to him, and he 
 encountered with unfaltering trust the new disappoint- 
 ment with which fortune had visited him ; but he was 
 filled with chagrin at having no power either to alleviate, 
 or to share, the distress of one dearer to him than life 
 itself. The world with its difficulties and doubts was 
 once more before him, and once more his indomitable 
 spirit rose superior to them all. He obtained an appoint- 
 ment as tutor in the house of a Polish nobleman at War- 
 saw, and having announced his departure to Johanna 
 Rahn in a letter in which he bids her be of good courage, 
 and assures her earnestly of his own faithfulness, he once
 
 40 MEMOIR OF F1CHTE. 
 
 more assumed his pilgrim staff and turned his back upon 
 Leipzic. 
 
 His diary written during this pedestrian journey to Po- 
 land evinces a clear and acute faculty of observation, and 
 sketches very distinctly the peculiarities of the Saxon and 
 Silesian character. One passage only, and that relative 
 to a different subject, is here quoted : 
 
 "9th May. Arrived at Bischofswerda in good time; 
 drank tea at the ion, and sent my letter to Rammenau. 
 Soon appeared my brother Gotthelf, the kind soul, whom 
 I looked for the previous day at Pillnitz ; and immediately 
 after him, Gottlob. My father had not been at home, but 
 he came soon after the good, honest, kind father ! His 
 look, his tone, his reasoning, how much good they al- 
 ways do me. Take away all my learning, God ! and 
 make me such a good, true, faithful man! how much 
 should I gain by the exchange ! " 
 
 On the 7th of June he arrived at Warsaw, and" imme- 
 diately waited upon his employer the Count Von P . 
 
 The Count was a good, easy man, perfectly submissive to 
 the guidance of his wife, a vain, haughty, and whimsical 
 woman. Fichte's pronunciation of the French language 
 was found to be unsatisfactory, and his German bluntness 
 of demeanour still more so. He soon discovered that this 
 was no place for him, where the teacher was regarded as 
 the hanger-on of the Countess, and no respect was paid 
 to the dignity of his profession. He resigned his office 
 without having entered upon its duties ; and having with 
 some difficulty obtained from the Countess, by way of 
 compensation, a sum sufficient for his maintenance for the 
 succeeding two months, he resolved to visit Kouigsberg 
 instead of returning directly to his native country, in 
 order that lie might have an opportunity of cultivating 
 a personal acquaintance with Kant, his great master in
 
 VISIT TO KONIGSBERG. 41 
 
 philosophy. Having preached in the Evangelical Church 
 at Warsaw before his departure, he left that city on the 
 25th of June for Konigsberg. 
 
 Immediately on his arrival he visited Kant, but his 
 first impressions of the Critical Philosopher do not seem 
 to have been very favourable. His impetuous enthusiasm 
 was chilled by a cold, formal reception, and he retired 
 deeply disappointed. Unwilling, however, to abandon 
 the purpose which had led him to Konigsberg, he sought 
 some means of obtaining a more free and earnest inter- 
 view, but for some time without success. At last he de- 
 termined to write a "Kritik aller Offenbarung." (Critique 
 of all Revelation), which should serve as an introduction. 
 He began his labours on the 13th July, and wrought with 
 unremitting assiduity at his task. It is perhaps one of 
 the most touching and instructive passages of literary 
 history, to find a young man, at a distance from his own 
 country, without a friend, without even the means of per- 
 sonal subsistence, and sustained only by an ardent and 
 indomitable love of truth, devoting himself with intense 
 application to the production of a systematic work on one 
 of the deepest subjects of philosophic thought, that he 
 might thereby attain the friendship and confidence of one 
 whom he regarded as the greatest of living men. The 
 finished work, a work which on its publication raised 
 him at once to the level of the most profound thinkers of 
 his age, was sent to Kant on the 18tb of August. He 
 went on the 23rd to hear the opinion of the philosopher 
 upon it, and was kindly received. He heard a very 
 favourable judgment passed upon his book, but did not 
 attain his principal object the establishment of a scien- 
 tific confidence. For the solution of his philosophical 
 doubts he was referred to the Critique of Pure Reason, or 
 to some of the philosopher's friends. 
 
 On revising his " Critique of all Revelation," he found 
 that it did not thoroughly express his profoundest thoughts
 
 42 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 on the subject, and he therefore began to remodel and 
 re-write it. But here again he was overtaken by want. 
 Counting over his meagre store of money, he found that 
 he had only sufficient for another fortnight. Alone and 
 in a strange country, he knew not what to resolve upon. 
 After having in vain endeavoured to get some employ- 
 ment through the friends to whom he had been introduced 
 by Kant, he determined, though with great reluctance, to 
 reveal to Kant himself the situation in which he was 
 placed, and request his assistance to enable him to return 
 to his own land. His letter to Kant on this subject is 
 so strikingly characteristic of its writer, and describes so 
 truly his position at the time, that it is here given at 
 length : 
 
 Co Kant. 
 
 " You will pardon me, sir, if on the present occasion I 
 address you in writing rather than in speech. 
 
 "You have already favoured me with kind recommen- 
 dations which I had not ventured to ask from you, a 
 generosity which infinitely increases my gratitude, and 
 gives me courage to disclose myself entirely to you, which 
 otherwise I could not have ventured to do without your 
 direct permission, a necessity which he who would not 
 willingly reveal himself to every one, feels doubly towards 
 a truly good man. 
 
 " In the first place, allow me to assure you, sir, that my 
 resolution to proceed from Warsaw to Konigsberg, instead 
 of returning to Saxony, was indeed so far an interested 
 resolution, that it gave me an opportunity of expressing 
 my feelings towards the man to whom I owe all my con- 
 victions, principles, character, and even the very effort to 
 possess them, of profiting, so far as possible in a short 
 time, by your society, and, if allowed, of recommending 
 myself to your favourable notice in my after-life ; but 
 that I never could have anticipated my present need of
 
 LETTER TO KANT. 43 
 
 your kindness, partly because I considered Konigsberg to 
 be fertile in resources, much more so for example than 
 Leipzic, and partly because I believed that, in the worst 
 case, I should be able to find employment in Livonia, 
 through a friend who occupies a creditable situation at 
 Riga. I consider this assurance is due, partly to myself, 
 that the feelings which flow purely from my heart may 
 not incur the suspicion of mean selfishness ; partly to 
 you, because the free open gratitude of one whom you have 
 instructed and improved cannot be indifferent to you. 
 
 " I have followed the profession of a private tutor for 
 five years, and during this time have felt so keenly its 
 disagreeable nature, to be compelled to look upon im- 
 perfections which must ultimately entail the worst conse- 
 quences, and yet be hindered in the endeavour to establish 
 good habits in their stead, that I had given it up alto- 
 gether for a year and a half, and, as I thought, for ever. 
 I was induced again to undertake this occupation in War- 
 saw, without due consideration, by the ill-founded hope 
 that I should find this attempt more fortunate, and per- 
 haps imperceptibly by a view to pecuniary advantage, 
 a resolution the vanity of which has given rise to my pre- 
 sent embarrassments. I now, on the contrary, feel every 
 day more strongly the necessity of going over again, be- 
 fore the years of youth have altogether passed away, all 
 those things which the too-early praise of well-meaning 
 but unwise teachers, an academic course almost completed 
 before my entrance on the proper age of youth, and, since 
 that time, my constant dependence on circumstances, have 
 caused me to neglect ; and, resigning all the ambitious 
 views which have impeded my progress, to train myself 
 to all of which I am capable, and leave the rest to Provi- 
 dence. This object I cannot attain anywhere more surely 
 than in my fatherland. I have parents, who cannot indeed 
 relieve my necessities, but with whom I can live at less 
 expense than elsewhere. I can there occupy myself with
 
 44 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 literary pursuits my true means of culture, to which I 
 must devote myself, and for which I have too much re- 
 spect to print anything of the truth of which I am not 
 thoroughly assured. By a residence in my native pro- 
 vince, too, I could most easily obtain, as a village pastor, 
 the perfect literary quiet which I desire until my faculties 
 are matured. My best course thus seems to be to return 
 home ; but I am deprived of the means : I have only two 
 ducats, and even these are not my own, for I have yet to 
 pay for my lodgings. There appears, then, to be no rescue 
 for me from this situation, unless I can find some one who, 
 although unknown to me, yet, in reliance upon my honour, 
 will advance me the necessary sum for the expenses of my 
 journey, until the time when I can calculate with certainty 
 on being able to make repayment. I know no one to 
 whom I could offer this security without fear of being 
 laughed at to my face, except you, excellent man. 
 
 " It is my maxim never to ask anything from another, 
 without having first of all examined whether I myself, 
 were the circumstances reversed, would do the same thing 
 for some one else. In the present case I have found 
 that, supppsing I had it in my power, I would do this for 
 any person of whom I believed that he was animated by 
 the principles by which I know that I myself am now 
 governed. 
 
 " I am so convinced of a certain sacrifice of honour in 
 thus placing it in pledge, that the very necessity of giving 
 you this assurance seems itself to deprive me of a part of 
 it ; and the deep shame which thus falls upon me is the 
 reason why I cannot make an application of this kind ver- 
 bally, for I must have no witnesses of that shame. My 
 honour seems to be really doubtful until the engagement 
 be fulfilled, because it is always possible for the other party 
 to suppose that I may never fulfil it. Thus I know that 
 if you, sir, should consent to my request, I would think of 
 you with heartfelt respect and gratitude indeed, but yet
 
 LETTER TO KANT. 45 
 
 with a kind of shame; and that only after I had redeemed 
 my word would it be possible for me to call to mind with 
 perfect satisfaction an acquaintance with which I hope to 
 be honoured during life. I know that these feelings arise 
 from temperament, not from principle, and are perhaps 
 reprehensible ; but I cannot eradicate them until princi- 
 ple has acquired sufficient strength to take their place, 
 and so render them superfluous. Thus far, however, I 
 can rely upon my principles, that, were I capable of for- 
 feiting my word pledged to you, I should despise myself 
 for ever afterwards, and could never again venture to cast 
 a glance into my own soul ; principles which constantly 
 reminded me of you, and of my own dishonour, must 
 needs be cast aside altogether, in order to free me from 
 the most painful self-reproach. 
 
 " If I were well assured of the existence of such a mode 
 of thinking as this in a man, I would do that for him with 
 confidence, which I now ask from you. How and by what 
 means I could assure myself, were I in your place, of the 
 existence of such principles, is likewise clear to me. 
 
 " If it be permitted me to compare very great things 
 with very small, I argue from your writings, most hon- 
 oured sir, a character in their author above the ordinary 
 mass of men, and, before I knew anything at all of your 
 mode of acting in common life, I would have ventured to 
 describe it as I now know it to be. For myself, I have 
 laid open before you only a small part of my nature, at a 
 time however when I had no idea of making such a use 
 as this of your acquaintance, and my character is not suf- 
 ficiently formed to express itself fully; but to compensate 
 for this, you are without comparison a better judge of men 
 than I am, and perhaps may have perceived, even from 
 the little you have seen of me, whether or not a love of 
 truth and honour belongs to my character. 
 
 " Lastly, and I add this with shame, if I should be 
 found capable of forfeiting my pledge, my worldly repu-
 
 46 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 tation is in your hands. It is my intention to become an 
 author in my own name, and when I leave Konigsberg, I 
 wish to request from you introductions to some literary 
 men of your acquaintance. To these, whose good opinion 
 I would then owe to you, it would be your duty to com- 
 municate my disgrace ; as it would generally be a duty, 
 I think, to warn the world against a person of such incor- 
 rigible character as he must needs be who could approach 
 a man whose atmosphere is untainted by falsehood, and, 
 by assuming the outward mien of honesty, deceive his 
 acuteness, and so laugh to scorn all virtue and honour. 
 
 " These were the considerations, sir, which induced me 
 to write this letter. I am very indifferent about that 
 which does not lie within my power, more indeed through 
 temperament and personal experience, than on principle. 
 It is not the first time that I have been in difficulties out 
 of which I could see no way ; but it would be the first 
 time that I remained in them, if I did so now. Curiosity 
 as to what is to come of it, is generally all that I feel 
 in such emergencies. I merely adopt the means which 
 appear the best to my mind, and then calmly await the 
 consequence. And I can do this the more easily in the 
 present case, that I place it in the hands of a good and 
 wise man. But in another point of view I send off this 
 letter with unwonted anxiety. Whatever may be your 
 determination, I shall lose something of comfort and 
 satisfaction in my relation towards you. If it be in the 
 affirmative, I can indeed again acquire what I have lost ; 
 if in the negative, never. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " For the tone which predominates in this letter, I can- 
 not, sir, ask your pardon. It is one of the distinctions of 
 sages, that he who speaks to them, speaks as a man to men. 
 As soon as I can venture to hope that I do not disturb 
 you, I shall wait upon you to learn your resolution ; and 
 I am, with heartfelt reverence and admiration," &c.
 
 REMOVAL TO DANTZIG. 4? 
 
 It is difficult to conceive of any circumstances short of 
 absolute inability, which could induce a man of refined 
 sentiments, and especially a scholar and a philosopher, to 
 refuse the request contained in this singular letter. We 
 are not informed of the cause of Kant's refusal, and can 
 therefore only hope that it arose from no motive less 
 honourable than that which animated his suitor. It is 
 certain that Fichte continued, after this occurrence, to 
 regard Kant with the same sentiments of deep admira- 
 tion, and even reverence, which he had previously enter- 
 tained towards him. But the request was refused, and 
 Fichte once more reduced to extremity. He endeavoured 
 to dispose of the manuscript of his " Kritik aller Offen- 
 barung;" but Hartung, the bookseller to whom Kant 
 recommended him to apply, was from home, and he 
 offered it in vain to any other. The very heroism of his 
 life seemed to be the source of his ever-recurring diffi- 
 culties ; and truly, he who has resolved to lead a life of 
 high purpose and endeavour, must be content to relinquish 
 the advantages which are the common reward of plodding 
 worldliness. He does relinquish them without a murmur, 
 or rather he never seeks them ; his thoughts aspire to a 
 loftier recompense, and that he does surely attain. 
 
 But light once more dawned on these dark and hopeless 
 prospects ; and that from a quarter whence it was least 
 of all expected. When the little money which he had 
 remaining was almost entirely exhausted, he received 
 an invitation, through the Court-preacher Schulz, to a 
 tutorship in the family of the Count of Krokow, in the 
 neighbourhood of Dantzig. Although, as we have seen, 
 his views were now directed to a life of literary exertion, 
 yet necessity compelled him to accept this proposal ; and 
 he entered on his new employment, experiencing the 
 most friendly reception and the kindest attentions. The 
 amiable character and excellent abilities of the Countess 
 rendered his residence in her family not only happy, but
 
 48 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 interesting and instructive ; his letters at this period are 
 full of her praises. This fortunate appointment was but 
 the beginning of many years of uninterrupted prosperity 
 which now awaited him. 
 
 Through the instrumentality of his friends at Konigs- 
 berg he now made arrangements with Hartung for the 
 publication of his "Kritik aller Offenbarung." An un- 
 expected difficulty, however, prevented its immediate 
 appearance. When the book was submitted to the 
 censorship of the Dean of the Theological Faculty at 
 Halle, where it was to be printed, he refused his sanction 
 on account of the principle contained in it, That no 
 proof of the divinity of a Revelation can be derived from. 
 an appeal to Miracles occurring in connexion with it, but 
 that the question of its authenticity can be decided only by 
 an examination of its contents. Fichte urged that his book 
 was a philosophical, not a theological essay, and that 
 therefore it did not properly come under the cognizance 
 of the Theological Faculty ; but this plea was urged in 
 vain. His friends advised him to withdraw the obnoxious 
 passages ; even Schulz, who united theological orthodoxy 
 with his ardent Kantism, advised him to do so. But on 
 this point Fichte was inflexible ; he determined that the 
 book should be printed entire, or not printed at all. He 
 resolved, however, to consult Kant on the subject, as the 
 highest authority to whom he could appeal. As this 
 question has now for some time engaged the attention of 
 the philosophico-theological world of England and Ame- 
 rica, it is deemed advisable to insert here the gist of this 
 somewhat characteristic correspondence. 
 
 to iant. 
 
 " 22cZ January, 1792. 
 
 " A friend whom I respect has written to me a kind and 
 touching letter upon this subject, in which he requests that, 
 in the event of a possible revision of the work during the
 
 "KRITIK ALLER OFFENBARUNG." 49 
 
 delay which has occurred in printing, I should endeavour 
 to set two points, upon which we are at issue, in another 
 light. I have said, that faith in a given Revelation cannot 
 reasonably be founded upon belief in Miracles, because 
 no miracle is demonstrable as such ; but I have added in 
 a note, that it may be allowable to employ the idea of 
 Miracles having occurred in connexion with a Revelation, 
 in order to direct the attention of those who need the aid 
 of outward and sensible manifestations to the other suffi- 
 cient grounds upon which the Revelation may be received 
 as divine ; the only modification of the former principle 
 which I can admit. I have said, further, that a Revela- 
 tion cannot extend the, materials of either our dogmatic 
 or our moral knowledge ; but I admit, that as regards 
 transcendental objects, in the fact of whose existence we 
 believe, while we know nothing whatever of the mode of 
 that existence, it may furnish us with something in the 
 room of experience, something which, for those who so 
 conceive of such matters, shall possess a subjective truth, 
 which, however, is not to be received as a substantial 
 addition to, but only as an embodied and formal manifes- 
 tation of, those spiritual things possessed by us a priori. 
 Notwithstanding continued reflection upon these points, 
 I have hitherto discovered nothing which can justify me 
 in altering my conclusions. May I venture to ask you, 
 sir, as the most competent judge, to tell me in two words, 
 whether any other results upon these points are to be 
 sought for, and if so, in what direction ; or if these are 
 the only grounds on which a critique of the Revelation- 
 idea can safely proceed ? If you will favour me with these 
 two words of reply, I shall make no use of them inconsis- 
 tent with the deep respect I entertain for you. As to my 
 friend's letter, I have already said in answer, that I do not 
 cease to give my attention to the subject, and shall always 
 be ready to retract what I am convinced is erroneous. 
 " As to the prohibition of the censor, after the clearly- 
 
 G
 
 50 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 declared object of the essay, and the tone which predo- 
 minates throughout its pages, I can only wonder at it. 
 I cannot understand where the Theological Faculty ac- 
 quired the right to apply their censorship to such a mode 
 of treating such a subject." 
 
 Kant's 
 
 Id February, 1792. 
 
 " You desire to be informed by me whether any remedy 
 can be found against the strict censorship under which 
 your book has fallen, without entirely laying it aside. I 
 answer, none, so far as, without having read the book 
 thoroughly, I can determine from what your letter an- 
 nounces as its leading principle, namely, ' that faith in a 
 given Revelation cannot reasonably be founded on a belief 
 in Miracles.' 
 
 " For it inevitably follows from this, that a religion 
 can contain only such articles of faith as likewise belong 
 to the province of Pure Reason. This principle is in my 
 opinion quite unobjectionable, and does not abolish the 
 subjective necessity either of Revelation or of Miracle (for 
 it may be assumed, that whether or not it might have 
 been possible for Reason, unaided by Revelation, to have 
 discovered those articles of faith, which, now when they 
 are actually before us, may indeed be comprehended by 
 Reason, yet it may have been necessary to introduce 
 them by Miracles, which, however, now when religion 
 can support itself and its articles, need no longer be re- 
 lied upon as the foundation of belief) : but, according to 
 the maxims which seem to be adopted by the censor, this 
 principle will not carry you through. For, according to 
 these, certain writings must be received into the profes- 
 sion of faith according to their letter, since it is difficult 
 for the human understanding to comprehend them, and 
 much more for human reason to conceive of them as 
 true ; and hence they really need the continued support of
 
 "KRITIK ALLER OFFENBARUNG." 51 
 
 Miracle, and thus only can become articles of reasonable 
 belief. The view which represents Revelation as merely 
 a sensible manifestation of these principles in accommo- 
 dation to human weakness, and hence as possessed of 
 subjective truth only, is not sufficient for the censor, for 
 his views demand the recognition of its objective truth 
 according to the letter. 
 
 " One way however remains open, to bring your book 
 into harmony with the ideas of the censor : i. e. if you 
 can make him comprehend and approve the distinction 
 between a dogmatic belief raised above all doubt, and a 
 mere moral admission resting on the insufficiency of 
 reason to satisfy its own wants ; for then the faith which 
 good moral sentiment reposes upon Miracle may probably 
 thus express itself: 'Lord, I believe' that is, I receive 
 it willingly, although I cannot prove it sufficiently ' help 
 thou mine unbelief ! ' that is, ' I have a moral faith in 
 respect of all that I can draw from the miraculous narra- 
 tive for the purposes of inward improvement, and I desire 
 to possess an historical belief in so far as that can con- 
 tribute to the same end. My unintentional non-belief is 
 not confirmed unbelief.' But you will not easily make this 
 distinction acceptable to a censor who, it is to be feared, 
 makes historical belief an unconditional religious duty. 
 
 " With these hastily, but not inconsiderately thrown out 
 ideas, you may do whatever seems good to you (provided 
 you are yourself convinced of their truth), without making 
 any direct or indirect allusion to him who communicates 
 them." 
 
 to IKant. 
 
 " nth February, 1792. 
 
 " Your kind letter has given me much gratification, as 
 well because of the goodness which so soon fulfilled my 
 request, as on account of the matter it contains : upon 
 that subject I now feel all the peace of mind which, next
 
 52 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 to one's own conviction, the authority of a man who is 
 honoured above all other men can give. 
 
 " If I have rightly conceived your meaning, I have ac- 
 tually pursued in my work the middle course which you 
 point out, of distinguishing between an affirmative belief, 
 and a faith founded on moral considerations. I have 
 endeavoured carefully to distinguish between that which, 
 according to my principle, is the only possible and reason- 
 able kind of faith in the divinity of a given Revelation 
 (that faith, namely, which has for its object only a certain 
 form of the truths of religion) and the belief which ac- 
 cepts these truths in themselves as postulates of Pure 
 Reason. This faith is only a free acceptance of the divine 
 origin of a particular form of religious truth, grounded 
 on experience of the efficacy of such a form as a means of 
 moral perfection ; such an acceptance, indeed, as no one 
 can prove either to himself or to others, but which, on the 
 other hand, cannot be refuted; an acceptance which is 
 merely subjective, and, unlike the faith of Pure Reason, is 
 not universally binding, since it is founded on individual 
 experience alone. I believe that I have placed this 
 distinction in a tolerably clear light, and I have endea- 
 voured to set forth fully the practical consequences of these 
 principles : namely, that while they save us the labour of 
 enforcing our own subjective convictions upon others, 
 they secure to every one the undisturbed possession of 
 everything in religion which he can apply to his own 
 improvement, and thus silence the opponents of positive 
 religion, not less than its dogmatical defenders ; prin- 
 ciples for which I do not deserve the anger of the truth- 
 loving theologian. But yet it has so fallen out ; and I am 
 now determined to leave the book as it is, and to allow 
 the publisher to deal with the matter as he chooses." 
 
 The difficulty which gave rise to the preceding letters 
 was happily got rid of by a change in the censorship. The
 
 "KRITIK ALLER OFFENBARUNG." 53 
 
 new dean, Dr. Knapp, did not partake in the scruples of 
 his predecessor, and he gave his consent to the publica- 
 tion. The work appeared at Easter 1792, and excited 
 great attention in the. literary world of Germany. At 
 first it was universally ascribed to Kant, the critics de- 
 claring that the hand of the venerable philosopher could 
 be recognized beyond the possibility of doubt. The jour- 
 nals devoted to the Critical Philosophy teemed with lau- 
 datory notices, until at length Kant found it necessary 
 publicly to correct this mistake by disclosing the real 
 anthor, of whose abilities he spoke in terms of high respect 
 and commendation. Thus through an incidental error, 
 Fichte at once acquired a high literary reputation. 
 
 The " Kritik aller Offenbarung" is an attempt to deter- 
 mine the natural and necessary conditions under which 
 alone a Revelation from a superior intelligence to man is 
 possible, and consequently to lay down the criteria by which 
 anything that claims the character of such a Revelation is 
 to be tested. The design, as well as the execution, of the 
 work is strikingly characteristic of its author; for, although 
 the form of the Kantian philosophy is much more distinctly 
 impressed upon this, his first literary production, than upon 
 his subsequent writings, yet it does not and cannot conceal 
 those brilliant qualities to which he owed his future fame. 
 That profound and searching intellect, which, in the pro- 
 vince of Metaphysics, cast aside as fallacious and deceptive 
 those solid-seeming principles on which ordinary men are 
 content to take their stand, and clearing its way to the 
 most hidden depths of thought, sought there a firm foun- 
 dation on which to build a structure of human knowledge, 
 whose summit should tower as high above common faith 
 as its base was sunk deep below common observation, 
 does here, when applied to a question of practical judg- 
 ment, exhibit the same clearness of vision, strength of 
 thought, and subtilty of discrimination. In the conduct
 
 54 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 of this enquiry, Fichte manifests that single eye to truth, 
 and reverent devotion to her when found, which charac- 
 terize all his writings and his life. His book has nothing 
 in common with those superficial attacks upon Revela- 
 tion, or equally superficial defences of it, which are still 
 so abundant, and which afford so much scope for petty 
 personal animosities. The mathematician, while con- 
 structing his theorem, does not pause to inquire who 
 may be interested in its future applications ; nor does 
 the philosopher, while calmly settling the conditions and 
 principles of knowledge, concern himself about what opinions 
 may ultimately be found incompatible with them : these 
 may take care of themselves. Far above the dark vortex 
 of theological strife in which punier intellects chafe and 
 vex themselves in vain, Fichte struggles forward to the 
 sunshine of pure thought, which sectarianism cannot 
 see, because its weakened vision is already filled with a 
 borrowed and imperfect light. "Form and style," he says 
 in his preface, "are my affair; the censure or contempt 
 which these may incur affects me alone ; and that is of 
 little moment. The result is the affair of truth, and that 
 is of moment. That must be subjected to a strict, but 
 careful and impartial examination. I at least have acted 
 impartially. I may have erred, and it would be asto- 
 nishing if I had not. What measure of correction I may 
 deserve, let the public decide. Every judgment, however 
 expressed, I shall thankfully acknowledge ; every objection 
 which seems incompatible with the cause of truth, I shall 
 meet as well as I can. To truth I solemnly devote my- 
 self, at this my first entrance into public life. Without 
 respect of party or of reputation, I shall always acknow- 
 ledge that to be truth which I recognise as such, come 
 whence it may ; and never acknowledge that which I do 
 not believe. The public will pardon me for having thus 
 spoken of myself on this first and only occasion. It may 
 be of little importance to the world to receive this assu-
 
 RETURN TO ZURICH. 55 
 
 ranee, but it is of importance to me to call upon it to 
 bear witness to this my solemn vow." Never was vow 
 more nobly fulfilled ! 
 
 In the spring of 1793 Fichte left Dantzig for Zurich, 
 to accomplish the wish dearest to his heart. A part of 
 Rahn's property had been saved from the wreck of his 
 fortunes, and had been increased by the prudence and 
 economy of his daughter. He was now anxious to see his 
 children settled beside him, and to resume his personal 
 intercourse with Ins destined son-in-law. It was arranged 
 that wherever Fichte's abode might ultimately be fixed, 
 the venerable old man should still enjoy the unremitting 
 care and attention of his daughter. The following ex- 
 tracts are from a letter written shortly before Fichte's 
 departure for Switzerland : 
 
 Co of)anna i&afjn. 
 
 " Dantzig, 5th March 1793. 
 
 " In June, or at the latest, July, I shall be with thee : but 
 I should wish to enter the walls of Zurich as thy husband : 
 Is that possible ? Thy kind heart will give no hindrance 
 to my wishes ; but I do not know the circumstances. But 
 
 I hope, and this hope comforts me much. God ! what 
 
 happiness dost thou prepare for me, the unworthy ! 1 
 
 have never felt so deeply convinced that my existence is 
 not to be in vain for the world as when I read thy letter. 
 What I receive in thee I have not deserved; it can there- 
 fore be only a means of strengthening me for the labour 
 and toil which yet await me. Let thy life but flow smooth- 
 ly on, thou sweet, dear one ! 
 
 " Thou wilt fashion thyself by me ! What I could per- 
 haps give thee, thou dost not need ; what thou canst be- 
 stow on me I need ranch. Do thou, good, kind one, shed 
 a lasting peace upon this tempestuous heart ; pour gentle 
 and winning mildness over my fiery zeal for the enno-
 
 56 MEMOIR OF FIOHTE. 
 
 bling of my fellow-men. By thee will I fashion myself, 
 till I can go forth again more usefully. 
 
 " I have great, glowing projects. My ambition (pride 
 rather) thou canst understand. It is to purchase my place 
 in the human race with deeds ; to bind up with my exis- 
 tence eternal consequences for humanity and the whole 
 spiritual world : no one need know that I do it, if only it 
 be done. What I shall be in the civil world, I know not. 
 If instead of immediate activity I be destined to speech, 
 my desire has already anticipated thy vvjsh that it should 
 be rather from a pulpit than from a professorial chair. 
 There is at present no want of prospects of that kind. 
 Even from Saxony I receive most promising invitations. 
 I am about to go to Lubeck and Hamburg. In Dantzig 
 they are unwilling to let me go. All that for the future ! 
 That I am not idle I have shown by refusing, within this 
 half year, many invitations which would have been very 
 alluring to idlers. For the present I will be nothing but 
 Fichte. 
 
 " I may perhaps desire an office in a few years. I hope 
 it will not be wanting. Till then I can get what I require 
 by my pen : at least it has never failed me yet, in my 
 many wanderings and sacrifices." 
 
 Fichte arrived in Zurich on the 16th day of June 1793, 
 after having once more visited his parents, and received 
 their entire approbation of his future plans. He was re- 
 ceived with cordial welcome by a numerous circle of his 
 former friends, who were well acquainted with his growing 
 reputation and his prospects of future eminence. After a 
 residence of a few months in the family of Rahn, a de- 
 lay rendered necessary by the laws of the state regarding 
 foreigners, his marriage with Johanna Rahn took place 
 on the 22d of October at Baden, near Zurich. Lavater 
 sent his congratulations, after his friendly fashion, in the 
 following lines :
 
 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 57 
 
 in unto an lSfftJn=jFicf)te. 
 
 ".Kraft tmb Demut^ oereint tmrtf me oergcinglidje Sreuben, 
 8ieB im SBunbe mtt 8i<$f erjeugf unfterbltdje inber : 
 Sfteue bet SBafjrljetf btdj, fo oft bteS SBIdtfcfjen bu anbticJft." 
 
 After a short tour in Switzerland, in the course of which 
 his already wide-spread fame brought him into contact 
 with several distinguished men, Baggesen, Pestalozzi, 
 &c. Fichte took up his residence in the house of his 
 father-in-law. Here he enjoyed for several months a life 
 of undisturbed repose, in the society of her whose love had 
 been his stay in times of adversity and doubt, and now 
 gave to prosperity a keener relish and a holier aim. 
 
 But while happiness and security dwelt in the peaceful 
 Swiss canton, the rest of Europe was torn asunder by that 
 fearful convulsion which made the close of last century 
 the most remarkable period in the history of the world. 
 Principles which had once bound men together in bonds 
 of truth and fealty had become false and hollow mock- 
 eries ; and that evil time had arrived in which those who 
 were nominally the leaders and rulers of the people had 
 ceased to command their reverence and esteem ; nay, by 
 countless oppressions and follies had become the objects 
 of their bitter hatred and contempt. And now one nation 
 speaks forth the word which all are struggling to utter, 
 and soon every eye is turned upon France, the theatre 
 on which the new act in the drama of human history is to 
 be acted ; where freedom and right are once more to be- 
 come realities ; where man, no longer a mere appendage 
 to the soil, is to start forth on a new career of activity and 
 honour, and show the world the spectacle of an ennobled 
 and regenerated race. The enslaved of all nations rouse 
 themselves at the shout of deliverance ; the patriot's heart 
 throbs higher at the cry ; the poet dreams of a new golden 
 age ; the philosopher looks with eager eye for the solution 
 of the mighty problem of human destiny. All, alas ! are 
 
 H
 
 58 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 doomed to disappointment ; and over the grave where 
 their hopes lie buried, a lesson of fearful significance 
 stands inscribed in characters of desolation and blood, pro- 
 claiming to all ages that where the law of liberty is not 
 Avritten upon the soul, outward freedom is a mockery and 
 unchecked power a curse. 
 
 In 1793 Fichte published his " Contributions to the 
 correction of public opinion upon the French Revolution." 
 The leading principle of this work is, that there is, and 
 can be, no absolutely unchangeable political constitution, 
 because none absolutely perfect can be realized ; the re- 
 latively best constitution must therefore carry within 
 itself the principle of change and improvement. And if 
 it be asked from whom this improvement should proceed, 
 it is replied, that all parties to the political contract ought 
 equally to possess this right. And by this political con- 
 tract is to be understood, not any actual and recorded a- 
 greement, for both the old and new opponents of this 
 view think they can destroy it at once by the easy remark 
 that we have no historical proof of the existence of such a 
 contract, but the abstract idea of a State, which, as the 
 peculiar foundation of all rights, should lie at the bottom 
 of every actual political fabric. The work comprises also 
 an enquiry concerning the privileged classes in society, 
 particularly the nobility and clergy, whose prerogatives 
 are subjected to a prolonged and rigid scrutiny. In par- 
 ticular, the conflict between the universal rights of reason 
 and historical privileges which often involve great injus- 
 tice is brought prominently into notice. This book 
 brought upon Fichte the charge of being a democrat, 
 which was afterwards extended into that of atheism ! The 
 following passage is from his own defence against the for- 
 mer charge, written at a later period : 
 
 " And so I am a democrat ! And what ts a democrat ? 
 One Avho represents the democratic form of government
 
 POLITICAL SPECULATIONS. 59 
 
 as the only just one, and recommends its introduction ? 
 I should think, if he does this merely in his writings, that, 
 even under a monarchical government, the refutation of his 
 error, if it be an error, might be left to other literary men. 
 So long as he makes no direct attempt to overthrow the 
 existing government and put his own scheme in its place, 
 I do not see how his opinions can come before the judg- 
 ment-seat of the State, which takes cognizance of actions 
 only. However, I know that my opponents think other- 
 wise on this point. Let them think so if they choose ; 
 does the accusation then justly apply to me ? am I a de- 
 mocrat in the foregoing sense of that word ? They may 
 indeed have neither heard nor read anything about me, 
 since they settled this idea in their minds and wrote " de- 
 mocrat" over my head in their imaginations. Let them 
 look at my " Principles of Natural Law," vol. i. p. 189, &c. 
 It is impossible to name any writer who has declared 
 more decidedly, and on stronger grounds, against the demo- 
 cratic form of government as an absolutely illegitimate 
 form. Let them make a fair extract from that book. 
 They will find that I require a submission to law, a juris- 
 diction of law over the actions of the citizen, such as was 
 never before demanded by any teacher of jurisprudence, 
 and has never been realized in any constitution. Most of 
 the complaints which I have heard against this system 
 have turned on the assertion that it derogated too much 
 from the freedom (licentiousness and lawlessness) of men. 
 I am thus far from preaching anarchy. 
 
 " But they do not attach a definite and scientific mean- 
 ing to the word. If all the circumstances in which they 
 use this expression were brought together, it might per- 
 haps be possible to say what particular sense they annex 
 to it ; and it is quite possible that, in this sense, I may be 
 a very decided democrat ; it is at least so far certain, 
 that I would rather not be at all, than be the subject of 
 caprice and not of law."
 
 60 MEMOIR OF F1CHTE. 
 
 During the period of his residence at Zurich, however, 
 Fichte's attention was occupied with another subject, more 
 important to science and to his own future fame than his 
 political speculations. This was the philosophical system 
 on which his reputation chiefly rests. It would be alto- 
 gether out of place in the present Memoir to enter at 
 large upon a subject so vast and so profound, if indeed it 
 might not prove altogether impossible to present, in any 
 form intelligible to the ordinary English reader, the re- 
 sults of these abstruse and difficult speculations. Yet the 
 peculiarities of Fichte's philosophical system are so inti- 
 mately bound up with the personal character of its author, 
 that both lose something of their completeness when con- 
 sidered apart from each other. And it is principally with 
 a view to illustrate the harmony between his life and his 
 philosophy that an attempt is here made to indicate in 
 a popular way some of its distinguishing features. As 
 Fichte's system may be considered the complement of 
 those which preceded it, we must view it in connexion 
 with the more important of these. 
 
 The final results of the philosophy of Locke were two- 
 fold. In France, the school of Condillac, imitating the 
 example of the English philosopher rather than following 
 out his first principles, occupied itself exclusively with the 
 phenomena of sensation, 'leaving out of sight the no less 
 indisputable facts to which reflection is our sole guide. 
 The consequence was a system of unmixed materialism, 
 a deification of physical nature, and ultimately, avowed 
 atheism. In Great Britain, the philosophy of experience 
 was more justly treated : both .sources of human know- 
 ledge which Locke indicated at the outset of his inquiry 
 although in the body of his Essay he analyzed one of 
 them only were recognised by his followers in his own 
 land, until Berkeley resolved the phenomena of sensation 
 into those of reflection, and the same method which in 
 France led to materialism, in England produced a system
 
 MODERN PHILOSOPHY LOCKE, HUME, ETC. 61 
 
 of intellectual idealism. Berkeley's principles were pushed 
 to the extreme by Hume, who, applying to the phenome- 
 na of reflection precisely the same analysis which Berke- 
 ley applied to those of sensation, demolished the whole 
 fabric of human knowledge, and revealed, under the 
 seemingly substantial foundations on which men had 
 hitherto built their faith, a yawning gulf of impenetrable 
 obscurity and scepticism. Feeling, thought, nay con- 
 sciousness itself became but fleeting phantasms without 
 any abiding subject in which they could inhere. 
 
 It may be safely affirmed that, notwithstanding the 
 outcry which greeted the publication of the " Essay of 
 Human Nature," and the senseless virulence which still 
 loads the memory of its author with abuse, none of his 
 critics have hitherto succeeded in detecting a fallacy in 
 his main argument. Admit his premises, and you cannot 
 consistently stop short of his conclusions. The Aristote- 
 lian theory of perception, which up to this period none had 
 dared to impugn, having thus led, by a strictly necessary 
 movement, to the last extreme of scepticism, the reaction 
 which followed, under Reid and the school of Common 
 Sense, was naturally founded on a denial of the doctrine 
 of representation, and on a more close analysis of our 
 knowledge of the external world, and of the processes by 
 which we acquire that knowledge. It has thus occurred 
 that the distinguished philosophers of the Scotch School, 
 although deserving of all gratitude for their acute investi- 
 gations into the intellectual and moral phenomena of man, 
 have yet confined themselves exclusively to the department 
 of psychological analysis, and have thrown little direct 
 light on the higher questions of philosophical speculation. 
 This was reserved for the modern school of Germany, of 
 which Kant may be considered the head. Stewart, al- 
 though contemporary with the philosopher of Konigsberg, 
 seems to have had not only an imperfect, but a quite 
 erroneous, conception of his doctrines.
 
 62 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 Kant admitted the validity of Hume's conclusions re- 
 specting our knowledge of external things on the premises 
 from which they were deduced. He admitted that the 
 human intellect could not go beyond itself, could not 
 furnish us with any other than subjective knowledge. 
 We are indeed constrained to assume the existence of an 
 outward world to which we refer the impressions which 
 come to us through our senses, but these impressions 
 having to pass through the prism of certain inherent 
 faculties or "categories," of the understanding, by which 
 their original character is modified, or perhaps altogether 
 changed, we are not entitled to draw from them any con- 
 clusions as to the real nature of the source whence they 
 emanate. Our knowledge of the outward world is thus 
 limited to the bare admission of its existence, and stands 
 in the same relation to the outward world itself as the 
 impressions conveyed to the eye through a kaleidoscope 
 do to the collection of objects within the instrument. But 
 is the outward world, which we are thus forced to abandon 
 to doubt, the only reality for man ? Do we not find in 
 consciousness something more than a cognitive faculty ? 
 We find besides, Will, Freedom, Self-determination ; and 
 here is a world altogether independent of sense, and of the 
 knowledge of outward things. Freedom is the root, the 
 very ground-work of our being ; free determination is the 
 most intimate and certain fact in our nature. To this 
 freedom we find an absolute law addressed, the uncon- 
 ditional law of morality. Here, then, in the practical 
 world of duty, of free obedience, of moral determination, 
 we have the true world of man, in which the moral agent 
 is the only existence, the moral act the only reality. In 
 this super-sensual world we regain, by the practical move- 
 ment of Reason, our convictions of infinite and absolute 
 existence, from the knowledge of which, as objective 
 realities, we are shut out by the subjective limitations of 
 the Understanding. Between the world of sense and the
 
 MODERN PHILOSOPHY KANT. 63 
 
 world of morality, and indissolubly connected with both, 
 stands the aesthetic world, or the system of relations we 
 hold with external things through our ideas of the Beauti- 
 ful, the Sublime, &c. ; which thus forms the bond of union 
 between the sensible and spiritual worlds. These three 
 worlds exhaust the elements of human consciousness. 
 
 But while Kant, by throwing the bridge of aesthetic 
 feeling over the chasm which separates the sensible from 
 the purely spiritual world, established an outward com- 
 munication between them, he did not attempt to recon- 
 cile he maintained the impossibility of reconciling 
 their essential opposition. So far as the objective world 
 is concerned, his system is one of mere negation. It is in 
 this reconcilation, in tracing this opposition to its source, 
 in the establishment of the unity of the sensible and 
 spiritual worlds, that Fichte's "Wissenchaftslehre" follows 
 out and completes the philosophical system of which Kant 
 had laid the foundation. In it, for the first time, philo- 
 sophy becomes, not a theory of knowledge, but knowledge 
 itself: for in it the apparent division of the subject think- 
 ing from the object thought of is abolished, by penetrating 
 to the primitive unity out of which this opposition arises. 
 
 The origin of this opposition, and the principle by which 
 it is to be reconciled, must be sought for in the nature of 
 the thinking subject itself. Our own consciousness is 
 the source of all our positive and certain knowledge. It 
 precedes, and is the ground of, all other knowledge ; nay 
 it embraces within itself everything which we truly know. 
 The facts of our own mental experience alone possess 
 true reality for us ; whatever is more than these, how- 
 ever probable as an inference, does not belong to the 
 sphere of knowledge. Here, then, in the depths of the 
 mind itself, we must look for a fixed and certain starting 
 point for philosophy. Fichte finds such a starting point 
 in the proposition or axiom (A=A.) This proposition is 
 at once recognised by every one as absolutely and uncon-
 
 64 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 ditionally true. But in affirming this proposition we also 
 affirm our own existence, for the affirmation itself is our 
 own mental act. The proposition may therefore be changed 
 into (Ego=Ego.) But this affirmation itself postulates 
 the existence of something not included in its subject, or 
 in other words, out of the affirmative axiom (A=A) there 
 arises the negative proposition (-A not=A,} or as before, 
 (Non-Ego w0=Ego.) In this act of negation the mind 
 assumes the existence of a Non-Ego opposed to itself, 
 and forming a limitation to its own existence. This op- 
 position occurs in every act of consciousness; and in the 
 voluntary and spontaneous limits which the mind thus sets 
 to its own activity, it creates for itself an objective world. 
 
 The fundamental character of finite being is thus the 
 supposition of itself (thesis), and of something opposed to 
 itself (anti-thesis') which two conceptions are reciprocal, 
 mutually imply each other, and are hence identical (syn- 
 thesis.} The Ego affirms the Non-Ego, and is affirmed 
 in it ; the two conceptions are indissoluble, nay they are 
 but one conception modified by different attitudes of the 
 mind. But as these attitudes are in every case volunta- 
 rily assumed by the Ego, it is itself the only real existence, 
 and the Non-Ego, as well as the varied aspects attributed 
 to it, are but different forms of the activity of the Ego. 
 Here, then, Realism and Idealism coincide in the iden- 
 tity of the subject and object of thought, and the absolute 
 principle of knowledge is discovered in the mind itself. 
 
 But in thus establishing the Non-Ego as a limit to its 
 own free activity, the Ego does not perform a mere arbi- 
 trary act. It constantly sets before it, as its aim or pur- 
 pose, the realization of its own nature ; and this effort 
 after self-development is the root of our practical existence. 
 This effort is limited by the Non-Ego, the creation of 
 the Ego itself for the purposes of its own moral life. 
 Hence the practical Ego must regard itself as acted upon 
 by influencies from without, as restrained by something
 
 " WISSENSCHAFTSLEHRE." 65 
 
 other than itself, in one word, as finite. But this limita- 
 tion, or in other words the Non-Ego, is a mere creation of 
 the Ego, without true life or existence in itself, and only 
 assumed as a field for the self-development of the Ego. 
 Let us suppose this assumed obstacle removed or laid 
 aside, and the original activity of the Ego left without 
 limitation or restraint. In this case the finite indivi- 
 duality of the Ego disappears with the limitations which 
 produce it, and we ascend to the first principle of a spiri- 
 tual organization in which the multiform phenomena of in- 
 dividual life are embraced in an Infinite all-comprehen- 
 ding Unity, " an Absolute Ego, in whose self-determina- 
 tion all the Non-Ego is determined." 
 
 Fichte has been accused of teaching a system of mere 
 Egoism, of elevating the subjective personality of man 
 into the place of God. No one who is acquainted with 
 any of his later writings can fail to see the falsity of this 
 charge ; but as it has been alleged that in these works he 
 abandoned the principles which he advocated in earlier 
 life, it may not be unimportant to show that the charge is 
 utterly groundless, and inapplicable even to the first out- 
 lines of his philosophical theory. The following passages 
 occur in a letter to Jacobi, dated 30th August 1795, ac- 
 companying a copy of the first edition of the Wissen- 
 schaftslehre, and seem to be quite conclusive as to the 
 fact that the Absolute Ego of his earlier teaching may be 
 scientifically, as well as morally, identified with the highest 
 results of his later doctrines. 
 
 dFtcfjte to gfacobi. 
 
 " I have read your writings again this summer during 
 the leisure of a charming country residence, read them 
 again and again, and I am everywhere, bat especially in 
 " Allwill," astonished at the striking similarity of our phi- 
 losophical convictions. The public will scarcely believe 
 in this similarity, and perhaps you yourself may not
 
 66 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 readily do so, for in that case it would be required of you 
 to deduce the details of a whole system from the uncertain 
 outlines of an introduction. You are indeed well known 
 to be a Realist, and I to be a transcendental Idealist more 
 severe than even Kant himself; for with him there is 
 still recognised a multiform object of experience, whilst I 
 maintain, in plain language, that this object is itself pro- 
 duced by us through our own creative power. Permit me 
 to come to an understanding with you on this point. 
 
 " My absolute Ego is obviously not the Individual ; 
 although this has been maintained by offended courtiers 
 and chagrined philosophers in order to impute to me the 
 scandalous doctrine of practical Egoism. But the Indivi- 
 dual must be deduced from the Absolute Ego. Thus the 
 Wissenschaftslehre enters at once into the domain of natu- 
 ral right. A finite being as may be shown by deduction 
 can only conceive of itself as a sensuous existence in a 
 sphere of sensuous existences, over one portion of which 
 (a portion which can have no beginning) it exercises 
 causality, and with another portion of which (a portion 
 to which we ascribe the notion of causality), it stands in 
 relations of reciprocal influence; and in so far it is called 
 an Individual: (the conditions of Individuality are Bights.) 
 So surely as it affirms itself as an Individual, so surely 
 does it affirm such a sphere ; for both are reciprocal no- 
 tions. When we regard ourselves as Individuals in which 
 case we always look upon ourselves as living, and not as 
 philosophizing or poetizing, we take our stand upon that 
 point of view which I call practical ; that of the Absolute 
 Ego being speculative. Henceforward, from this practical 
 point of view there is a world for us, independent of our- 
 selves, which we can only modify ; and thus too the Pure 
 Ego, which does not disappear from this region, is neces- 
 sarily placed without us, objectified, and called God. How 
 could we otherwise have arrived at the qualities which we 
 ascribe to God, and deny to ourselves, had we not first
 
 " WISSENSCHAFTSLEHRE." 67 
 
 discovered them in ourselves, and only denied them to 
 ourselves in one particular respect i. e., as individuals ? 
 This practical point of view is the domain of Realism ; by 
 the deduction and recognition of this point from the side 
 of speculation itself arises that complete reconciliation of 
 philosophy with the Common Sense of man which is pro- 
 mised in the Wissenschaftslehre. 
 
 " To what end, then, is the speculative point of view, 
 and with it all philosophy, if it belong not to life ? Had 
 humanity never tasted of this forbidden fruit, it might 
 indeed have done without philosophy. But there is im- 
 planted within us a desire to gaze upon this region which 
 transcends all individuality, not by a mere reflected light, 
 but in direct and immediate vision; and the first man 
 who raised a question concerning the existence of God, 
 broke through the restrictive limits, shook humanity to 
 its deepest foundations, and set it in a controversy with 
 itself which is not yet adjusted, and which can be adjusted 
 only by a bold advance to that highest region of thought 
 from which the speculative and practical points of view 
 are seen to be united. We begin to philosophize from 
 presumption, and thus become bankrupt of our innocence ; 
 we see our nakedness, and then philosophize from neces- 
 sity for our redemption. 
 
 " But do I not philosophize as confidently with you, 
 and write as openly, as if I were already assured of your 
 interest in my philosophy ? Indeed my heart tells me 
 that I do not deceive myself in assuming the existence of 
 this interest. 
 
 " Allwill gives the transcendental Idealists the hope of 
 an enduring peace and even of a kind of alliance, if they 
 will but content themselves with finding their own limits, 
 and making these secure. I believe that I have now ful- 
 filled this condition. If I have moreover, from this sup- 
 posed hostile land, guaranteed and secured to Realism 
 itself its own proper domain, then I may lay claim not
 
 68 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 merely to a kind of alliance, but to an alliance of the 
 completest kind." 
 
 Still more decisive on this point is the following pas- 
 sage from a review of Schulz's " ^Enesidemus," in the Li- 
 teratur Zeitung for 1794 : 
 
 " In the Pure Ego, Reason is not practical, neither is it 
 so in the Ego as Intelligence : it becomes so only by the 
 effort of these to unite. That this principle must lie at 
 the root of Kant's doctrine itself, although he has no- 
 where distinctly declared it ; further, how a practical 
 philosophy arises through the representation by the intel- 
 ligent Ego to itself of this hyper-physical effort in its pro- 
 gressive ascent through the various steps which man must 
 traverse in theoretical philosophy, this is not the place to 
 show. Such an union, an Ego in whose self-determina- 
 tion all the Non-Ego is determined (the Idea of God) is 
 the highest object of this effort. Such an effort, when 
 the intelligent Ego conceives this object as something ex- 
 ternal to itself, is faith ; (Faith in God.} This effort can 
 never cease, until after the attainment of its object ; that 
 is, Intelligence cannot regard as the last any moment of 
 its existence in which this object has not yet been at- 
 tained, (Faith in an Eternal Existence.} In these ideas, 
 however, there is nothing possible for us but Faith *. e. 
 Intelligence has here no empirical perception for its object, 
 but only the necessary effort of the Ego ; and throughout 
 all eternity nothing more than this can become possible. 
 But this faith is by no means a mere probable opinion ; 
 on the contrary, it possesses, at least according to the tes- 
 timony of our inmost convictions, the same degree of cer- 
 tainty with the immediately certain postulate '/am,' 
 a certainty infinitely "superior to all objective certainty, 
 which can only become possible mediately, through the 
 existence of the intelligent Ego. .^Enesidemus indeed 
 demands an objective proof for the existence of God and
 
 MORAL RELATIONS OF THE FINITE EGO. 69 
 
 the Immortality of the soul. What can he mean by this ? 
 Or does objective certainty appear to him superior to sub- 
 jective certainty? The axiom ' I am myself possesses 
 only subjective certainty ; and so far as we can conceive 
 of the self-consciousness of God, even God is subjective 
 so far as regards himself. And then, as to an objective 
 existence of Immortality ! (these are ^Enesidemus' own 
 words), should any being whatever, contemplating its ex- 
 istence in time, declare at any moment of that existence 
 ' Now, I am eternal ! ' then, on that very account, it 
 could not be eternal." 
 
 We have seen that the attitude of the finite Ego to- 
 wards the Non-Ego is practical; towards the Infinite 
 Ego, speculative. In the first relation we find ourselves 
 surrounded by existences, over one part of which we exer- 
 cise causality, and with the other (in whom we suppose 
 an independent causality) we are in a state of reciprocal 
 influence. In these relations the active and moral powers 
 of man find their sphere. The moral law imparts to its 
 objects to all things whose existence is implied in its 
 fulfilment the same certainity which belongs to itself. 
 The outward world assumes a new reality, for we have 
 imperative duties to perform which demand its existence. 
 Life ceases to be an empty show without truth or signifi- 
 cance ; it is our field of duty, the theatre on which our 
 moral destiny is to be wrought out. The voice of con- 
 science, of highest reason, bids us know, love, and honour 
 beings like ourselves; and those beings crowd around us. 
 The ends of their and our existence demand the powers 
 and appliances of physical life for their attainment; that 
 life, and the means of sustaining and using it, stand be- 
 fore us. The world is nothing more than the sphere and 
 object of human activity ; it exists because the purposes 
 of our moral life require its existence. Of the law of 
 duty we are immediately certain ; the world becomes a
 
 70 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 reality to us by means of that previous certainty. Our 
 life begins with an action, not a thought ; we do not act 
 because we know, but we know because we are called 
 upon to act. 
 
 But not only does the law of human activity require 
 our faith in its immediate objects and implements ; it 
 also points to a purpose, an aim, in our actions, lying 
 beyond themselves, to which they stand related as means 
 to an end. Not that the moral law is dependent on the 
 perception of this end the moral law is absolute and im- 
 perative in itself; but we necessarily connect with our 
 actions some future result as a consequence to which they 
 inevitably tend, as the final accomplishment of the pur- 
 pose which gave them birth. The moral sense cannot 
 find such a fulfilment in the present life ; the forces of 
 nature, the desires and passions of men, constantly oppose 
 its dictates. It revolts against the permanence of things 
 as they now are, and unceasingly strives to make them 
 better. Nor can the individual look for such an accom- 
 plishment of the moral law of his nature in the progres- 
 sive improvement of his species. Were the highest grade 
 of earthly perfection conceived and attained in the physical 
 and moral world (as it is conceivable and attainable) 
 Reason would still propose a higher grade beyond it 
 conceivable only after the attainment of the grade pre- 
 viously conceived of as the highest. And even this measure 
 of perfection could not be appropriated by humanity as 
 its own, as the result of its own exertions, but must be 
 considered as the creation of an unknown power, by whose 
 unseen agency the basest passions of men, and even their 
 vices and crimes, have been made the instruments of this 
 consummation ; while too often their good resolutions 
 appear altogether lost to the world, or even to retard the 
 purposes which they were apparently designed to promote. 
 The chain of material causes and effects is not affected 
 by the motives and feelings which prompt an action, but
 
 MORAL RELATIONS OF THE FINITE EGO. 71 
 
 solely by the action itself; and the purposes of mere phy- 
 sical existence would be as well (if not better) promoted 
 by an unerring mechanism as by the agency of free beings. 
 Nevertheless, if moral obedience be a reasonable service, 
 it must have its result ; if the Reason which commands it 
 be not an utterly vain delusion, its law must be fulfilled. 
 That law is the first principle of our nature, and it gives 
 us the assurance, our faith in which no difficulty can shake, 
 that no moral act can be fruitless, no work of Reason ut- 
 terly lost. Thus a chain of causes and effects, in which 
 Freedom is superfluous and without aim, cannot be the 
 limit of our existence : the law of our being cannot be 
 fulfilled in the world of sense; there must then be a 
 super-sensual world, in which it may be accomplished. In 
 this purely spiritual world, will alone is the first link of a 
 chain of consequences which pervades the whole invisible 
 realm of being ; as action, in the sensual world, is the first 
 link of a material chain which runs through the whole 
 system of nature. Will is the active living principle of 
 the super-sensual world ; it may break forth in a mate- 
 rial act, which belongs to the sensual world, and do 
 there that which pertains to a material act to do ; but, 
 independently of all physical manifestation, it flows forth 
 in endless spiritual activity. Here human Freedom is 
 untrammeled by earthly obstructions, and the moral law 
 of our being may find that accomplishment which it sought 
 in vain in the world of sense. 
 
 But although we are immediately conscious that our 
 Will, our moral activity, must lead to consequences be- 
 yond itself, we yet cannot know what those consequences 
 may be, nor how they are possible. In respect of the 
 nature of these results, the present life is, in relation to 
 the future, a life in faith. In the future life we shall 
 possess these results, for we shall then make them the 
 groundwork of new activity, and thus the future life will 
 be, in relation to the present, a life in sight. But the
 
 72 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 spiritual world is even now with us, for we are already iii 
 possession of the principle from which it springs. Our 
 Will, our free activity, is the only attribute which is 
 solely and exclusively our own ; and by it we are already 
 citizens of the eternal world ; the kingdom of heaven is 
 here, or nowhere it cannot become more immediately 
 present at any point of finite existence. This life is the 
 beginning of our being ; the outward world is freely given 
 to us as a firm ground on which we may commence our 
 course ; the future life is its continuation, for which we 
 must ourselves create a starting-period in the present ; and 
 should the aim of this second life prove as unattainable 
 to finite power as the end of the first is to us now, then 
 the fresh strength, the firmer purpose, the clearer sight 
 which shall be its immediate growth, will open to us 
 another and a higher sphere of activity. But the world 
 of duty is an infinite world ; every finite exertion has 
 but a definite aim ; and beyond the highest point to- 
 ward which we now strive, a higher still appears ; and to 
 such progression we can conceive no end. By free deter- 
 mination in the effort after moral perfection, we have 
 laid hold on Eternal Life. 
 
 In the physical world we see certain phenomena follow- 
 ing each other with undeviating regularity. We cannot 
 see that what we name cause has in itself any power over 
 what we call effect, that there is any relation between 
 them except that of invariable sequence. But we suppose 
 a law under which both subsist, which regulates the mode 
 of their existence, and by the efficiency of which the order 
 of their succession is determined. So likewise, in the 
 spiritual world, we entertain the firmest conviction that 
 our moral Will is connected with certain consequences, 
 though we cannot understand how mere Will can of itself 
 produce such consequences. We here again conceive of 
 a law under which our Will, and the Will of all finite 
 beings, exists, in virtue of which it is followed by certain
 
 FAITH IN THE ABSOLUTE. 73 
 
 results, and out of which all our relations with other be- 
 ings arise. So far as our Will is simply an internal act, 
 complete in itself, it lies wholly within our own power ; 
 so far as it is a fact in the super-sensual world the first 
 of a train of spiritual consequences, it is not dependent 
 on ourselves, but on the law which governs the super- 
 sensual world. But the super-sensual world is a world of 
 Freedom, of living activity; hence its principle cannot 
 be a mechanical force, but must itself possess this Free- 
 dom this living activity. It can be nothing else than 
 self-determining Reason. But self-determining Reason is 
 Will. The law of the super-sensual world must thus be 
 a Will / a will operating without material implement or 
 manifestation, which is in itself both act and product, 
 which is eternal and unchangeable, so that on it finite 
 beings may securely rely, as the physical man does on the 
 laws of his world, that through it, all their moral acts of 
 Will, and these only, shall lead to certain and unfailing 
 results. In this Living Will, as the principle of the spi- 
 ritual world, has our moral Will its first consequence ; and 
 through Him its energy is propagated throughout the 
 series of finite beings who are the products of the Infinite 
 Will. He is the spiritual bond which unites all free be- 
 ings together : not immediately can they know or in- 
 fluence each other, for they are separated from each other 
 by an impassable barrier; their mutual knowledge comes 
 through Him alone, to whom all are equally related. Our 
 faith in duty, and in the objects of duty, is only faith in 
 Him, in His wisdom, in His truth. He is thus the 
 creator and sustainer of all things ; for in Him alone all 
 the thronging forms which people our dream of life "live 
 and move and have their being." All partake His es- 
 sence : material nature disappears, but its images are 
 invested with a new reality. All our life is His life ; and 
 we are eternal, for He is eternal. Birth and the grave 
 are no more ; but, in their stead, undying energy and im- 
 
 K
 
 74s MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 mortal youth. Of Him the Infinite One, of the mode 
 of His being, we know nothing, nor need we to know ; we 
 cannot pierce the inaccessible light in which He dwells, 
 but through the shadows which veil His presence from us, 
 an endless stream of life, power, and action flows around 
 and about us, bearing us and all finite things onward to 
 new life, love, and beauty. 
 
 " The ONE remains, the many change and pass ; 
 
 Heaven's light for ever shines, Earth's shadows fly j 
 
 Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, 
 
 Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
 
 Until Death tramples it to fragments." 
 
 All Death in nature is Birth, the assumption of a new 
 garment, to replace the old vesture which humanity has 
 laid aside in its progress to higher being. And serene 
 above all change, the unattainable object of all finite 
 effort fountain of our life home of our spirits Thou 
 art the One Being, the I AM, for whom Reason has 
 no idea, and Language no name. 
 
 " Sublime and living Will, named by no name, com- 
 passed by no thought, I may well raise my soul to Thee, 
 for Thou and I are not divided. Thy voice sounds within 
 me, mine resounds in Thee ; and all my thoughts, if they 
 are but good and true, live in Thee also. In Thee, the 
 Incomprehensible, I myself, and the world in which I live, 
 become clearly comprehensible to me, all the secrets of 
 my existence are laid open, and perfect harmony arises 
 in my soul. 
 
 lt Thou art best known to the childlike, devoted, simple 
 mind. To it Thou art the searcher of hearts, who seest 
 its inmost depths ; the ever-present true witness of its 
 thoughts, who knowest its truth, who knowest it though all 
 the world know it not. Thou art the Father who ever 
 desirest its good, who rulest all things for the best. To 
 Thy will it unhesitatingly resigns itself : ' Do with me/ 
 it says, 'what thou wilt; I know that it is good, for it is 
 Thou who dost it.' The inquisitive understanding, which
 
 ABSOLUTE RELIGION. 75 
 
 has heard of Thee, but seen Thee not, would teach us 
 Thy nature; and, as Thy image, shows us a monstrous 
 and incongruous shape, which the sagacious laugh at, and 
 the wise and good abhor. 
 
 " I hide my face before Thee, and lay my hand upon 
 my mouth. How Thou art, and seemest to Thine own 
 being, I can never know, any more than I can assume 
 Thy nature. After thousands upon thousands of spirit- 
 lives, I shall comprehend Thee as little as I do now in 
 this earthly house. That which I conceive, becomes finite 
 through my very conception of it ; and this can never, 
 even by endless exaltation, rise into the Infinite. Thou 
 differest from men, not in degree but in nature. In 
 every stage of their advancement they think of Thee as a 
 greater man, and still a greater ; but never as God the 
 Infinite, whom no measure can mete. I have only this 
 discursive, progressive thought, and I can conceive of no 
 other : how can I venture to ascribe it to Thee ? In the 
 idea of person there are imperfections, limitations : how 
 can I clothe Thee with it without these ? 
 
 " I will not attempt that which the imperfection of my 
 finite nature forbids, and which would be useless to me : 
 how Thou art, I may not know. But Thy relations to 
 me the mortal and to all mortals lie open before my 
 eyes, were I but what I ought to be, and surround me 
 more clearly than the consciousness of my own existence. 
 Thou workest in me the knowledge of my duty, of my 
 vocation in the world of reasonable beings : how, I know 
 not, nor need I to know. Thou knowest what I think 
 and what I will : how Thou canst know, through what 
 act Thou bringest about that consciousness, I cannot un- 
 derstand, nay, I know that the idea of an act, of a par- 
 ticular act of consciousness, belongs to me alone, and not 
 to Thee, the Infinite One. Thou wiliest that my free 
 obedience shall bring with it eternal consequences : the 
 act of thy will I cannot comprehend, I know only that
 
 76 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 it is not like mine. Thou doest, and Thy will itself is the 
 deed : but the way of thy working is not as my ways, 
 I cannot trace it. Thou Itvest and art, for Thou knowest 
 and wiliest and workest, omnipresent to finite Reason ; 
 but Thou art not as / now and always must conceive of 
 being."* 
 
 Such is a broken and imperfect outline of the most 
 complete system of Transcendental Idealism ever offered 
 to the world. To those few among British students, who, 
 amid the prevailing degradation of sentiment and frivolity 
 of thought, have pondered the deep mysteries of being 
 until the common logic which would grasp its secret 
 seems a vain and presumptuous trifling with questions 
 which lie far beyond its reach, and who find in the theo- 
 logical solution but a hard and formal husk which conceals 
 the kernel of truth it was only meant to preserve, to 
 such it may be no unacceptable service to have pointed 
 the way to a modern Academe, where the moral dignity 
 of the Athenian sage is united with the poetic sublimity 
 and intellectual keenness of his two most distinguished 
 pupils. If by such humble guidance any should be in- 
 duced to turn aside towards that retreat, let them not be 
 deterred if at first the path should seem to lack something 
 of the smoothness of the well-trodden highway on which 
 they have hitherto travelled ; let them proceed coura- 
 geously; it will lead them into calm sunshine, and beside 
 clear and refreshing streams; nor will they return thence 
 without nobler thoughts and higher aspirations. 
 
 Fichte lived in close retirement in Zurich. The man- 
 ners of the inhabitants did not please him, and he seldom 
 came out into society. His wife, his father-in-law, Lava- 
 ter, and a few others, composed his circle. Rahn enjoyed 
 in no ordinary degree the society of his distinguished son- 
 
 * " Bestimmung des Menschen," Book III.
 
 LITERARY CORRESPONDENCE : REINHOLD. 77 
 
 in-law; and it is pleasing to know that the celebrated 
 and venerable preacher preserved, even in advanced age, 
 a keen relish for new truth, a perfect openness of mind 
 not frequently met with in his profession. At his request 
 Fichte prepared a short course of lectures, by which his 
 friends might be introduced to an acquaintance with the 
 Critical Philosophy, the fame of which had now reached 
 Switzerland. At the conclusion of the lectures Lavater 
 addressed a letter of thanks to his young instructor, full 
 of the strongest expressions of gratitude and esteem, in 
 which he styles himself his "pupil, friend, and fellow-man." 
 Up to the period of his death, this excellent man retained 
 the warmest feelings of friendship towards the philoso- 
 pher ; and the following lines, written some years after 
 Fichte's departure from Zurich, whatever may be their 
 value in other respects, serve at least to show the respect, 
 almost approaching to reverence, with which Fichte was 
 regarded by one who was himself no ordinary man : 
 
 " Ornfunlc narjj mrinrm (To&c, an&errn iJrofrssor .iFi'cJjtr. 1800. 
 " Unemt$bam Center, Dein $>afet>n fcenmft mit t>a$ afet)n, 
 @inc fioigen etjteS, bem fyofje etfler enfhrafjten! 
 ^onntefr je 33u jwetfieln: t<$ fleUfe 3Mdj felfcft or >tdj felbft nut; 
 3etgfe 35ir in Dit fefbft Den @tra&l be etmgen (SetfieS." 
 
 Although Fichte had as yet published nothing to which 
 his name was attached, he had nevertheless acquired an 
 extensive philosophical reputation. In several powerful 
 and searching criticisms which appeared in the "Alge- 
 meine Literatur Zeitung," the hand of the author of the 
 " Critique of Revelation " was discovered. He was now 
 generally looked upon as the man who was destined to 
 carry forward and complete the critical philosophy of 
 Kant, and was thus led into literary correspondence with 
 some of the most distinguished men of the day. At the 
 head of these must be placed Reinhold, the professor of 
 philosophy at Jena, who had hitherto stood foremost 
 among the disciples of Kant. The relation between these
 
 78 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 two celebrated men (Fichte and Reinhold) was a most re- 
 markable one. Although their characters were very dif- 
 ferent, although they never saw each other, they lived on 
 terms of the most intimate and trustful confidence, such 
 as is commonly attained by long-tried friendship alone. 
 In their extensive correspondence, Fichte's powerful and 
 commanding intellect evidently possesses great ascen- 
 dency over the more diffident and pliable nature of Rein- 
 hold ; but his influence never interferes with the mental 
 freedom of his friend. On the other hand, Reinhold's 
 operj enthusiastic character, and his pure love of truth, 
 engaged the warm affection and sympathy of his more 
 daring correspondent ; while the frequent misunderstan- 
 dings which lend an almost dramatic interest to their 
 letters, afford room for the exhibition of manly and gene- 
 rous kindness in both. In 1797 Reinhold abandoned his 
 own system and accepted the " Wissenschaftslehre," an- 
 nouncing the change to Fichte in the following terms : 
 
 " I have at length come to understand your " Wissen- 
 schaftslehre," or, what is the same thing to me philosophy 
 without nickname. It now stands before me as a perfect 
 whole, founded on itself the pure conception of self-con- 
 scious Reason, the mirror of our better selves. Individual 
 parts are still obscure to me, but they cannot now deprive 
 me of my comprehension of the whole ; and their number 
 is diminishing every day. Beside it lie the ruins of the 
 edifice which cost me so much time and labour, in which 
 I thought to dwell so securely and commodiously, to enter- 
 tain so many guests, in which I laughed, not without 
 self-gratulation, over so many Kantists who mistook the 
 scaffolding for the house itself. This catastrophe would 
 have caused me much pain for a time, if it had happened 
 by the hand of scepticism." 
 
 " Adieu ! I salute you with the deepest gratitude. Is 
 personal intercourse absolutely necessary to the growth 
 of friendship ? I doubt it. For indeed it is not mere
 
 LITERARY CORRESPONDENCE : NIETHAMMER, ETC. 79 
 
 gratitude, not mere reverence, it is heartfelt love that I 
 feel for you, since I now, through your philosophy, under- 
 stand yourself." 
 
 In Fichte's literary correspondence while at Zurich we 
 find the first intimations of his departure from the system 
 of Kant, and his plan of a complete and comprehensive 
 philosophy. He could not rest satisfied with results, un- 
 less he could also perceive the grounds on which they res- 
 ted. His reason imperatively demanded absolute unity 
 of conception, without separation, without division, above 
 all without opposition. Writing to Niethammer in Octo- 
 ber 1793 he says " My conviction is that Kant has only 
 indicated the truth, but neither unfolded nor proved it. 
 This singular man either has a power of divining truth, 
 without being himself conscious of the grounds on which 
 it rests ; or he has not esteemed his age worthy of the 
 communication of those grounds ; or he has shrunk from 
 attracting that superhuman reverence during his life, 
 which sooner or later must be his in some degree." And 
 as the fundamental idea of his own system dawned upon 
 his mind, he says to Stephani, " I have discovered a new 
 principle from which all philosophy can easily be deduced. 
 In a couple of years we shall have a philo- 
 sophy with all the clearness of geometrical demonstration." 
 To the development of this scheme he devoted all the 
 energies of his powerful intellect during the leisure of his 
 retirement. He refused an invitation to become tutor to 
 the Prince of Mecklenburg-Strelitz : " I desire," he says, 
 " nothing but leisure to work out my plan, then fortune 
 may do with me what it will." 
 
 But his studies were soon broken in upon by a call of 
 another and more important nature. This was his ap- 
 pointment as Professor Supernumerarius of Philosophy at 
 the University of Jena, in room of Reinhold who removed 
 to Kiel. The distinguished honour of this invitation, un-
 
 80 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 asked and unexpected, and the extensive field of useful- 
 ness which it opened up to him, determined Fichte at 
 once to accept it. Unable, however, to satisfy himself that 
 his views were as yet so fully matured and settled as to 
 justify him in entering at once upon the important duties 
 of a teacher, invested as these were to his mind with a 
 peculiar sacredness and solemnity, he endeavoured to ob- 
 tain a postponement of his inauguration which had been 
 fixed for Easter 1794, in order that, by the more complete 
 elaboration of the principle which he had discovered, he 
 might be able to elevate his philosophy at once to the 
 rank of positive science. For this purpose he requested 
 a year's delay. But as it was considered that the interests 
 of the University might suffer by the chair remaining so 
 long vacant, his request was refused, with permission, 
 however, to devote the greater part of his time, during 
 the first year, to study. He therefore sent an uncon- 
 ditional acceptance, and plunged at once into the most 
 arduous preparation for his new duties. 
 
 Weimar and the neighbouring University of Jena was 
 at this time the focus of German literature and learning. 
 The Grand Duke Charles Augustus had gathered around 
 him the most distinguished men of his age, and Wieland, 
 Herder, Goethe, Schiller and Humboldt shed a more than 
 Medicean lustre upon the little Saxon Court. Probably 
 at no other period was so much high genius, engaged in 
 every department of mental exertion, gathered together in 
 one spot. The University, too, was the most numerously 
 frequented of any in Germany, not by the youth of Ger- 
 many alone, but by students from almost everj- part of Eu- 
 rope : Switzerland, Denmark, Poland, Hungary, the Free 
 Cities, and even France, sent their sons to Jena for edu- 
 cation. The brilliant intellectual circle at Weimar pre- 
 sented to the cultivated mind attractions which could be 
 found nowhere else ; whilst at Jena the academic teacher
 
 PROFESSORSHIP AT JENA. 81 
 
 found a most extensive and honourable field for the exer- 
 cise of his powers. It was to this busy scene of mental 
 activity that Fichte was called from his Swiss retreat, 
 to the society of the greatest living men, to the instruc- 
 tion of this thronging crowd from all surrounding nations. 
 Previous to his own appearance he published an introduc- 
 tory programme of the philosophy to be set forth in his 
 lectures, under the title of " Begriff der Wissenschaftslehre 
 oder der sogenannten Philosophic." The high reputation 
 he had already acquired, and the bold originality of his 
 system, drew universal attention. Expectation was strained 
 to the utmost; so that those who had marked the rapid 
 growth of his fame had apparent reason to fear that it 
 might prove short-lived. But notwithstanding the short- 
 ness of the time allowed him for preparation, he entered 
 upon his course with a clear perception of the task that 
 lay before him, and confident reliance on his own power 
 to fulfil the important duties to which he was called. 
 
 He arrived at Jena on the 18th of May 1794, and was 
 received with great kindness by his colleagues at the Uni- 
 versity. On the 23d he delivered his first lecture. The 
 largest hall in Jena, although crowded to the roof, proved 
 insufficient to contain the audience. His singular and 
 commanding address, his fervid, fiery eloquence, the rich 
 profusion of his thoughts, following each other in the 
 most convincing sequence and modelled with the sharpest 
 precision, astonished and delighted his hearers. His 
 triumph was complete ; he left the Hall the most popu- 
 lar Professor of the greatest University in Germany. The 
 following acute and graphic remarks on this subject, from 
 Forberg's " Fragmenten aus meinen Papieren," afford us 
 some glimpse of the opinions entertained of him by his 
 contemporaries at Jena : 
 
 "Jena, 12th May 1794. 
 
 " I look with great confidence to Fichte, who is daily 
 expected here. But I would have had still greater con- 
 
 L
 
 82 . MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 fidence in him if he had written the " Kritik der Offenba- 
 rung " twenty years later. A young man who ventures 
 to write a masterpiece must commonly suffer for it. He 
 is what he is, but he will not be what he might have been. 
 He has spent his strength too soon, and his later fruits 
 will at least want ripeness. A great mind has no merit if 
 it does not possess sufficient self-denial not to appear 
 great for a time, that thereby it may become greater. If 
 a man cannot sacrifice a dozen years' fame as an offering 
 to truth, what else can he lay upon her altar ? I believe 
 that Reinhold's theory has done much injury to the study 
 of the Kantian Philosophy, but that is nothing to the in- 
 jury it has done to the author himself. His philosophy is 
 finished for this world, nothing more is to be expected 
 from him but polemics and reminiscences. Fichte is not 
 here yet, but I am eager to know whether he has any- 
 thing still to learn. It would be almost a wonder if he 
 had, considering the incense that they burn before him. 
 Oh ! there is nothing so easily unlearned as the power 
 of learning." 
 
 " 7th December 1794. 
 
 " Since Reinhold has left us, his philosophy (with us at 
 least) has expired. Every trace of the " Philosophy with- 
 out nickname " has vanished from among the students. 
 Fichte is believed in, as Reinhold never was believed in. 
 They understand him indeed even less than they did his pre- 
 decessor ; but they believe all the more obstinately on that 
 account. Ego and Non-Ego are now the symbols of the phi- 
 losophers of yesterday, as substance and form were formerly. 
 
 " Fichte's philosophy is, so to speak, more philosophical 
 than Reinhold's. You hear him going digging and seek- 
 ing after truth. In rough masses he brings it forth from 
 the deep, and throws it from him. He does not say what 
 he will do ; he does it. Reinhold's doctrine was rather an 
 announcement of a philosophy, than a philosophy itself. 
 He has never fulfilled his promises. Not unfrequently
 
 FICHTE AND REINHOLD. 83 
 
 did lie give forth the promise for the fulfilment. He ne- 
 ver will fulfil them, for he is now past away. Fichte 
 seems really determined to work upon the world through 
 his philosophy. The tendency to restless activity which 
 dwells in the breast of every noble youth he would care- 
 fully nourish and cultivate, that it may in due season 
 bring forth fruit. He seizes every opportunity of teaching 
 that action action is the vocation of man ; whereby it 
 is only to be feared that the majority of young men who 
 lay the maxim to heart may look upon this summons to 
 action as only a summons to demolition. And, strictly 
 speaking, the principle is false. Man is not called upon 
 to act, but to act justly ; if he cannot act without acting 
 unjustly, he had better remain inactive. 
 
 " Every reader of Kant or Fichte is seized by a deep 
 feeling of the superiority of these mighty minds ; who 
 wrestle with their subjects, as it were, to grind them to 
 powder ; who seem to say all that they do say to us, only 
 that we may conjecture how much more they could say. 
 
 " All the truth that J has written is not worth a 
 
 tenth part of the false which Fichte may have written. 
 The one gives me a small number of known truths ; the 
 other gives me perhaps one truth, but in doing so, opens 
 before me the prospect of an infinity of unknown truths. 
 
 " It is certain that in Fichte's philosophy there is quite 
 a different spirit from that which pervades the philosophy 
 of his predecessor. The spirit of the latter is a weak, 
 fearful spirit, which timidly includes wide, narrow, and 
 narrowest shades of meaning between the hedges and fen- 
 ces of a " to some extent " and " in so far ;" a weak worn- 
 out spirit, which conceals (and ill-conceals) its poverty of 
 thought behind the mantle of scholastic phraseology, and 
 whose philosophy is form without substance, a skeleton 
 without flesh and blood, body without life, promise with- 
 out fulfilment. But the spirit of Fichte's philosophy is a 
 proud and bold spirit, for which the domain of human
 
 84 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 knowledge, even in its widest extent, is too narrow ; which 
 opens up new paths at every step it takes ; which strug- 
 gles with language in order to wrest from it words enough 
 for its wealth of thought ; which does not lead us, but 
 seizes and hurries us along, and whose finger cannot touch 
 an object without bruising it to dust. But that which es- 
 pecially gives Fichte's philosophy quite another interest 
 from that of Reinhold, is this, that in all his inquiries 
 there is a motion, a struggle, an effort, thoroughly to solve 
 the hardest problems of Reason. His predecessor never 
 appeared to suspect the existence of these problems to 
 say nothing of their solution. Fichte's philosophemes are 
 inquiries in which we see the truth before our eyes, and 
 thus they produce knowledge and conviction. Reinhold's 
 philosophemes are exhibitions of results, the production of 
 which goes on behind the scenes. We may believe, but 
 we cannot know ! . . . . 
 
 " The fundamental element of Fichte's character is the 
 highest honesty. Such a character commonly knows little 
 of delicacy and refinement. In his writings we do not 
 meet with much that is particularly beautiful ; his best 
 passages are always distinguished by greatness and 
 strength. He does not say fine things, but all his words 
 have force and weight. He wants the amiable, kind, at- 
 tractive, accommodating spirit of Reinhold. His principles 
 are severe, and not much softened by humanity. Never- 
 theless he suffers what Reinhold could not suffer con- 
 tradiction ; and understands what Reinhold could not 
 understand a joke. His superiority is not felt to be so 
 humiliating as that of Reinhold ; but when he is called 
 forth he is terrible. His is a restless spirit, thirsting for 
 opportunity to do great things in the world. 
 
 " Fichte's public delivery does not flow on smoothly, 
 sweetly and softly, as Reinhold's did ; it. rushes along like 
 a tempest, discharging its fire in separate masses. He 
 does not move the soul as Reinhold did ; he rouses it.
 
 FICHTE AND REINHOLD. 85 
 
 The one seemed as if he would make men good ; the 
 other would make them great. Reinhold's face was mild- 
 ness, and his form was majesty ; Fichte's eye is threaten- 
 ing, and his step daring and defiant. Reinhold's philosophy 
 was an endless polemic against Kantists and Anti-Kan tists; 
 Fichte, with his, desires to lead the spirit of the age, he 
 knows its weak side, and therefore he addresses it on the 
 side of politics. He possesses more readiness, more acute- 
 ness, more penetration, more genius, in short, more spi- 
 ritual power than Reinhold. His fancy is not flowing, but 
 it is energetic and mighty; his pictures are not charming, 
 but they are bold and massive. He penetrates to the in- 
 nermost depths of his subject, and moves about in the ideal 
 world with an ease and confidence which proclaim that he 
 not only dwells in that invisible land, but rules there." ' 
 
 * The following graphic sketch of Fichte's personal appearance and 
 manner of delivery is taken from the Autobiography of Henry Stephens. 
 Although it refers to a later period of his life, it is thought most appro- 
 priate to introduce it here : 
 
 " Fichte appeared, to deliver his introductory lecture on the Vocation 
 of Man. This short, strong-built man, with sharp commanding features, 
 made, I must confess, a most imposing appearance, as I then saw him for 
 the first time. Even his language had a cutting sharpness. Well acquain- 
 ted with the metaphysical incapacity of his hearers, he took the greatest 
 possible pains fully to demonstrate his propositions ; but there was an air 
 of authoritativeness in his discourse, as if he would remove all doubts by 
 mere word of command. ' Gentlemen/ said he, ' collect yourselves go 
 into yourselves for we have here nothing to do with things without, 
 but simply with the inner self.' Thus summoned, the auditors appeared 
 really to go into themselves. Some, to facilitate the operation, changed 
 their position and stood up ; some drew themselves together and cast 
 their eyes upon the floor; all were evidently waiting under high excite- 
 ment for what was to follow this preparatory summons. ' Gentlemen,' 
 continued Fichte, ' think the wall,' (Benfen @te bte SBanb.) This was a 
 task to which the hearers were evidently all equal ; they thought the wall. 
 ' Have you thought the wall ? ' asked Fichte. ' Well then, gentlemen, 
 think him who thought the wall.' It was curious to see the evident con- 
 fusion and embarrassment that now arose. Many of his audience seemed 
 to be utterly unable anywhere to find him who had thought the wall. 
 Fichte's delivery was excellent, being marked throughout by clearness 
 and precision."
 
 86 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 It might naturally be supposed that a teacher possessed 
 of so many qualities fitted to command the respect and 
 admiration of his students could not fail to acquire a 
 powerful influence, not only on the nature and direction 
 of their studies, but also on their outward relations. Ac- 
 cordingly we find Fichte, soon after his settlement at Jena, 
 occupying a most influential position towards the youth, 
 not of his own department merely, but of the whole Uni- 
 versity. Doubts had been entertained, even before his 
 arrival, that his ardent and active spirit might lead him 
 to use the influence he should acquire over the students 
 for the furtherance of political projects. His supposed 
 democratic opinions were even made a ground of objection 
 to his appointment ; and it cannot be affirmed that such 
 anticipations were improbable, for certainly the tendency 
 of his own character, and the peculiar circumstances of the 
 age, presented strong temptations to convert the chair of 
 the professor into the pulpit of the practical philanthro- 
 pist. He himself says that he was assailed by not a few 
 such temptations, and even invitations, at the beginning 
 of his residence at Jena, but that he resolutely cast them 
 from him. He was not one of those utilitarian philoso- 
 phers who willingly sacrifice high and enduring good to 
 the attainment of some partial and temporary purpose. 
 His idea of the vocation of an academical teacher opened 
 to him another field of duty, superior to that of direct po- 
 litical activity. In all his intercourse with his pupils, 
 public or private, his sole object was the development and 
 cultivation of their moral and intellectual powers. No 
 trace can be found of any attempt to lead his hearers upon 
 the stage of actual life while the opposition between the 
 speculative and practical sides of their nature still existed. 
 To reconcile this opposition was the great object of his 
 philosophy. In his hands philosophy was no longer spe- 
 culation, but knowledge (it was soon divested even of its 
 scholastic terminology, and the Ego, Non-Ego, &c. entirely
 
 LANDSMANNSCHAFTEN. 87 
 
 laid aside), the expression of the profoundest thoughts of 
 man, on himself, the world, and God ; while, on the other 
 hand, morality was no arbitrary legislation, but the natu- 
 ral devolopment of the active principle of our own being, 
 indissolubly bound up with, and indeed the essential root 
 of, its intellectual aspect. Binding together into a com- 
 mon unity every mode and manifestation of our nature, 
 his philosophy is capable of the widest application, and of 
 an almost infinite variety of expression ; while in the 
 ceaseless elevation of our whole being to higher grades of 
 nobilitv and Greatness is found at once its intellectual su- 
 
 */ 
 
 premacy and its moral power. 
 
 So far indeed was Fichte from lending his countenance 
 to political combination among the students, or inculcating 
 any sentiments subversive of the existing arrangements of 
 society, that no one suffered more than he did, from the 
 clergy on the one hand and the students on the other, in 
 the attempt to maintain good order in the University. The 
 unions known by the name of Landsmannschaften existed 
 at that time in the German schools of learning as they 
 do now, but their proceedings were then marked by much 
 greater turbulence and license than they are at the present 
 day. Riots of the most violent description were of common 
 occurrence ; houses were broken into and robbed of their 
 contents to supply the marauders with the means of sensual 
 indulgence. The arm of the law was impotent to restrain 
 these excesses ; and so bold had the unionists become, 
 that upon one occasion, when the house of a professor at 
 Jena had been ransacked, five hundred students openly 
 demanded from the Duke an amnesty for the offence. 
 Efforts had been made at various times by the academical 
 authorities to suppress these societies, but the students only 
 broke out into more frightful excesses when any attempt 
 was made to restrain their " Burschen-Eights," or " Aca- 
 demical freedom." In the hope of effecting some refor- 
 mation of manners in the University, Fichte commenced,
 
 88 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 BOOH after his arrival at Jena, a course of public lectures 
 on academical morality. Five of these addresses were af- 
 terwards published under the title of " Die Bestimmung 
 des Gelehrten," (The Vocation of the Scholar] a translation 
 of which forms part of this volume. They are distin- 
 guished by fervid and impressive eloquence, and set forth 
 the dignity and duties of the Scholar, as deduced from the 
 idea of his vocation, with clear, but sublime and spirit- 
 stirring earnestness. He leaves no place for low motives 
 or degrading propensities, but fills up his picture of the 
 Scholar-life with the purest and most disinterested virtues 
 of our nature. These lectures, and his own personal in- 
 fluence among the students, were attended with the hap- 
 piest effects. The three orders which then existed at Jena 
 expressed their willingness to dissolve their union, on con- 
 dition of the past being forgotten. They delivered over 
 to Fichte the books and papers of their society, for the 
 purpose of being destroyed as soon as he could make their 
 peace with the Court at Weimar, and receive a commis- 
 sion to administer to them the oath of renunciation, 
 which they would receive from no one but himself. After 
 some delay, caused in part by the authorities of the Uni- 
 versity, who seem to have been jealous of the success with 
 which an individual professor had accomplished without 
 assistance what they had in vain endeavoured to effect hy 
 threatenings and punishment, the desired arrangements 
 were effected and the commission arrived. But in conse- 
 quence of some doubts to which this delay had given rise, 
 one of the three orders drew back from the engagement, 
 and turned with great virulence against Fichte, whom 
 they suspected of deceiving them. 
 
 Encouraged, however, by the success which had atten- 
 ded his efforts with the other two orders, Fichte deter- 
 mined to pursue the same course during the winter session 
 of 1794, and to deliver another series of public lectures, 
 calculated to rouse and sustain a spirit of honour and
 
 SUNDAY LECTURES. 89 
 
 morality among the students. Thoroughly to accomplish his 
 purpose, it was necessary that these lectures should take 
 place at an hour not devoted to any other course, so that 
 he might assemble an audience from among all the diffe- 
 rent classes of the University. But he found that every 
 hour from 8 A. M. till 7 P. M. was already occupied by 
 lectures on important branches of knowledge. No way 
 seemed open to him but to deliver his moral discourses 
 on Sundays. Before adopting this plan, however, he made 
 diligent inquiries whether any law, either of the State or of 
 the University, forbade such a proceeding. Discovering no 
 such prohibition, he examined into the practice of other 
 Universities, and found many precedents to justify Sunday 
 lectures, particularly a course of a similar nature delivered 
 by Gellert at Berlin. He finally asked the opinion of 
 some of the oldest professors, none of whom could see any 
 objection to his proposal, provided he did not encroach 
 upon the time devoted to divine service ; Schlitz remark- 
 ing, " If plays are allowed on Sunday, why not moral lec- 
 tures?" The hour of divine service in the University was 
 1 1 A. M. Fichte therefore fixed upon nine in the morning 
 as his hour of lecture, and commenced his course with 
 most favourable prospects. A large concourse of students 
 from all the different classes thronged his hall, and several 
 professors, who took their places among the audience, wil- 
 lingly acknowledged the benefit which they derived from 
 his discourses. But he soon discovered that the best in- 
 tentions, and the most prudent conduct, are no protection 
 against calumny. A political print, which had attained 
 an unenviable notoriety for anonymous slander, and had 
 distinguished itself by crawling sycophancy towards those 
 in power, now exhibited its far-seeing sagacity by tracing 
 an intimate connexion between the Sunday lectures and 
 the French Revolution, and proclaimed the former to be 
 a "formal attempt to overturn the public religious services 
 of Christianity, and to erect the worship of Reason in 
 
 M
 
 90 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 their stead " ! Strange to tell, the Consistory of Jena saw 
 it to be their duty to forward a complaint on this subject 
 to the High-Consistory at Weimar ; and finally, an assem- 
 bly in which, strange to say, Herder sat, lodged an accusa- 
 tion before the Duke and Privy-council against Professor 
 Fichte for " a deliberate attempt against the public reli- 
 gious services of the country." Fichte was directed to 
 suspend his lectures in the meantime, until inquiry could 
 be made. He immediately met the accusation with a 
 powerful defence, in which he indignantly threw back the 
 charge, completely demolishing, by a simple narrative of 
 the real facts, every shadow of argument by which it could 
 be supported ; and took occasion to make the Government 
 acquainted with his projects for the moral improvement 
 of the students. The judgment of the Duke is dated 25th 
 January 1795, and by it, Fichte " is freely^ acquitted of 
 the utterly groundless suspicion which had been attached 
 to him," and confidence is expressed, " that in his future 
 proceedings he will exhibit such wisdom and prudence as 
 shall entitle him to the continued good opinion " of the 
 Prince. Permission was given him to resume his Sunday 
 lectures, avoiding the hours of divine service. 
 
 But in the meantime the outrageous proceedings of that 
 party of the students which was opposed to him rendered 
 it impossible for him to entertain any hope of conciliating 
 them, and soon made his residence at Jena uncomfortable 
 and even dangerous. His wife was insulted upon the'pub- 
 lic street, and both his person and property subjected to 
 repeated outrages. He applied to the Senate of the Uni- 
 versity for protection, but was informed that the treatment 
 he had received was the result of his interference in the 
 affairs of the Orders upon the authority of the State and 
 without the cooperation of the Senate ; that they could 
 do nothing more than authorize self-defence in case of ne- 
 cessity ; and that if he desired more protection than the 
 Academy could give him, he might apply to his friends at
 
 DEATH OF HARTMANN RAHN. 91 
 
 Court. At last, when at the termination of the winter 
 session an attack was made upon his house in the middle 
 of the night, his venerable father-in-law narrowly escaping 
 with life, Fichte applied to the Duke for permission to 
 leave Jena. This was granted, and he took up his resi- 
 dence during the summer at the village of Osmanstadt, 
 about two miles from Weimar. 
 
 In delightful contrast to the stormy character of his 
 public life at this time, stands the peaceful simplicity of 
 hi's'tlomestic relations. In consequence of the sudden- 
 ness of his removal from Zurich his wife did not accom- 
 pany him at the time, but joined him a few months after- 
 wards. Her venerable father, too, was persuaded by his 
 love for his children to leave his native land, and take up 
 his residence with them at Jena. This excellent old man 
 was the object of Fichte's deepest respect and attachment, 
 and his declining years were watched with all the anxiety 
 of filial tenderness. He died on 29th September 1795, at 
 the age of 76. His remains were accompanied to the 
 grave by Fichte's pupils as a mark of respect for their 
 teacher's grief; and a simple monument records the affec- 
 tionate reverence of those he left behind him. It bears 
 the following characteristic inscription from the pen of 
 
 Fichte : 
 
 HARTMANN RAHN, 
 
 BORN AT ZURICH, DIED AT JENA 29th SEPTEMBER 1795, AGED 76 TEARS. 
 
 He lived amid the most eminent men of his time ; was beloved by the 
 good ; sometimes troubled by others ; hated by none. 
 
 Intelligence, kindliness, faith in God and man, gave new life to his age, 
 and guided him peacefully to the grave. 
 
 None knew his worth better than we, whom the old man followed from 
 his father-land, whom he loved even to the end, and of whose grief this 
 memorial bears record. 
 
 JOHANNA FICHTE, his DAUGHTER. 
 JOH. GOTT. FICHTE, his SON. 
 
 Farewell! thou dear Father! 
 
 Be not ashamed, Stranger ! if a gentle emotion stir within thee : 
 were he alive, he would clasp thy hand in friendship !
 
 92 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 After the death of their venerable parent, Fichte and 
 his wife were left alone to enjoy, in pure and unbroken 
 attachment, the calm sunshine of domestic felicity ; and 
 at a later period the smile of childhood added a new charm 
 to their home. A son who was born at Jena was their 
 only child.* 
 
 Fichte's intercourse with the eminent men who adorned 
 this brilliant period of German literary history was exten- 
 sive and important. Preeminent among these stands 
 Goethe, in many respects a remarkable contrast to the 
 philosopher. The one, calm, sarcastic, and oracular ; the 
 other,, restless, enthusiastic, impetuously eloquent ; the 
 one, looking on men only to scan and comprehend them ; 
 the other, waging ceaseless war with their vices, their ig- 
 norance, their unworthiness ; the one, seating himself on 
 a chilling elevation above human sympathy, and even 
 exerting all the energies of his intellect to veil the traces 
 of every feeling which bound him to his fellow-men ; the 
 other, from an eminence no less exalted, pouring around 
 him a rushing tide of moral power over his friends, his 
 country, and the world. To the one, men looked up with 
 a painful and hopeless sense of inferiority ; they crowded 
 around the other to participate in his wisdom, and to grow 
 strong in gazing on his Titanic might. And even now, 
 when a common destiny has long since laid the proud 
 gray column in the dust and stayed the giant's arm from 
 working, we look upon the majesty of the one with asto- 
 nishment rather than reverence, while at the memory of 
 the other the pulse of hope beats higher than before, and 
 the patriot's heart glows with a nobler inspiration. 
 
 Goethe welcomed the ' Wissenschaftslehre' with his usual 
 avidity for new acquisitions. The bold attempt to infuse 
 a living spirit into philosophical formulas, and give reality 
 to speculative abstractions, roused his attention. He re- 
 
 * Now Professor of Philosophy in the University of Tubingen.
 
 LITERARY INTERCOURSE GOETHE, JACOBI. 93 
 
 quested that it might be sent to him, sheet by sheet, as it 
 went through the press. This was accordingly done, and 
 the following passage from a letter to Fichte will show 
 that he was not disappointed in the expectations he had 
 formed of it : 
 
 " What you have sent me contains nothing which I do 
 not understand, or at least believe that I understand, 
 nothing that does not readily harmonize with my accus- 
 tomed way of thinking ; and I see the hopes which I had 
 derived from the introduction already fulfilled. 
 
 " In my opinion you will confer a priceless benefit on 
 the human race, and make every thinking man your 
 debtor, by giving a scientific foundation to that upon 
 which Nature seems long ago to have quietly agreed with 
 herself. For myself, I shall owe you my best thanks if 
 you reconcile me to the philosophers, whom I cannot do 
 without, and with whom, notwithstanding, I never could 
 unite. 
 
 " I look with anxiety for the continuation of your work 
 to adjust and confirm many things for me; and I hope, 
 when you are free from urgent engagements, to speak witli 
 you about several matters, the prosecution of which I de- 
 fer Until I clearly understand how that which I hope to 
 accomplish may harmonize with what we have to expect 
 from you." 
 
 The personal intercourse of these two great men seems 
 to have been characterized by mutual respect and esteem, 
 without any approach to intimacy. Of one interview 
 Fichte says, " He was politeness, friendship itself ; he 
 showed me unusual attention." But no correspondence 
 was maintained between them after Fichte left Jena, in 
 consequence of the proceedings which led to his departure. 
 
 Of a more enduring nature was his intimacy with Ja- 
 cobi. It commenced in a literary correspondence soon after 
 his arrival at Jena, from which some extracts have already
 
 94 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 been given. Entertaining a deep respect for this distin- 
 guished man,, derived solely from the study of his works, 
 Fichte sent him a copy of the ' Wissenschaftslehre,' with a 
 request that he would communicate his opinion of the sys- 
 tem it contained. In a long and interesting correspon- 
 dence, extending over many years, the points of opposition 
 between them were canvassed ; and although a radical 
 difference in mental constitution prevented them from 
 ever thinking altogether alike, yet it did not prevent them 
 from cultivating a warm and steadfast friendship, which 
 continued unbroken amid vicissitudes by which other 
 attachments were sorely tried. 
 
 Fichte had formed an acquaintance with Schiller at 
 Tubingen when on his journey to Jena. Schiller's enthu- 
 siastic nature assimilated more closely to that of Fichte, 
 than did the dispositions of the other great poet of Ger- 
 many, and a cordial intimacy sprang up between them. 
 Fichte was a contributor to the " Horen " from its com- 
 mencement a journal which Schiller began to publish 
 goon after Fichte's arrival at Jena. - This gave rise to a 
 singular but short-lived misunderstanding between them. 
 A paper entitled " Brief e iiber Geist und Buchstaben in 
 der Philosophic " had been sent by Fichte for insertion in 
 the Horen. Judging from the commencement alone, 
 Schiller conceived it to be an imitation, or still worse, a 
 parody, of his " Brief e iiber die JEsthetische Erziehung 
 des Menschen," and, easily excited as he was, demanded 
 with some bitterness that it should be re-written. Fichte 
 did not justify himself by producing the continuation of 
 the article, but referred the accusation of parody to the 
 arbitration of Goethe and Humboldt. Schiller was soon 
 convinced of his error, and apologized for it ; but Fichte 
 did not return the essay, and it appeared afterwards in 
 the Philosophical Journal. After this slight misunder- 
 standing they continued upon terms of confidence and
 
 > TREATMENT OF OPPONENTS. 95 
 
 friendship, and, towards the close of his life, Schiller be- 
 came a zealous student of the Wissenschaftslehre. 
 
 Fichte likewise carried on an extensive correspondence 
 with Reinhold (who has been already mentioned), Schel- 
 ling, W. von Humboldt, Schaumann, Paulus, Schmidt, the 
 Schlegels, Novalis, Tieck, Woltmann, besides a host of 
 minor writers, so that his influence extended throughout, 
 the whole literary world of Germany at that period. 
 
 Fichte has been accused of asperity and supercilious- 
 ness towards his literary opponents ; but much that might 
 seem to be arrogance was but the result, perhaps somewhat 
 bluntly expressed, of sincere and earnest conviction. It 
 may easily be conceived that, occupying a point of view 
 altogether different from theirs, his philosophy should ap- 
 pear to him entirely untouched by objections to which 
 they attached great weight. Nor is it surprising that he 
 should choose rather to proceed with the development of ' 
 his own system from his own principles, than to place 
 himself in the mental position of other men and combat 
 their arguments upon their own grounds. That diversity of 
 ground was the essential cause of their difference. Those 
 who could take their stand beside him would see the mat- 
 ter as he saw it : those who could not do this must remain 
 where they were. Claiming for his system the certainty 
 of mathematical demonstration, asserting that with him 
 philosophy was no longer mere speculation, but had now 
 become knowledge, he could not bend or accommodate 
 himself or his doctrines to the prejudices of others ; they 
 must come to him, not he to them. " My philosophy," he 
 says, " is nothing to Herr Schmidt, from incapacity ; his is 
 nothing to me, from insight. From this time forth I look 
 upon all that Herr Schmidt may say, either directly or 
 indirectly, about my philosophy, as something which, so 
 far as I am concerned, has no meaning; and upon Herr
 
 96 MEMOIK OF FICHTE. 
 
 Schmidt himself as a philosopher who, in relation to me, 
 is nobody." Such language, although necessarily irritating 
 in the highest degree to its objects, and easily susceptible 
 of being regarded as the expression of a haughty and vain- 
 glorious spirit, was in reality the natural utterance of a 
 powerful and earnest intellect, unused to courtly phrase, or 
 to the gilded insincerities of fashion. He spoke strongly, 
 because he thought and felt deeply. He was the servant 
 of truth, and it was not for him to mince his language to- 
 wards her opponents. But it is worthy of remark that on 
 these occasions he was never the assailant. In answer to 
 some of Reinhold's expostulations he writes thus : " You 
 say that my tone touches and wounds persons who do not 
 deserve it. That I sincerely regret. But they must de- 
 serve it in some degree, if they will not permit one to tell 
 them honestly of the errors into which they wander, and 
 are not willing to suffer a slight shame for the sake of a 
 great instruction. With him to whom truth is not above 
 all other things, above his own petty personality, the 
 ' Wissenschaftslehre ' can have nothing to do. The inter- 
 nal reason of the tone which I adopt is this : It fills me 
 with scorn which I cannot describe, when I look on the 
 present want of any truthfulness of vision ; on the deep 
 darkness, entanglement, and perversion which now pre- 
 vail. The external reason is this : How have these men 
 (the Kantists) treated me ? how do they continue to treat 
 me ? There is nothing that I have less pleasure in than 
 controversy. Why then can they not be at peace ? For 
 example, friend Schmidt ? I have indeed not handled him 
 tenderly ; but every just person who knew much that is 
 not before the public, would give me credit for the mild- 
 ness of an angel." * 
 
 * The following amusing passage, from the commencement of an anony- 
 mous publication on this controversy, may serve to show the kind of repu- 
 tation which Fichte had acquired among his opponents : 
 
 " After the anathemas which the dreadful Fichte has hurled from the
 
 CONTROVERSY WITH JAKOB. 97 
 
 The true nature of Fichte's controversialist!! is well 
 exhibited in a short correspondence with Jakob, the Pro- 
 fessor of Philosophy at Halle. Jakob was editor of the "An- 
 nalen der Philosophie," the chief organ of the Kantists a 
 journal which had distinguished itself by the most uncom- 
 promising attacks upon the ' Wissenschaftslehre.' Fichte 
 had replied in the Philosophical Journal in his usual style. 
 Some time afterwards Jakob, who was personally unknown 
 to Fichte, addressed a letter to him, full of friendly and 
 generous sentiments, desiring that, although opposed to 
 each other in principle, all animosity between them might 
 cease. The following passages are extracted from Fichte's 
 reply : 
 
 dFtriitc to iaftob. 
 
 " I have never hated you nor believed that you hated 
 me. It may sound presumptuous, but it is true that I do 
 not know properly what hate is, for I have never hated 
 any one. And I am by no means so passionate as I am 
 commonly said to be. ... That my ' Wissenschafts- 
 lehre ' was not understood, that it is even now not un- 
 derstood (for it is supposed that I now teach other 
 doctrines), I freely believe ; that it was not understood 
 on account of my mode of propounding it in a book which 
 was not designed for the public but for my own students, 
 that no trust was reposed in me, but that I was looked 
 
 height of his philosophic throne upon the ant-hills of the Kantists ; look- 
 ing at the stigma for ever branded on the foreheads of these unhappy crea- 
 tures, which must compel them to hide their existence from the eye of an 
 astonished public ; amid the general fear and trembling which, spreading 
 over all philosophic sects, casts them to the earth before the thunder-tread 
 of this destroying god, who dare now avow himself a Kantist ? I dare ! 
 one of the most insignificant creatures ever dropped from the hand of fate. 
 Safe in the deep darkness which surrounds me, and which hides me from 
 every eye in Germany, even from the eagle-glance of a Fichte ; from this 
 quiet retreat, every attempt to break in upon the security of which is ridi- 
 culous in the extreme, from hence I may venture to raise my voice, and 
 cry, lam a Kantist ! and to Fichte Thou canst err, and hast erred," &c. 
 
 N
 
 98 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 upon as a babbler whose interference in the affairs of 
 philosophy might do hurt to science, that it was therefore 
 concluded that the system, which men knew well enough 
 that they did not understand, was a worthless system, 
 all this I know and can comprehend. But it is surely to 
 be expected from every scholar, not that he should under- 
 stand everything, but that he should at least know whether 
 he understand a subject or not ; and of every honest man 
 that he should not pass judgment on anything before he 
 is conscious of understanding it. . .... Dear 
 
 Jakob ! I have unlimited reverence for openness and up- 
 rightness of character. I had heard a high character of 
 you, and I would never have suffered myself to pronounce 
 such a judgment on your literary merit, had I not been 
 afterwards led to entertain an opposite impression. Now, 
 however, by the impartiality of your judgment upon me, 
 by the warm interest you take in me as a member of 
 the republic of letters, by your open testimony in my 
 behalf,* you have completely won my personal esteem. 
 It shall not be my fault (allow me to say this without 
 offence) if you do not also possess my entire esteem as an 
 
 author, publicly expressed. I have shown B and 
 
 E that I can do justice even to an antagonist." 
 
 Jakob's reply is that of a generous opponent : 
 " Your answer, much-esteemed Professor, has been most 
 acceptable to me. In it I have found the man whom I 
 wished to find. The differences between us shall be 
 erased from my memory. Not a word of satisfaction to 
 me. If anything that I do or write shall have the good 
 fortune to meet your free and unpurchased approbation, 
 and you find it good to communicate your opinion to the 
 public, it will be gratifying to me ; for what joy have 
 people of our kind in public life, that is not connected 
 
 * Jakob had espoused his cause in an important dispute, of which we 
 shall soon have to treat.
 
 LITERARY WORKS. 99 
 
 with the approbation of estimable men ? But I shall ac- 
 cept your candid refutation as an equally sure mark of 
 your esteem, and joyfully profit by it. Confutation with- 
 out bitterness is never unacceptable to me." 
 
 Gradually disengaging himself from outward causes of 
 disturbance, Fichte now sought to devote himself more 
 exclusively to literary exertion, in order to embody his 
 philosophy in a more enduring form than that of oral dis- 
 courses. As already mentioned, the first formal statement 
 of his philosophical system appeared in 1794 under the 
 title of " Ueber den Begriff der Wissenschaftslehre oder 
 der sogenannten Philosophic." It was followed in the 
 same year, by the " Grundlage der Gesammten Wissen- 
 schaftslehre," a text-book in which he set forth the whole 
 scheme of his philosophy in its scientific aspect, as expoun- 
 ded to his students during the first session of his Profes- 
 sorial work at Jena. A more practical application of the 
 doctrine appeared in 1795 under the title of " Grundriss 
 des eigenthumlichen Wissenschaffcslehre in Rticksicht auf 
 den theoretischen Vermogen." In 1795 also he became 
 joint-editor of the " Philosophical Journal," which had for 
 some years been conducted by his friend and colleague 
 Niethammer. His contributions to it, including a first 
 and second " Einleitung in die Wissenschaftslehre," form 
 a most important part of his works, and are devoted to 
 the scientific development of his system. In 1796 he 
 published the first portion of his " Rechtslehre (Doctrine of 
 Rights] nach Principien der Wissenschaftslehre," (after- 
 wards completed at Berlin in 1804,) and in 1798 his 
 " Sittenlehre " (Doctrine of Morals), separate parts of 
 the application he purposed to make of the fundamental 
 principles of the ' Wissenschaftslehre ' to the complete 
 circle of knowledge. But this period of literary tranquil- 
 lity was destined to be of short duration, for a storm soon 
 burst upon him more violent than any he had hitherto
 
 100 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 encountered, which once more drove him for a time from 
 the path of peaceful inquiry into the field of angry po- 
 lemical discussion. 
 
 Atheism is a charge which the common understanding 
 has repeatedly brought against the finer speculations of 
 philosophy, when, in endeavouring to solve the riddle of 
 existence, they have approached, albeit with reverence 
 and humility, the Ineffable Source from which all exis- 
 tence proceeds. Shrouded from human comprehension in 
 an obscurity from which chastened imagination is awed 
 back, and thought retreats in conscious weakness, the 
 Divine Nature is surely a theme on which man is little 
 entitled to dogmatize. Accordingly, it is here that the 
 philosophic intellect becomes most painfully aware of its 
 own insufficiency. It feels that silence is the most fitting 
 attitude of the finite being towards its Infinite and In- 
 comprehensible original, and that when it is needful that 
 thought should shape itself into words, they should be 
 those of diffidence and modest self-distrust. But the 
 common understanding has no such humility ; its God is 
 an incarnate divinity ; imperfection imposes its own limi- 
 tations on the Illimitable, and clothes the inconceivable 
 Spirit of the Universe in sensuous and intelligible forms 
 derived from finite nature. In the world's childhood, 
 when the monstrous forms of earth were looked upon as 
 the visible manifestations of Deity, or the unseen essences 
 of nature were imagined to contain His presence ; in the 
 world's youth, when stream and forest, hill and valley, 
 earth, air, and ocean, were peopled with divinities, grace- 
 ful or grotesque, kind or malevolent, pure or polluted ; 
 in the world's ages of toil, when the crushed soul of the 
 slave looked to his God for human sympathy, and some- 
 times fancied that he encountered worse than human op- 
 pression ; in all ages, men have coloured the brightness 
 of Infinity with hues derived from their own hopes and
 
 ACCUSATION OF ATHEISM. 101 
 
 fears, joys and sorrows, virtues and crimes.* And he who 
 felt that the Eidolon of the age was an inadequate repre- 
 sentative of his own deeper thoughts of God, had need to 
 place his hopes of justice in futurity, and make up his 
 mind to be despised and rejected by the men of his own 
 day. Socrates drank the poisoned cup because his con- 
 ception of divine things surpassed the common mythology 
 of Greece ; Christ endured the cross at the hands of the 
 Jews for having told them the truth which he had heard 
 from the Father ; Paul suffered persecution, indignity, 
 and death, for he was a setter forth of strange Gods. 
 Modern times have not been without their martyrs. Des- 
 cartes died in a foreign land for his bold thought and open 
 speech ; Spinoza the brave, kind-hearted, incorruptible 
 Spinoza was the object of both Jewish and Christian 
 anathema. In our own land popular fanaticism drove 
 Priestley from his home to seek refuge in a distant 
 clime ; and in our own days legalized bigotry tore asun- 
 der the sacred bonds which united one of the purest and 
 most sensitive of living beings to his offspring, the gen- 
 tle, imaginative, deeply-religious Shelley was "an atheist !" 
 
 * The inherent desire of mankind to clothe their conceptions of Divi- 
 nity in sensuous forms is finely illustrated in the following well-known 
 lines from Mr Coleridge's translation of Schiller's ' Wallenstein ' : 
 " The intelligible forms of ancient poets, 
 
 ' The fair humanities of old religion, 
 
 ' The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty, 
 
 ' That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, 
 
 ' Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 
 
 ' Or chasms and wat'ry depths; all these have vanish'd; 
 
 ' They live no longer in the faith of reason ! 
 
 ' But still the heart doth need a language, still 
 
 ' Doth the old instinct bring back the old names, 
 
 ' And to yon starry world they now are gone, 
 
 ' Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth 
 
 ' With man as with their friend ; " . . . 
 
 Although the idea here so beautifully expressed is Schiller's, this fine 
 passage is much more than a translation, it is a splendid paraphrase, 
 of the original.
 
 102 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 And so, too, Fichte whose ardent love of freedom made 
 him an object of distrust and fear to timorous statesmen, 
 and whose daring speculations struck dismay into the 
 souls of creed-bound theologians found himself assailed 
 at once by religious and political persecution. 
 
 Fichte's doctrine concerning God has already been spo- 
 ken of in a general way. It was the necessary result of 
 his speculative position. The consciousness of the indivi- 
 dual reveals itself alone ; his knowledge cannot pass be- 
 yond the limits of his own being. His conceptions of 
 other things and other beings are only his conceptions, 
 they are not those things or beings themselves. Con- 
 sciousness is here alone with itself, and the world is no- 
 thing but the necessary limits which are set to its activity 
 by the absolute law of its own being. From this point of 
 view the common logical arguments for the existence of 
 God, and in particular what is called the " argument from 
 design " supposed to exist in the material world, entirely 
 disappear. We invest the outward universe with attri- 
 butes, qualities, and relations, which are the growth and 
 product of our own minds, and then build up our faith in 
 the Divine on an argument founded upon phenomena we 
 have ourselves called into existence. However plausible 
 and attractive such an argument may appear to those 
 who do not look below the mere surface of things, it will 
 not bear the light of strict scientific investigation. Only 
 from our idea of duty, and our faith in the inevitable con- 
 sequences of moral action, arises the belief in a principle 
 of moral order in the world ; and this principle is God. 
 But this living principle of a living universe must be Infi- 
 nite ; while all our ideas and conceptions are finite, and 
 applicable only to finite beings not to the Infinite. 
 Thus we cannot, without inconsistency, apply to the Divi- 
 nity the common predicates borrowed from finite existence. 
 Consciousness, personality, and even substance, carry with 
 them the idea of necessary limitation, and are the attri-
 
 ACCUSATION OF ATHEISM. 103 
 
 butes of relative and limited beings ; to affirm these of 
 God is to bring Him down to the rank of relative and li- 
 mited being. The Divinity can thus only be thought of 
 by us as pure Intelligence, spiritual life and energy ; but 
 to comprehend this Intelligence in a conception, or to de- 
 scribe it in words, is manifestly impossible. All attempts 
 to embrace the Infinite in the conceptions of the Finite are, 
 and must be } only accommodations to the frailties of man. 
 God is not an object of Knowledge but of Faith, not to 
 be approached by the understanding, but by the moral 
 sense. Our intuition of a Moral Law, absolutely impera- 
 tive in its authority and universal in its obligation, is the 
 most certain and incontrovertible fact of our consciousness. 
 This law, addressed to free beings, must have a free and 
 rational foundation : in other words, there must be a 
 living source of the moral order of the universe, and this 
 source is God. Our faith in God is thus the necessary 
 consequence of our faith in the Moral Law ; the former 
 possesses the same absolute certainty which all men admit 
 to belong to the latter. In his later writings Fichte ad- 
 vanced to a more profound conception of the Infinite 
 Being than even that founded on the argument by which 
 the existence of a Lawgiver is inferred from our intuition 
 of the Moral Law. Of this later view, however, we shall 
 have to speak more fully afterwards. 
 
 The Philosophical Journal for 1798 contained an essay 
 by Forberg " On the Definition of the Idea of Religion." 
 Fichte found the principles of this essay not so much 
 opposed to his own as only imperfect in themselves, and 
 deemed it necessary to prefix to it a paper " On the 
 grounds of our faith in a Divine Government of the 
 world," in which, after pointing out the imperfections and 
 merely human qualities which are attributed to the Deity 
 in the common conceptions of His being, and which ne- 
 cessarily flow from the " cause and effect " argument in 
 its ordinary applications, he proceeds to state the true
 
 104 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 grounds of our faith in a moral government, or moral 
 order, in the universe, not for the purpose of inducing 
 faith by proof, but to discover and exhibit the springs of 
 a faith already indestructibly rooted in our nature. The 
 business of philosophy is not to create but to explain ; our 
 faith in the Divine exists without the aid of philosophy, 
 it is hers only to investigate its origin, not for the conver- 
 sion of the infidel, but to explain the conviction of the be- 
 liever. The general results of the essay may be gathered 
 from the concluding paragraph : 
 
 " Hence it is an error to say that it is doubtful whether / 
 or not there is a God. It is not doubtful, but the most 
 certain of all certainties, nay, the foundation of all other 
 certainties, the one absolutely valid objective truth, 
 that there is a moral order in the world ; that to every 
 rational being is assigned his particular place in that or- 
 der, and the work he has to do ; that his destiny, in so far 
 as it is not occasioned by his own conduct, is the result of 
 this plan ; that in no other way can even a hair fall from 
 his head, nor a sparrow fall to the ground around him ; 
 that every true and good action prospers, and every bad 
 action fails ; and that all things must work together for 
 good to those who truly love goodness. On the other hand, 
 no one who reflects for a moment, and honestly avows the 
 result of his reflection, can remain in doubt that the con- 
 ception of God as a particular substance is impossible and 
 contradictory : and it is right candidly to say this, and to 
 silence the babbling of the schools, in order that the true 
 religion of cheerful virtue may be established in its room. 
 
 " Two great poets have expressed this faith of good and 
 thinking men with inimitable beauty. Such an one may 
 adopt their language : 
 
 " 'Who dares to say, 
 " I believe in God " ? 
 
 Who dares to name Him [seek ideas and words for him,] 
 And to profess, 
 " I believe in Him " ?
 
 ACCUSATION OF ATHEISM. 105 
 
 Who can feel, 
 
 And yet affirm, 
 
 " I believe Him not " ] 
 
 The All-Embracer, [when He is approached through the moral 
 sense, not through theoretical speculation, and the world 
 is looked upon as the scene of living moral activity. ] 
 
 The All-Sustainer, 
 
 Doth He not embrace, support, 
 
 Thee, me, Himself] 
 
 Doth not the vault of heaven arch o'er us there ? 
 
 Doth not the earth lie firmly here below 1 
 
 And do not the eternal stars 
 
 Eise on us with their friendly beams? 
 
 Do not I see mine image in thine eyes 1 
 
 And doth not the All 
 
 Press on thy head and heart, 
 
 And weave itself around thee, visibly and invisibly, 
 
 In eternal mystery? 
 
 Fill thy heart with it till it overflow ; 
 
 And in the feeling when thou'rt wholly blest, 
 
 Then call it what thou wilt, 
 
 Happiness ! Heart ! Love ! God ! 
 
 I have no name for it : 
 
 Feeling is all ; name is but sound and smoke, 
 
 Veiling the glow of heaven.' " * 
 
 " And the second sings : 
 
 " ' And God is ! a holy Will that abides, 
 Though the human will may falter ; 
 High over both Space and Time it rides, 
 The high Thought that will never alter : 
 And while all things in change eternal roll, 
 It endures, through change, a motionless soul.' " f 
 
 The publication of this essay furnished a welcome op- 
 portunity to those States to which Fichte was obnoxious 
 on account of his democratic opinions to institute public 
 proceedings against him. The note was sounded by the 
 publication of an anonymous pamphlet entitled " Letters 
 of a Father, to his Son on the Atheism of Fichte and 
 
 * Goethe's " Faust." 
 
 t The above stanza of Schiller's " Worte des Glaubens " is taken from 
 Mr Merivale's excellent translation. 
 
 O
 
 106 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 Forberg," which was industriously and even gratuitously 
 circulated throughout Germany. The first official proceed- 
 ing was a decree of the Electoral Government prohibiting 
 the sale of the Philosophical Journal, and confiscating all 
 copies of it found in the electorate. This was followed up 
 by a requisition addressed to the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, as 
 the Conservator of the University of Jena, in which Fichte 
 and Forberg were accused of " the coarsest atheism, openly 
 opposed not only to the Christian, but even to natural, re- 
 ligion ; " and their severe punishment was demanded ; 
 failing which, it was threatened that the subjects of the 
 Elector should be prohibited from resorting to the Uni- 
 versity. These proceedings were imitated by the other 
 Protestant Courts of Germany, that of Prussia excepted. 
 In answer to the official condemnation of his essay, 
 Fichte sent forth his " Appeal to the Public against the 
 accusation of Atheism," Jena, 1799 ; in which, with his 
 accustomed boldness, he does not confine himself to the 
 strict limits of self-defence, but exposes with no lenient 
 hand the true cause which rendered him obnoxious to the 
 Electoral Government, not the atheism of which he was 
 so absurdly accused, but the spirit of freedom and inde- 
 pendence which his philosophy inculcated! He did not 
 desire, he would not accept of any compromise ; he de- 
 manded a free acquittal, or a public condemnation. He 
 adopted the same high tone in his defence before his own 
 Government. The Court of Saxe-Weimar had no desire 
 to restrain the liberty of thought, or to erect any barrier 
 against free speculation. It was too wise not to perceive 
 that a Protestant University in which secular power should 
 dare to invade the precincts of philosophy, or profane the 
 highest sanctuaries of thought, however great its reputa- 
 tion for the moment, must infallibly decline from being a 
 temple of knowledge into a mere warehouse for literary, 
 medical, or theological merchandize, a school-room for 
 artizans, a drill-yard for hirelings. But, on the other
 
 APPEAL TO THE PUBLIC. 107 
 
 hand, it was no part of the policy of the Ducal Court to 
 give offence to its more powerful neighbours, or to enter 
 upon a crusade in defence of opinions obnoxious, because 
 unintelligible, to the masses. It was therefore intended 
 to pass over this matter as smoothly as possible, and to 
 satisfy the complaining governments by administering to 
 Fichte a general rebuke for imprudence in promulgating 
 his views in language liable to popular misconstruction. 
 The appearance of his " Appeal to the Public," however, 
 rendered this arrangement less easy of accomplishment. 
 The opinion of the Government with respect to this pub- 
 lication was communicated to Fichte in a letter from 
 Schiller, " that there was no doubt that he had cleared him- 
 self of the accusation before every thinking mind ; but that 
 it was surprising that he had not consulted with higher 
 authorities before he sent forth bis appeal : why appeal 
 to the public at all, when he had to do only with a favour- 
 able and enlightened Government ? " The obvious answer 
 to which was, that the " Appeal to the Public " was a reply 
 to the public confiscation of his work, while the private 
 accusation before his Prince was answered by a private 
 defence. In that defence the Court found that the accused 
 was determined to push the investigation as far as his ac- 
 cusers could desire ; that he demanded either an honour- 
 able and unreserved acquittal, or deposition from his office 
 as a false teacher. A further breach between the Court 
 and Fichte was caused by a letter which, in the course of 
 these proceedings, he addressed to a member of the Coun- 
 cil, his private friend, in which he announced that a 
 resignation of his professorship would be the result of any 
 reproof on the part of the Government. This letter, 
 addressed to an individual in 'his private capacity, was 
 unfortunately placed among the official documents connec- 
 ted with the proceedings. Its tone, excusable perhaps in 
 a private communication, seemed presumptuous and arro- 
 gant when addressed to the supreme authority ; it was
 
 108 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 the haughty defiance of an equal, rather than the remon- 
 strance of a subject. On the 2d of April 1799, Fichte 
 received the decision of the Ducal Court. It contained a 
 reproof for imprudence in promulgating doctrines so un- 
 usual and so offensive to the common understanding, and 
 accepted Fichte's resignation as a recognised consequence 
 of that reproof. It is much to be regretted that the timid 
 policy of the government, and the faults of individuals, 
 prevented in this instance the formal recognition of the 
 great principle involved in the contest, i. e. that civil 
 governments have no right to restrain the expression of any 
 theoretical opinion whatever, when propounded in a scientific 
 form and addressed to the scientific world. This error was 
 eventually productive of serious injury to Jena, and led to 
 the removal of many of its most eminent teachers to other 
 Universities. 
 
 During these trying occurrences, the most enthusiastic 
 attachment was evinced towards Fichte by the students. 
 Two numerously signed petitions were presented to the 
 Duke, praying for his recall. These having proved un- 
 availing, they caused a medallion of their beloved teacher 
 to be struck, in testimony of their admiration and esteem. 
 
 Fichte's position was now one of the most difficult 
 which can well be imagined. A prolonged residence at 
 Jena was out of the question, he could no longer remain 
 there. But where to turn ? where to seek an asylum ? 
 No neighbouring state would afford him shelter ; even the 
 privilege of a private residence was refused. At length a 
 friend appeared in the person of Dohm, Minister to the 
 King of Prussia. Through him Fichte applied to Fre- 
 derick-William for permission to reside in his dominions, 
 with the view of earning a livelihood by literary exertion 
 and private teaching. The answer of the Prussian mo- 
 narch was worthy of his high character : " If, " said he, 
 " Fichte is so peaceful a citizen, and so free from all
 
 REMOVAL TO BERLIN. 109 
 
 dangerous associations as he is said to be, I willingly accord 
 him a residence in my dominions. As to his religious 
 principles, it is not for the State to decide upon them." * 
 
 Fichte arrived in Prussia in July 1799, and devoted 
 the summer and autumn to the completion of a work in 
 which his philosophy is set forth in its most popular form 
 but with admirable lucidity and comprehensiveness, we 
 allude to his " Bestimmung des Menschen " (the Vocation of 
 Man), published at Berlin in 1800, in which all the great 
 phases of metaphysical speculation are condensed into an 
 almost dramatic picture of the successive stages in the de- 
 velopment of an individual mind. A translation of the 
 " Bestimmung des Menschen," originally published in 
 1848, is now reprinted in this edition. Towards the end 
 of the year he returned to Jena for the purpose of remo- 
 ving his family to Berlin, where, henceforward, he fixed 
 his place of residence. The following extracts are from 
 letters written to his wife during their temporary separa- 
 tion : 
 
 " You probably wish to know how I live. For many 
 reasons, the weightiest of which lie in myself and in my 
 cough, I cannot keep up the early rising. Six o'clock is 
 generally rny earliest. I go then to my writing desk, so 
 that I am not altogether idle, although I do not get on as 
 I could wish. I am now working at the " Bestimmung 
 des Menschen." At half-past twelve I hold my toilet (yes ! 
 get powdered, dressed, &c.), and at one I call on M. Veit 
 where I meet Schlegel and a reformed preacher, Schle- 
 gel's friend. "f* At three I return, and read a French novel, 
 or write as I do now to you. If the piece be at all toler- 
 able, which is not always the case, I go to the theatre at 
 five. If it be not, I walk with Schlegel in the suburbs, 
 
 * The original phraseology of this last passage is peculiarly charac- 
 teristic : ' 3ft e roafyr, baf? er mit bem tieben otfe in Seinbfelicjfeiten 
 ijt ; fo mag bieS ber tiefce oft mit ifjm afrmacfjen ; mir ffjut ba nidjtS." 
 t Schleiermacher.
 
 110 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 in the zoological gardens, or under the linden trees before 
 the house. Sometimes I make small country parties with 
 Schlegel and his friends. So we did, for example, the day 
 before yesterday, with the most lively remembrance of thee 
 and the little one. .... In the evening I sup 
 on a roll of bread and a quart of Medoc wine, which 
 are the only tolerable things in the house ; and go to bed 
 between ten and eleven, to sleep without dreaming. Only 
 once, it was after thy first alarming letter, I had my 
 Hermann in my arms, full of joy that he was well again, 
 when suddenly he stretched himself out, turned pale, and 
 all those appearances followed which are indelibly fixed 
 on my memory. 
 
 " I charge thee, dearest, with thy own health and the 
 
 health of the little one. Farewell." 
 
 * * # * * 
 
 " I am perfectly secure here. Yesterday I visited the 
 Cabinet Councillor Beyme, who is daily engaged with the 
 King, and spoke to him about my position. I told him 
 honestly that I had come here in order to take up my 
 abode, and that I sought for safety because it was my in- 
 tention that my family should follow me. He assured me 
 that far from there being any desire to hinder me in this 
 purpose, it would be esteemed an honour and advantage if 
 I made my residence here, that the King was immovable 
 
 upon certain principles affecting these questions, &c." 
 
 * * * * # 
 
 " I work with industry and pleasure. The ' Vocation 
 of Man ' will, I think, be ready at Michaelmas, written, 
 not printed, and it seems to me likely to succeed. You 
 know that I am never satisfied with my works when they 
 are first written, and therefore my own opinion on this 
 
 point is worth something By my 
 
 residence in Berlin I have gained this much, that 1 shall 
 thenceforth be allowed to live in peace elsewhere ; and this 
 is much. I dare say that I should have been teased and
 
 LETTERS TO HIS WIFE. Ill 
 
 perhaps hunted out of any other place. But it is quite 
 another thing now that I have lived in Berlin under the 
 eye of the King. By and by, I think, even the Weimar 
 Court will learn to be ashamed of its conduct, especially 
 if I make no advances to it. In the meantime something 
 advantageous may happen. So be thou calm and of good 
 courage, dear one, and trust in thy Fichte's judgment, 
 talent, and good fortune. Thou laughst at the last word. 
 Well, well ! I assure you that good fortune will soon 
 
 come back again." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " I have written to Reinhold a cold, somewhat upbraid- 
 ing letter. The good weak soul is full of lamentation. I 
 shall immediately comfort him again, and take care that 
 he be not alienated from me in future. If I were beside 
 thee, thou wouldst say ' Dost thou hear, Fichte ? thou art 
 proud I must tell it thee, if no one else will.' Very well, 
 be thou glad that I am proud. Since I have no humility, 
 I must be proud, so that 1 may have something to carry 
 
 me through the world." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Of all that thou writest to me, I am most dissatisfied 
 with this, that thou callest our Hermann an ill-bred boy. 
 No greater misfortune could befall me on earth than that 
 this child should be spoiled ; and I would lament my ab- 
 sence from Jena only if it should be the cause of that. I 
 adjure thee by thy maternal duties, by thy love to me, by 
 all that is sacred to thee, let this child be thy first and 
 only care. Put aside everything else for him. Thou art 
 deficient in firmness and coolness ; hence all thy errors 
 in the education of the little one. Teach him that when 
 thou hast once denied him anything it is determined and 
 irrevocable, and that neither petulance nor the most ur- 
 gent entreaties will be of any avail : once fail in this, 
 and you have an ill- taught obstinate boy, particularly 
 with the natural tendency to strength of character which
 
 112 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 our little one possesses ; and it costs a hundred times 
 more labour to set him right again. For indeed it should 
 he our first care not to let his character be spoiled ; and 
 believe me, there is in him the capacity of being a wild 
 knave, as well as that of being an honest, true, virtuous 
 man. In particular, do not suppose that he will be led 
 by persuasion and reasoning. The most intelligent men 
 err in this, and thou also in the same way. He cannot 
 as yet think for himself, nor will he be able to do so for a 
 long time ; at present, the first thing is that he should 
 learn obedience and subjection to a foreign mind. Thou 
 mayest indeed sometimes gain thy immediate purpose by 
 persuasion, not because he understands thy reasons and is 
 moved by them, but because thou in a manner submittest 
 thyself to him and makest him the judge. Thus his pride 
 is flattered ; thy talk employs his vacant time and dispels 
 his caprices. But this is all ; while for the future thou 
 renderest his guidance more difficult for thee, and con- 
 
 firmest thyself in a pernicious prejudice." 
 
 # # # * * 
 
 " Cheerfulness and good courage are to me the highest 
 proof that thou lovest me as I should be loved. Dejec- 
 tion and sorrow are distrust in me, and make me un- 
 happy because they make thee unhappy. It is no proof 
 of love that thou shouldst feel deeply the injustice done 
 to me : to me it is a light matter, and so must it be to 
 thee, for thou and I are one. 
 
 " Do not speak of dying ; indulge in no such thoughts ; 
 for they weaken thee, and thus might become true. No ! 
 we shall yet live with each other many joyful and happy 
 days ; and our child shall close our eyes when he is a 
 mature and perfect man : till then he has need of us. 
 
 " In the progress of my present work, I have taken a 
 deeper glance into religion than ever I did before. In 
 me the emotions of the heart proceed only from perfect 
 intellectual clearness : it cannot be but that the clear-
 
 LETTERS TO HIS WIFE. 113 
 
 ness I have now attained on this subject shall also take 
 possession of my heart. 
 
 " Believe me, that to this disposition is to be ascribed, 
 in a great measure, my constant cheerfulness and the com- 
 placency with which I look upon the injustice of my op- 
 ponents. I do not believe that, without this dispute and 
 its evil consequences, I should ever have come to this clear 
 insight and the disposition of heart which I now enjoy ; 
 and so the ill-treatment we have experienced has had a 
 result which neither you nor I can regret. 
 
 " Comfort the poor boy, and dry thy tears as he bids thee. 
 Think that it is his father's advice, who indeed would say 
 the same thing. And do with our dear Hermann as I 
 wrote thee before. The child is our riches, and we must 
 use him well." 
 
 If the spectacle of the scholar contending against the 
 hindrances of fortune and the imperfections of his own 
 nature, struggling with the common passions of mankind 
 and the weakness of his own will, soaring aloft amid the 
 highest speculations of genius, and dragged down again to 
 earth by its meanest wants ; if this be one of the most 
 painful spectacles which the theatre of life presents, surely 
 it is one of the noblest when we see such a man pursuing 
 some lofty theme with a constancy which neither difficulty 
 nor discouragement can subdue. Such was now Fichte's 
 position. The first years of his residence at Berlin were 
 among the most peaceful in his life of vicissitude and 
 storm. Withdrawn from public duties, and uninterrup- 
 ted by the outward annoyances to which he had lately 
 been exposed, he now enjoyed a period of tranquil retire- 
 ment, surrounded by a small circle of congenial friends. 
 Friedrich and Wilhelm Schlegel, Tieck, Woltmann, Reich- 
 hardt, and Jean Paul Friedrich Richter,* were among his 
 
 * Jean Paul wrote an elaborate satire of the ' Wissenschaftslehre ' under 
 the title of " Clavis Fichtiana," in which he travesties the technicalities of 
 the system in his usual style of amusing extravagance. 
 
 P
 
 114 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 chosen associates ; Bernhardi, with his clear and acute yet 
 discursive thought, his social graces and warm affections, 
 was his almost daily companion. Hufeland, the king's 
 physician, whom he had known at Jena, now became 
 bound to him by the closest ties, and rendered him many 
 kind offices, over which the delicacy of friendship has 
 thrown a veil. 
 
 Amid the amenities of such society, and withdrawn from 
 the anxieties and disturbances of public life, Fichte now 
 devoted himself to the farther development and ultimate 
 completion of his philosophical theory. The period of dan- 
 ger and difficulty through which he had lately passed, the 
 loss of many valued and trusted friends, and the isolation 
 of his own mental position, naturally favoured the fuller 
 development of that profound religious feeling which lay 
 at the root of his character. It was accordingly during 
 this season of repose that the great leading idea of his 
 system revealed itself to his mind in perfect clearness, and 
 impressed upon his subsequent writings that deeply reli- 
 gious character to which we have already adverted. The 
 passage from subjective reflection to objective and abso- 
 lute being, had hitherto, as we have seen, been made by 
 Fichte on the ground of moral feeling only. Our Faith 
 in the Divine is the inevitable result of our sense of duty ; 
 it is the imperative demand of our moral nature. We are 
 immediately conscious of a Moral Law within us, whose 
 behests are announced to us with an absolute authority 
 which we cannot gainsay ; the source of that authority is 
 not in us, but in the Eternal Fountain of all moral order, 
 shrouded from our intellectual vision by the impene- 
 trable glories of the Infinite. But this inference of a 
 Moral Lawgiver from our intuition of a Moral Law is, 
 after all, but the " cause and effect " argument applied to 
 moral phenomena ; and it is not, strictly speaking, more 
 satisfactory than the common application of the same 
 course of reasoning to the phenomena of the physical
 
 FINAL DEVELOPMENT OF HIS PHILOSOPHY. 115 
 
 world. Besides, it does not wholly meet the facts of the 
 case, for there can be no doubt that in all men, and more 
 especially among savages and half-civilized people, the 
 recognition of a Divinity precedes any definite conception 
 of a Moral Law. And therefore we do not reach the true 
 and ultimate ground of this Faith until we penetrate to 
 that innate feeling of dependence, underlying both our 
 emotional and intellectual nature, which, in its relation to 
 the one, gives birth to the Religious Sentiments, and, 
 when recognised and elaborated by the other, becomes 
 the basis of a scientific belief in the Absolute or God, 
 the materials of the edifice being furnished by our intui- 
 tions of the Good, the Beautiful, and the True. Fichte's 
 thoughts being now directed more steadily to the strictly 
 religious aspect of his theory, he sought to add such an 
 intellectual validity to our moral convictions, to raise our 
 Faith in the Divine from the rank of a mere inference 
 from the Moral Sense, to that of a direct intuition of 
 Reason. This he accomplished by a deeper analysis of 
 the fact of consciousness. What is the essential character 
 of our knowledge that which it preserves amid all the 
 diversities of the individual mind ? It is this : that it 
 announces itself as a representation of something else, a 
 picture of something superior to, and independent of, itself. 
 It is thus composed of a double conception : a Higher 
 Being which it imperfectly represents ; and itself, inferior 
 to, derived from, and dependent upon the first. Hence 
 it must renounce the thought of itself as the only being 
 whose existence it reveals, and regard itself rather as the 
 image or reflection of a truly Highest and Ultimate Being 
 revealed in human thought, and indeed its essential foun- 
 dation. And this idea cannot be got rid of on the ground 
 that it is a merely subjective conception ; for we have here 
 reached the primitive essence of thought itself, and to 
 deny this would be to deny the very nature and conditions 
 of knowledge, and to maintain an obvious contradiction ;
 
 116 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 this namely, that there can be a conception without an 
 object conceived, a manifestation without substance, and 
 that the ultimate foundation of all things is nothing. By 
 this reconciliation, and indeed essential union of the sub- 
 jective with the objective, Reason finally bridges over the 
 chasm by which analysis had formerly separated it from 
 the simple Faith of common humanity. Consciousness 
 becomes the manifestation, the self-revelation of the 
 Absolute ; and the Absolute itself is the ground and 
 substance of the phenomena of Consciousness, the differ- 
 ent forms of which are but the various points wherein God 
 is recognised, with greater or less degrees of clearness 
 and perfection, in this manifestation of himself; while 
 the world itself, as an infinite assemblage of concrete 
 existences, conscious and unconscious, is another phase of 
 the same Infinite and Absolute Being. Thus Conscious- 
 ness, far from being a purely subjective and empty train 
 of fancies, contains nothing which does not rest upon 
 and image forth a Higher and Infinite Reality. Idealism 
 itself becomes a sublime and Absolute Realism. 
 
 This change in the spirit of his philosophy has been as- 
 cribed to the influence of a distinguished contemporary, 
 who afterwards succeeded to the chair at Berlin of which 
 Fichte was the first occupant. It seems to us that it was 
 the natural and inevitable outcome of his own principles 
 and mode of thought ; and that it was even theoretically 
 contained in the very first exposition of his doctrine, 
 although it had not then attained in his own mind that 
 vivid reality with which it shines, as a prophet-like inspi- 
 ration, throughout his later writings. In this view we are 
 fully borne out by the letter to Jacobi in 1795, and the 
 article from the Literatur Zeitung, already quoted.* In 
 the development of the system, whether in the mind of its 
 author or in that of a learner, the starting-point is neces- 
 
 * See pages 65 and 68.
 
 FINAL DEVELOPMENT OF HIS PHILOSOPHY. 117 
 
 sarily the individual consciousness, the finite Ego. But 
 when the logical processes of the understanding have per- 
 formed their office, and led us from this, the nearest of 
 our spiritual experiences, to that higher point in which all 
 finite individuality disappears in the great thought of an 
 all-embracing consciousness, an Infinite Ego, the theo- 
 retical stage of the investigation is superseded by the loftier 
 conception of a Divine Presence. From this higher point 
 of view Fichte now looked forth on the universe and 
 human life, and saw there no longer the subjective pheno- 
 mena of a limited and finite nature, but the harmonious, 
 although diversified, manifestation of the One Universal 
 Being, the self-revelation of the Absolute, the infinitely 
 varied forms under which God becomes " manifest in the 
 flesh." * 
 
 The first traces of this rise to a higher speculative posi- 
 tion are observable in his " Bestimmung des Menschen," 
 published in 1800, in which, as we have already said, may 
 be found the most systematic exposition of his philosophy 
 which has been attempted in a popular form. In 1801 
 appeared his " Antwortschreiben an Reinhold " (Answer to 
 Reinhold}, and his " Sonnenklarer Bericht an das grossere 
 Publicum tiber das eigentliche Wesen der neuesten Philo- 
 sophic " (Sun-clear Intelligence to the general public on the 
 essential nature of the New Philosophy!) These he inten- 
 ded to follow up in 1802 with a more strictly scientific 
 and complete account of the ' Wissenschaftslehre,' designed 
 for the philosophical reader only. But he was induced to 
 postpone the execution of this purpose, partly on account 
 of the recent modification of his own philosophical point 
 of view, and partly because the attention of the literary 
 world was now engrossed by the brilliant and poetic Natur- 
 
 * For an excellent consecutive account of the gradual development of 
 the ' Wissenschaftslehre,' both in its earlier and later forms, the reader 
 may consult with advantage the volume on Fichte in the Philosophical 
 Classics (1881) by Professor Adamson of the Owen's College, Manchester.
 
 118 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 Philosophic of Schelling. Before communicating to the 
 world the work which should be handed down to posterity 
 as the finished institute of his theory, it appeared to him 
 necessary, first of all to prepare the public mind for its 
 reception by a series of introductory applications of his 
 system to subjects of general interest. But this purpose 
 was also laid aside for a time, principally, it would seem, 
 from dissatisfaction with the reception which his works had 
 hitherto received, from the harassing misconceptions and 
 misrepresentations which he had encountered, and from a 
 doubt, amounting almost to hopelessness, of making his 
 views intelligible to the general public. These feelings 
 occasioned a silence of four years on his part, and are 
 characteristically expressed in the prefaces to several of 
 his subsequent works. 
 
 In the meantime, although Fichte retired for a season 
 from the prominent public position he had hitherto occu- 
 pied, it was impossible for him to remain inactive. Shut 
 out from communication with the " reading public," be 
 sought to gather around him fit hearers to whom he might 
 impart the high message with which he was charged. 
 This was indeed his favourite mode of communication : 
 in the lecture-room his fiery eloquence found a freer scope 
 than the form of a literary work would afford. A circle 
 of pupils soon gathered around him at Berlin. His pri- 
 vate lectures were attended by the most distinguished 
 scholars and statesmen : W. Schlegel, Kotzebue, the 
 Minister Schrotter, the High Chancellor Beyme, and the 
 Minister von Altenstein, were found among his auditory. 
 
 In 1804 an opportunity presented itself of resuming his 
 favourite vocation of an academic teacher. This was an 
 invitation from Russia to assume the chair of Philosophy 
 in the University of Charkow. The existing state of lite- 
 rary culture in that country, however, did not seem to offer 
 a promising field for his exertions ; and another proposal, 
 which appeared to open the way to a more useful applica-
 
 PROFESSORSHIP AT ERLANGEN. 119 
 
 tion of his powers, occurring at the same time, he declined 
 the invitation to Charkow. The second invitation was 
 likewise a foreign one, from Bavaria, namely, to the 
 Philosophic chair at Landshut. It was accompanied by 
 pecuniary proposals of a most advantageous nature. But 
 experience had taught Fichte to set a much higher value 
 upon the internal conditions of such an office, than upon 
 its outward advantages. In desiring an academic chair, 
 he sought only an opportunity of carrying out his plan of 
 a strictly philosophical education, with a view to the future 
 reception of the ' Wissenschaftslehre ' in its most perfect 
 form. To this purpose he had devoted his life, and no 
 pecuniary considerations could induce him to lay it aside. 
 But its thorough fulfilment dem.anded absolute freedom of 
 teaching and writing as a primary condition, and therefore 
 this was the first point to which Fichte looked in any 
 appointment which might be offered to him. He frankly 
 laid his views on this subject before the Bavarian Govern- 
 ment. " The plan," he says, " might perhaps be carried 
 forward without the support of any government, although 
 this has its difficulties. But if any enlightened government 
 should resolve to support it, it would, in my opinion, 
 acquire thereby a deathless fame, and become the benefac- 
 tor of humanity." Whether the Bavarian Government was 
 dissatisfied with the conditions required does not appear, 
 but the negotiations on this subject were shortly 
 afterwards broken off. 
 
 At last, however, an opportunity occurred of carrying 
 out his views in Prussia itself. Through the influence of 
 his friends, Bey me and Altenstein, with the Minister Har- 
 denberg, he was appointed Professor of Philosophy at the 
 University of Erlangen, with the liberty of returning to 
 Berlin during the winter to continue his philosophical lec- 
 tures there. In May 1805 he entered upon his new duties 
 with a brilliant success which seemed to promise a repeti- 
 tion of the epoch of Jena. Besides the course of lectures
 
 120 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 to his own students, in which he took a comprehensive sur- 
 vey of the conditions and method of scientific knowledge 
 in general, he delivered a series of private lectures to bis 
 fellow professors and others, in which he laid down his 
 views in a more abstract form. In addition to these 
 labours, he delivered to the whole students of the Univer- 
 sity his celebrated lectures on the " Nature of the Scholar." 
 These remarkable discourses must have had a powerful 
 effect on the young and ardent minds to which they 
 were addressed. Never, perhaps, were the moral dignity 
 and sacredness of the literary calling set forth with more 
 impressive earnestness. 
 
 Encouraged by the brilliant success which had attended 
 his prelections at Erlangen, Fichte now resolved to give 
 forth to the world the results of his later studies, and 
 especially to embody in some practical and generally 
 intelligible form, his great conception of the eternal reve- 
 lation of God in consciousness. Accordingly, on his return 
 to Berlin in the winter of 1805-6, he published the course 
 of lectures to which we have just alluded, " Ueber das 
 Wesen des Gelehrten" (On the Nature of the Scholar), a 
 translation of which forms a part of the present volume. 
 The Scholar is here represented as he who, possessed and 
 actuated by the Divine Idea, labours to obtain for that Idea 
 an outward manifestation in the world, either by culti- 
 vating in his fellow-men the capacity for its reception (as 
 Teacher) ; or by directly embodying it in visible forms 
 (as Artist, Ruler, Lawgiver, &c.) This publication was 
 immediately followed by another course, which had been 
 delivered at Berlin during the previous year under the 
 title of " Grundziige des gegenwartigen Zeitalters " (Cha- 
 racteristics of the Present Age), an English translation of 
 which will also be found in our Second Volume. It is an 
 attempt to apply the principles of transcendentalism to 
 General History, and abounds in searching and compre- 
 hensive views of the progress, prospects, and destiny of man.
 
 WAR OF LIBERATION. 121 
 
 This series of popular works was completed by the publi- 
 cation, in the spring of 1806, of the "Anweisung zum 
 Seligen Leben, oder die Religionslehre " (The Doctrine 
 of Religion}, the most important of them all. Here the 
 final results of his philosophy are presented in their most 
 exalted application to life, thought, and religion. A 
 translation of the 'Religionslehre' concludes the second 
 volume of our present publication. These Lectures of 
 1804-5-6, in which the ' Divine Idea ' appears as the 
 spring of all that is true and noble in human life, taken 
 along with the " Bestimmungdes Menschen," 1800, may be 
 regarded as Fichte's most valuable and enduring contri- 
 butions to the world. They have powerfully influenced the 
 thought of our own time through more than one channel. 
 
 Fichte's long-cherished hopes of founding an academi- 
 cal institution in accordance with his philosophical viewa, 
 seemed now about to be realized. During the winter 
 vacation, Hardenberg communicated with him regarding 
 a new organization of the University of Erlangen. Fichte 
 drew up a plan for this purpose, which was submitted to 
 the Minister in 1806. But fortune again interposed : the 
 outbreak of the war with France prevented his resuming 
 the duties which had been so well begun. 
 
 The campaign of 1805 had subjected the greater part 
 of Germany to the power of Napoleon. Prussia, almost 
 alone, maintained her independence, surrounded on every 
 side by the armies or vassals of France. Her struggle with 
 the giant-power of the continent was of short duration. 
 On the 9th October 1806 war was declared, on the 14th 
 the double battle of Auerstadt and Jena was fought, 
 and on the 25th Napoleon entered Berlin. In rapid suc- 
 cession, all the fortresses of Prussia fell into the hands of 
 the invader. 
 
 Fichte eagerly desired permission to accompany the 
 army which his country sent forth against her invaders. 
 The hopes of Germany hung upon its progress ; its success 
 
 Q
 
 122 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 would bring freedom and peace, its failure, military des- 
 potism with all its attendant horrors. Opposed to the well- 
 trained troops of France, which were elated with victory 
 and eager for new conquests, the defenders of Germany 
 needed all the aid which high principle and ardent 
 patriotism could bring to their cause. To maintain such 
 a spirit in the army by such addresses as afterwards 
 appeared under the celebrated title of " Reden an die 
 Deutschen," Fichte conceived to be his appropriate part in 
 the general resistance to the enemy ; and for that purpose 
 he desired to be near the troops. " If the orator," he said, 
 " must content himself with speech if he may not fight 
 in your ranks to prove the truth of his principles by his 
 actions, by his contempt of danger and of death, by his 
 presence in the most perilous places of the combat, this 
 is but the fault of his age, which has separated the calling 
 of the scholar from that of the warrior. But he feels that 
 if he had been taught to carry arms, he would have been 
 behind none in courage ; he laments that his age has 
 denied him the privilege accorded to ^Eschylus and Cervan- 
 tes, to make good his words by manly deeds. He would 
 restore that time if he could ; and in the present circum- 
 stances, which he looks upon as bringing with them a new 
 phase of his existence, he would proceed rather to deeds 
 than to words. But since he may only speak, he would 
 speak fire and sword. Nor would he do this securely and 
 away from danger. In his discourses he would give 
 utterance to truths belonging to this subject with all the 
 clearness with which he himself sees them, with all the 
 earnestness of which he is capable, utter them avowedly 
 and with his own name, truths which should cause him 
 to be held worthy of death before the tribunal of the 
 enemy. And on that account he would not fainthearted- 
 ly conceal himself, but speak boldly before your face, 
 that he might either live free in his fatherland, or perish 
 in its overthrow."
 
 RESIDENCE AT KONIGSBERG. 123 
 
 The rapid progress of the war prevented compliance 
 with his wish, but the spirit which gave it birth was well 
 appreciated by Frederick- William. "Your idea, dear 
 Fichte," says the reply to his proposal, " does you honour. 
 The King thanks you for your offer ; perhaps we may 
 make use of it afterwards. But the King must first speak 
 to his army by deeds : your eloquence may turn to ac- 
 count the advantages of victory." 
 
 The defeat of Jena on the 14th October, and the rapid 
 march of Napoleon upon Berlin, which remained defence- 
 less, rendered it necessary for all who had identified them- 
 selves with the cause of their country to seek refuge in 
 instant flight. Fichte's resolution was soon taken : he 
 would share the dangers of his fatherland, rather than 
 purchase safety by submission. He left Berlin on the 
 18th October, in company with his friend and physician 
 Hufeland, a few days before the occupation of the city by 
 the French army. Fichte's wife remained in Berlin to 
 take charge of their own and of Hufeland's households 
 while the two friends fled beyond the Oder. 
 
 Fichte took up his residence at Kb'nigsberg to await the 
 result of the war. The uncertainty of his future pros- 
 pects, and the dangerous situation in which he had left his 
 family, did not prevent him from pursuing his vocation as 
 a public teacher, even in the face of many hindrances. 
 During the winter he delivered a course of philosophical 
 lectures in the University, having been appointed provi- 
 sional Professor of Philosophy during his residence. He 
 steadfastly resisted the earnest desire of his wife to return 
 to Berlin during its occupancy by the French, conceiving 
 it to be his duty to submit to every privation and discom- 
 fort rather than give an indirect sanction to the presence 
 of the enemy by sitting down quietly under their rule, 
 although he could now do so with perfect safety to him- 
 self. " Such a return," he says, " would stand in direct
 
 124 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 contradiction to the declarations made in my address to 
 the King, of which address my present circumstances are 
 the result. And if no other keep me to my word, it is so 
 much more my duty to hold myself to it. It is precisely 
 when other scholars of note in our country are wavering, 
 that he who has hitherto been true should stand the 
 firmer in his uprightness." 
 
 During his residence in Konigsberg, he renewed many 
 of the friendships which he had formed there in early life, 
 and he now sought to add to his comfort by the removal 
 of his wife and child from Berlin. This plan was frus- 
 trated by a dangerous illness by which his wife was 
 overtaken, and which is referred to in the following ex- 
 tracts from letters written at this time : 
 
 " Yesterday I received the intelligence of thy illness. 
 Thy few lines have drawn from me tears, I know not 
 whether of grief, joy, or love. How blind we are ! I have 
 dreaded everything but this. Naturally thou canst not 
 have fallen into serious illness ; something extraordinary 
 must have befallen thee. I hoped that thou wouldst have 
 borne our short separation well, especially on account of 
 the duties laid upon thee. I recommended these thoughts 
 to thee at parting, and I have, since then, enforced them 
 by letters. Strong souls, and thou art no weak one, 
 make themselves stronger thus : and yet ! 
 
 " Yet think not, dearest, that I would chide about thy 
 illness. Rather, in faith and trust, do I already receive 
 thee into my arms, as if thou wert really present, a new 
 gift given unto me, with even added value. Thou wert 
 recovering, although thy lines are feeble ; at least I trust 
 to thy own assurance rather than to that of friends who 
 would reach me the cup of despondency in measured 
 doses. Thou knowest me ; thou knowest that untruth 
 does not suit me ; thou wilt continue truthful towards 
 me. This letter will find thee living and in health."
 
 RESIDENCE AT KONIGSBERG. 125 
 
 " One passage of Bernhardi's letter has deeply touched 
 me ; that where he speaks of our Hermann. Let the 
 boy be pure and noble, (and why should he not, since he 
 has certainly not one drop of false blood from thee, and I 
 know that there is no such thing in me which he could 
 inherit ?) and let him learn what he can. If I but had 
 you both, you who are my riches, in my arms again, 
 that I might try whether I could improve the treasure ! 
 Live thou to love me and thy boy ; I and he, if he has a 
 drop of my blood in his veins, will try to recompense thee 
 for it." 
 
 * # * # * 
 
 " Again, thou dear one, had I to struggle against the 
 anguish which secretly assailed me because I had no 
 tidings of thee yesterday, when I received your letter of 
 the 15th, delayed probably in its transmission. God be 
 praised that your recovery goes on well ! You receive now 
 regular and good news from me ; oar friend also must 
 now have been with thee for a long time ; and when you 
 receive this letter you will probably find yourself enabled 
 to prepare for your journey to me. You will, indeed, cer- 
 tainly not receive it before the close of this so sorrowful 
 year. God grant to thee, and to all brave hearts who 
 
 deserve it, a better new one ! " 
 
 # # * # # 
 
 " Do not come here, but stay where thou art, for I am very 
 dissatisfied here, and with good grounds ; and if, as seems 
 probable, a favourable change of affairs should take place, 
 I shall endeavour to return to my old quarters, and so be 
 with you again. This was the meaning of what I wrote 
 to you in my last letter, but I had not then come to a 
 settled resolution about it. 
 
 " Live in health and peace, and in hope of better times, 
 as I do. I bless thee from my inmost heart, am with 
 thee in spirit, and rejoice in the happy anticipation of 
 seeing thee again. Ever thine."
 
 126 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 The hopes which were founded on the result of the 
 battle of Eylau (8th February 1807), and which seem to 
 be referred to in the preceding letter, were speedily dis- 
 pelled ; and the subsequent progress of the war rendered 
 Fichte's residence at Konigsberg no longer safe or de- 
 sirable. His communications with his family had also 
 become very irregular and uncertain. He consequently 
 determined on a removal to Copenhagen, there to await 
 the termination of the war. He left Konigsberg in the 
 beginning of June, and, after a short stay at Memel, 
 arrived at the Danish capital about the middle of the 
 following month. The impossibility of engaging in any 
 continuous occupation during this period of uncertainty 
 and hazard seems to have exposed him, as well as his 
 family, to considerable pecuniary difficulties and priva- 
 tions. On the other hand, his unswerving devotion to 
 his country, and the sacrifices he had cheerfully made for 
 her sake, had gained for him the sincere esteem of the 
 Prussian Government, and no inconsiderable influence 
 in its counsels. At the end of August 1807 peace was 
 concluded, and Fichte returned to his family after a sepa- 
 ration of nearly a year. 
 
 With the return of peace, the Prussian Government 
 determined to repair the loss of political importance by 
 fostering among its citizens the desire of intellectual dis- 
 tinction and the love of free speculation. It seemed to 
 the eminent men who then stood around the throne of 
 Frederick-William, that the temple of German indepen- 
 dence had now to be rebuilt from its foundations ; that 
 the old stock of liberty having withered, or been swept 
 away in the tornado which had just passed over their 
 heads, a new growth must take its place, springing from a 
 deeper root and quickened by a fresher stream. One of 
 the first means which suggested itself for the attainment 
 of this purpose, was the establishment at Berlin of a new
 
 PLAN OF NEW UNIVERSITY. 127 
 
 school of higher education, free from the imperfections of 
 the old Universities, from which, as from the spiritual 
 heart of the community, a current of life and energy 
 might be poured forth through all its members. Fichte 
 was chosen by the Minister as the man before all others 
 fitted for this task, and unlimited power was given him to 
 frame for the new University a constitution which should 
 ensure its efficiency and success. No employment could 
 have been more congenial to Fichte's inclinations : it 
 presented him at last with the long-wished-for opportunity 
 of developing a systematic plan of human instruction, 
 founded on the spiritual nature of man. He entered with 
 ardour upon the undertaking, and towards the end of 1807 
 his plan was completed and laid before the Minister. Its 
 chief feature was perfect unity of purpose, complete subor- 
 dination of every branch of instruction to the one great 
 object of all teaching, not the inculcation of opinion, but 
 the spiritual culture and elevation of the student. The 
 institution was to be an organic whole ; an assemblage, 
 not of mere teachers holding various and perhaps opposite 
 views, and living only to disseminate these, but of men 
 animated by a common purpose, and steadily pursuing 
 one recognised object. The office of the Professor was 
 not to repeat verbally what already stood printed in books, 
 and might be found there; but to exercise a diligent 
 supervision over the studies of the pupil, and to see that 
 he fully acquired by his own effort, as a personal and in- 
 dependent possession, the branch of knowledge which was 
 the object of his studies. It was thus a school for the scien- 
 tific use of the understanding , in which positive or histori- 
 cal knowledge was to be looked upon only as a vehicle of 
 instruction, not as an ultimate end : spiritual indepen- 
 dence, intellectual strength, moral dignity, these were 
 the great ends to the attainment of which everything else 
 was but the instrument. The plan met with distinguished 
 approbation from the Minister to whom it was presented ;
 
 128 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 and if, when the University was actually established some 
 time afterwards, the ordinary and more easily fulfilled 
 constitution of such schools was followed, it is to be attri- 
 buted to the management of the undertaking having 
 passed into other hands, and to the difficulty of finding 
 teachers who would cooperate in the accomplishment or 
 the scheme. 
 
 But the misfortunes of his country induced Fichte to 
 make a yet more direct attempt to rouse the fallen spirit 
 of liberty, and once more to awaken in the hearts of his 
 countrymen the love of independence which now lay 
 crushed beneath a foreign yoke. Prussia was the last 
 forlorn hope of German freedom, and it now seemed to 
 lie wholly at the mercy of the conqueror. The native 
 government could be little else than a mockery while the 
 capital of the country was still occupied by the French 
 troops. The invaders were under the command of Marshal 
 Davoust, a man especially noted for harshness and even 
 cruelty ; and Fichte was well aware of the dangers atten- 
 ding any open attempt to excite opposition to the enemy. 
 But he was not accustomed to weigh danger against duty ; 
 with him there was but short pause between conviction 
 and action. " The sole question," said he to himself, " is 
 this : canst thou hope that the good to be attained is 
 greater than the danger ? The good is the re-awakening 
 and elevation of the people ; against which my personal 
 danger is not to be reckoned, but for which it may rather 
 be most advantageously incurred. My family and my 
 son shall not want the support of the nation, the least 
 of the advantages of having a martyr for their parent. 
 This is the best choice. I could not devote my life to a 
 better end." 
 
 Thus heroically resolved that he, at least, should not be 
 wanting in his duty to his fatherland, he delivered his 
 celebrated " Reden an die Deutschen" (Addresses to the
 
 "REDEN AN DIE DEUTSCHEN." 129 
 
 German People} in the academical buildings in Berlin 
 during the winter 1807-8. His voice was often drowned 
 by the trumpets of the French troops, and well-known 
 spies frequently made their appearance among his audi- 
 tory ; but he continued, undismayed, to direct all the 
 fervour of his eloquence against the despotism of Na- 
 poleon, and the system of spoiling and oppression under 
 which his country groaned. It is somewhat singular that, 
 while Davoust threatened the chief literary men of Berlin 
 with vengeance if they should either speak or write upon 
 the political state of Germany, Fichte should have re- 
 mained unmolested the only one who did speak out, 
 openly and fearlessly, against the foreign yoke. 
 
 The " Reden an die Deutschen " belong to the history 
 of Germany, and in its literary annals they are well en- 
 titled to a distinguished and honourable place. Among 
 the many striking phenomena of that eventful period 
 there is none that exceeds in real interest and instruc- 
 tiveness this one of a literary man, single-handed and 
 surrounded by foreign troops, setting before him, as a duty 
 which he of all others was called upon to fulfil, the task of 
 a people's regeneration. Uniting the patriot's enthusiasm 
 with the prophet's inspiration, Fichte raised a voice whose 
 echoes rang through every corner of Germany, and sum- 
 moned to the rescue of his country all that remained of 
 nobleness and devotion among her sons. It was to no 
 mere display of military glory that he roused and directed 
 their efforts : he sought to erect the structure of his 
 country's future welfare and fame on a far deeper and 
 surer foundation. In strains of the most fervid and im- 
 passioned eloquence he pointed out the true remedies for 
 the national degradation, the culture of moral dignity, 
 spiritual freedom, and independence. In these Addresses 
 he first announced the plan and delineated all the chief 
 features of that celebrated system of Public Education 
 which has since conferred such inestimable benefits on 
 
 B
 
 130 MEMOIR OF FICHTK. 
 
 Prussia, and raised her, in this respect, to a proud pre- 
 eminence among the nations of Europe.* Never were a 
 
 * " Fichte may thus be regarded as the originator of the well-known 
 Prussian system of education. Baron von Stein, the great Minister of 
 Prussia at this time, no doubt took the first steps towards its practical 
 realization ; but it is not the less true that to Fichte belongs the honour 
 of having been the first to give utterance to the great idea of a common Edu- 
 cation as the basis of a common Nationality among the German People. 
 This noble scheme~ of national regeneration, which has since borne such 
 wonderful fruit, is comprehensively set forth in the " Reden an die Deut- 
 Bchen." In later times, Germany has not been forgetful of those who thus, 
 in evil days, laid the foundations of her future unity and greatness. On 
 the Centenary of Fichte's birth, 19th May 1862, a Festival was celebrated 
 at Berlin, under the auspices of the National Verein, in honour of his 
 memory. The Times' correspondent, writing the following day, says : 
 ' Yesterday morning, very early, a great number of Fichte's admirers 
 assembled at his grave in the old Dorotheenstadt churchyard outside the 
 Oranienburg gate. The place had been put in order, the monument re- 
 paired, the grave decked with flowers and garlands. They sang there the 
 first verse of the fine old chorale Eiri feste Burg ist unser Gott, and a 
 clergyman delivered an appropriate discourse. The house on the New 
 Promenade, in which Fichte lived for many years, was decorated by the 
 care of the committee'for the celebration of the anniversary, with wreaths 
 and laurels, and with draperies of black, red, and gold, and of black and 
 white, the German and Prussian colours. A memorial slab was also set 
 up against it a temporary one to be presently replaced by one of marble. 
 At the Universitj', Professor Trendelenburg made an excellent speech. 
 Fichte was the first rector of this University. From him, his eulogist 
 said, it had inherited the obligation to defend independence of thought 
 and opinion. The Crown Prince was present at the speech, and after- 
 wards complimented Trendelenburg upon it. The students, the workmen, 
 and various other corporations celebrated the day ; but its most remark- 
 able feature was unquestionably the grand ceremony at the Victoria 
 Theatre, got up by the National Verein. The spacious stage, common to 
 both the summer and the winter theatre, was completely cleared. In the 
 centre of this platform, was a truncated column supporting a colossal bust 
 of Fichte. Behind and on either side of this was a numerous band of 
 chorus singers, and, behind them, some instrumentalists. At its foot 
 was a slightly-raised standing-place for the speakers. Dr. Veit, president 
 of the committee, opened the proceedings in a short speech. M. Berthold 
 Auerbach, better known as a literary man than as a politician, read a well- 
 composed sketch of Fichte's life. Deputy Franz Duncker read some very 
 interesting personal sketches and incidents, furnished by one of Fichte'8 
 oldest friends and disciples. Dr. Loewe made a long speech, referring to 
 the tendency of his writings, and chiefly of a political character, With a 
 few more remarks from the President, and another chorus by the singers,
 
 "REDEN AN DIE DEUTSCHEN." 131 
 
 people called upon to arouse themselves to a nobler en- 
 terprize, and never was such a summons pealed forth in 
 tones of more manly and spirit-stirring energy. The last 
 Address is a noble appeal to all ranks and conditions of 
 society in Germany to unite, heart and hand, in forward- 
 ing the great work of national regeneration. We quote 
 the peroration : 
 
 " In these addresses the memory of your forefathers 
 pleads with you. Think that with my voice there are 
 mingled the voices of your ancestors from the far-off ages 
 of gray antiquity, of those who stemmed with their own 
 bodies the tide of Roman domination over the world, who 
 vindicated with their own blood the independence of those 
 mountains, plains, and streams, which ye have suffered to 
 fall a prey to the stranger. They call to you, 'Take 
 ' ye our place ! hand down our memory to future ages, 
 ' honourable and spotless as it has come down to you, 
 ' as you have gloried in it and in your descent from us. 
 ' Hitherto our struggle has been deemed noble, great, and 
 ' wise ; we have been looked upon as the consecrated and 
 ' inspired ones of a Divine World-Plan. Should our work 
 ' perish with you, then will our honour be changed into 
 ' dishonour, our wisdom into folly. For if our race were 
 ' ever to be swallowed up by the Empire, then it had 
 ' been better to have fallen before the elder Romans than 
 ' before these modern usurpers. We withstood those and 
 ' triumphed ; these have scattered you like chaff before 
 ' them. But, as it is now with you, seek not to conquer 
 
 an evening terminated which was remarkable for the excellence of its ar- 
 rangements, and for the gratification it apparently afforded to all present." 
 
 On the same day a granite column erected in honour of Fichte, at 
 
 his native village of Rammenau, and bearing four marble slabs with 
 appropriate inscriptions, was inaugurated by a public ceremony. Ten 
 years later, a memorial to Baron Stein, erected at Nassau, his birth-place, 
 in acknowledgment of the debt which Prussia owes to him, was unveiled 
 on 9th'July 1872, in presence of the Emperor, Empress, and Prince Imperial 
 of Germany.
 
 132 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 ' with bodily weapons, but stand firm and erect before 
 ' them in spiritual dignity. Yours is the greater destiny, 
 ' to found an empire of Mind and Reason, to destroy 
 ' the dominion of rude physical power as the ruler of the 
 ' world. Do this, and ye shall be worthy of your descent 
 ' from us ! ' 
 
 " With these voices mingle the spirits of your later 
 forefathers, of those who fell in the sacred struggle for 
 freedom of Religion and of Faith : ' Save our honour too!' 
 they call. ' To us it had not become wholly clear what it 
 ' was we fought for ; besides our just determination to 
 ' suffer no outward power to rule over us in matters of 
 ' conscience, we were also led onward by a higher spirit 
 ' which never wholly unveiled itself to our view. To you 
 ' this spirit is no longer veiled ; if your power of vision 
 ' transcend the things of sense it now regards you with 
 ' high, clear aspect. The motley and confused intermix- 
 ' ture of sensuous and spiritual impulses shall no longer 
 ' rule the world : mind alone, freed from sensuous impulse, 
 ' shall assume the guidance of human affairs. That this 
 ' spirit might have liberty to develope itself, and rise to 
 ' independent existence, our blood was shed. It lies with 
 ' you to give a meaning and a justification to the sacrifice 
 ' by establishing this spirit in its destined supremacy. 
 ' Should this result not be achieved as the outcome of all 
 ' the previous development of our nation, then were our 
 1 struggle but a vain and empty farce, and the freedom 
 ' of mind and conscience for which we fought an idle word, 
 ' since neither mind nor conscience should any longer have 
 ' a place among us.' 
 
 " The races yet unborn plead with you : ' You were 
 ' proud of your forefathers,' they cry, ' and gloried in your 
 ' descent from a noble line of men. See that with you 
 ' the chain is not broken ; act so that we also may be 
 ' proud of you, and through you, as through a spotless 
 ' medium, claim our descent from the same glorious source.
 
 " REDEN AN DIE DEUTSCHEN." 133 
 
 ' Be not ye the cause of our being ashamed of our ancestry 
 ' as mean, barbarous, and slavish ; of making us hide our 
 ' origin, or assume a foreign name and a foreign parentage, 
 ' in order that we may not, without a trial, be cast aside 
 ' and trodden underfoot. According as the generations 
 ' which proceed from you shall be, so shall be your future 
 ' fame : honourable if these shall bear honourable witness 
 ' to you ; deservedly ignominious if ye have no audible 
 ' posterity to succeed you, but leave it to the conqueror 
 ' to write your history. Never has a victor been known 
 ' to have either the wish, or even the means, of passing a 
 'just judgment on the subdued. The more he degrades 
 ' them, the better does he justify his own position. Who 
 ' can know what great deeds, what excellent institutions, 
 ' what noble manners, of many nations of antiquity may 
 ' have passed away into oblivion, because their succeeding 
 ' generations have been enslaved, and have left the con- 
 ' queror, in his own way, and without contradiction, to tell 
 their story ? ' 
 
 " Even the stranger in foreign lands pleads with you, 
 in so far as he understands himself and knows aright his 
 own true interest. Yes ! there are in every nation minds 
 who can never believe that the great promises to the 
 human race of a reign of Law, of Reason, and of Truth, are 
 idle and vain delusions, and who consequently cherish the 
 conviction that the present iron-handed time is but a stage 
 of progress towards a better state. These, and with them 
 the whole later races of humanity, place their trust in you. 
 Part of these trace their lineage from us ; others have re- 
 ceived from us religion and all other culture. Those plead 
 with us, by the common soil of our Fatherland, the cradle 
 of their infancy, which they have left to us free, these 
 by the culture which they have accepted from us as the 
 pledge of a higher good, to maintain, for their sakes, 
 the proud position which has hitherto been ours, to guard 
 with jealous watchfulness against even the possible disap-
 
 134 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 pearance, from the confederation of a newly-arisen hu- 
 manity, of that member which is to them more impor- 
 tant than all others ; so that when they shall need our 
 counsel, our example, our cooperation in the pursuit aud 
 attainment of the true end of this Earthly Life, they shall 
 not look around for us in vain. 
 
 " All Ages, all the Wise and Good who have ever 
 breathed the air of this world of ours, all their thoughts 
 and aspirations towards a Higher Good, mingle with 
 these voices, and encompass you about, and raise suppli- 
 cating hands towards you ; Providence itself, if we may 
 venture so to speak, and the Divine Plan in the creation 
 of a Human race, which indeed exists only that it may 
 be understood of men, and by men be wrought out into 
 reality, plead with you to save their honour and their 
 existence. Whether those who have believed that Hu- 
 manity must ever advance in a course of ceaseless improve- 
 ment, and that the great ideas of its order and dignity 
 were not empty dreams, but the prophetic announcement 
 and pledge of their own future realization ; whether those 
 have been right or they who have slumbered on in the 
 sluggish indolence of a mere vegetable or animal existence, 
 and mocked every aspiration towards a higher world, 
 this is the question to which it has fallen to your lot to 
 furnish a last and decisive answer. The ancient world, 
 with all its nobility and greatness, as well as all its short- 
 comings, has fallen, through its own unworthiness and 
 the might of your forefathers. If there has been truth in 
 what I have spoken to you in these Addresses, then it is 
 you to whom, out of all other modern nations, the germs 
 of human perfection are especially committed, and to 
 whom the foremost place in the onward advance towards 
 their development is assigned. If you fail in this your 
 especial office, then with you all the hopes of Humanity for 
 salvation out of the abyss of evil are likewise overthrown. 
 Hope not, console not yourselves with the vain delusion,
 
 SERIOUS ILLNESS. 135 
 
 that a second time, after the fall of an ancient civili- 
 zation, a new culture will arise upon the ruins ^of the 
 old, from a half-barbaric people. In ancient times, such 
 a people existed fully provided with all the requisites for 
 this mission ; that people was well known to the cultivated 
 nation and is described in its literature ; and that nation 
 itself, had it been able to suppose the case of its own down- 
 fall, might have foreseen and recognised the instrument 
 of renovation. To us also the whole surface of the earth 
 is well known, and all the nations who dwell upon it. Do 
 we know one, like the ancestral tribe of modern Europe, 
 of whom like hopes may be entertained ? I think that 
 every man who does not give himself up to visionary hopes 
 and fancies, but desires only honest and searching inquiry, 
 must answer this question No ! There is, then, no way 
 of escape : if you sink, Humanity sinks with you, with- 
 out hope of future restoration ! " 
 
 This spirit-stirring course of public activity was in- 
 terrupted by a severe illness, which attacked the eager 
 worker in the spring of 1808. It was his first illness, and 
 it took so determined a hold of his powerful constitution, 
 that he never thoroughly got rid of its effects. Deep- 
 seated nervous disease, and particularly an affection of 
 the liver, reduced him to great weakness, and for a time 
 it seemed doubtful whether his life could be saved. It 
 was only after some months of suffering that the disease 
 settled down upon a particular limb, and left him with a 
 rheumatic lameness of the left arm and right foot, which, 
 with an accompanying inflammation in the eyes, hindered 
 him for a long time from resuming his habits of active 
 life. He was removed several times to the baths of Tep- 
 litz with beneficial effect. The tedium of convalescence 
 was relieved by study of the great authors of Italy, Spain, 
 and Portugal. At an earlier period of his life he had 
 made himself acquainted with the languages of these
 
 136 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 countries, and had produced many translations from their 
 poets, particularly an entire version of the first canto of 
 Dante's Divina Commedia,* and one of the most beautiful 
 episodes in the Lusiad of Camoens. And now, in the sea- 
 son of debility and pain, the noble thoughts handed down 
 by the great poets of the south as an everlasting possession 
 to the world, became to him the springs of new strength 
 and dignity. Nor did he cease altogether from literary 
 work. During his confinement he undertook a thorough 
 revision of his philosophical lectures, and made extensive 
 preparation for his future academical labours. Much of 
 his time, too, was occupied in the education of his only 
 son, who speaks with deep reverence and thankfulness 
 of the instructions thus imparted to him. Amongst his 
 letters written during his sickness, we find a touching cor- 
 respondence with Ernst Wagner, a true and warm-hearted 
 friend of his country and of all good men, but whose spirit 
 was crushed almost to hopelessness by the pressure of 
 disease and penury. To him Fichte found means of af- 
 fording such relief and encouragement as prolonged, for 
 some short period at least, a valuable and upright life. 
 
 Of his domestic life during this period, and the manner 
 in which it too bore the impress of his high soul-elevating 
 philosophy, we obtain from his son the following interest- 
 ing and instructive glimpse : " We had a family meeting 
 for worship every evening, which closed the day worthily 
 and solemnly ; in this the domestics also were accustomed 
 to take a part. When some verses of a chorale had been 
 sung to the accompaniment of the piano, my father began, 
 and discoursed upon a passage or chapter of the New Tes- 
 tament, especially from his favourite Evangelist John ; or, 
 when particular household circumstances gave occasion 
 for it, he spoke also a word of reproof or of comfort. But, 
 as far as I remember, he never made use of ordinary prac- 
 
 Printed in the " Vesta" for 1807.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN. 137 
 
 tical applications of his subject, or laid down preceptive 
 regulations for conduct ; the tendency of his teaching 
 appeared rather to be to purify the spirit from the dis- 
 tractions and vanities of common life, and to elevate it to 
 the Imperishable and Eternal." So truly was his life, in 
 all its relations, the faithful counterpart of the noble doc- 
 trine which he taught. 
 
 On Fichte's return to active life he found himself 
 placed, almost at once, in a position from which he could 
 influence in no slight degree the destinies of his fatherland. 
 Doubts had arisen as to the propriety of placing the new 
 University in a large city like Berlin. It was urged that 
 the metropolis presented too many temptations to idle- 
 ness and dissipation to render it an eligible situation for 
 a seminary devoted to the education of young men. This 
 was the view entertained by the Minister Stein, but warm- 
 ly combated by Wolff, Fichte, and others. Stein was 
 at length won over, and the University was opened in 
 1810. The King gave one of the finest palaces in Berlin 
 for the purpose, and all the appliances of mental culture 
 were provided on the most liberal scale. Learned men of 
 the greatest eminence in their respective departments 
 were invited from all quarters, Wolff, Fichte, Muller, 
 Humboldt, Eichhorn, De Wette, Schleiermacher, Neander, 
 Klaproth, and Savigny, higher names than these cannot 
 easily be found in their peculiar walks of literature and 
 science. By the suffrages of his fellow-teachers, Fichte 
 was unanimously elected Rector. 
 
 Thus placed at the head of an institution from which 
 so much was expected, Fichte laboured unceasingly to 
 establish a high tone of morality in the new University, 
 convinced that thereby he should best promote the dignity 
 as well as the welfare of his country. His .dearest wish was / 
 to see Germany free, free alike from foreign oppression i 
 and from internal reproach. He longed to see the stern 
 
 s
 
 138 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 sublimity of old Greek citizenship reappear among a people 
 whom the conquerors of Greece had failed to subdue. And 
 therefore it was before all things necessary that they who 
 were to go forth as the apostles of truth and virtue, who 
 were to be the future representatives among the people 
 of all that is dignified and sacred, should themselves be 
 deeply impressed with the high nature of their calling, 
 and keep unsullied the honour which must guide and 
 guard them in the discharge of its duties. He therefore 
 applied himself to the reformation of such features in the 
 student-life as seemed irreconcilable with its nobleness, 
 to the suppression of the Landsmannschaften, and of the 
 practice of duelling. Courts of honour, composed of the 
 students themselves, decided upon all such quarrels as 
 had usually led to personal encounters. During his two 
 years' rectorship, Fichte laboured with unremitting perse- 
 verance to render the University in every respect worthy 
 of the great purposes which had called it into existence, 
 and laid the foundation of the character which it still 
 maintains, of being the best-regulated, as well as one of 
 the most efficient, schools in Germany. 
 
 The year 1812 was an important one for Europe, and 
 particularly for Germany. The gigantic power of Na- 
 poleon had now reached its culminating point. Joseph 
 Bonaparte reigned at Madrid, and Murat at Naples ; 
 Austria was subdued, and the fair daughter of the House 
 of Hapsburg had united her fate to that of the conqueror 
 of her race ; Prussia lay at his mercy ; Holland and 
 the Free Towns were annexed to the territory of France, 
 which now extended from Sicily to Denmark. One thing 
 alone was wanting to make him sole master of the conti- 
 nent of Europe, and that was the conquest of Russia. His 
 passion for universal dominion led him into the great mili- 
 tary error of his life, the attempt to conquer a country 
 defended by its climate against foreign invasion, and
 
 WAR OF LIBERATION. 139 
 
 which, even if subdued, could never have been retained. 
 Followed by a retributive nemesis, he rushed on to the 
 fate which sooner or later awaits unbridled ambition. 
 The immense armies of France were poured through Ger- 
 many upon the North, to find a grave amid the snows of 
 Smolensk and in the waters of the Berezina. 
 
 And now Prussia resolved to make a decisive effort to 
 throw off a yoke which bad always been hateful to her. 
 The charm was now broken which made men look on the 
 might of Napoleon as invincible ; the unconquerable bat- 
 talions had been routed ; fortune had turned against her 
 former favourite. The King entered into an alliance with 
 the Russian Emperor, and in January 1813, having re- 
 tired from Berlin to Breslau, he sent forth a proclamation 
 calling upon the youth of the country to arm themselves 
 in defence of its liberty. The appeal was nobly respon- 
 ded to. The nation rose as one man ; all distinctions of 
 rank or station were forgotten in the high enthusiasm of 
 the time ; prince and peasant, teacher and scholar, artizan 
 and merchant, poet and philosopher, swelled the ranks of 
 the army of liberation. 
 
 Fichte now renewed his former application to be permit- 
 ted to accompany the troops in the capacity of preacher 
 or orator, that he might share their dangers and animate 
 their courage. Difficulties, however, arose in the way of 
 this arrangement, and he resolved to remain at his post 
 in Berlin, and to continue his lectures until he and his 
 scholars should be called personally to the defence of their 
 country. The other professors united with him in a com- 
 mon agreement that the widows and children of such of 
 their number as fell in the war should be provided for by 
 the cares of the survivors. It is worthy of remark, that 
 amid this eager enthusiasm Fichte resolutely opposed the 
 adoption of any proceedings against the enemy which 
 might cast dishonour on the sacred cause of Freedom. 
 While a French garrison still held Berlin, one of his
 
 140 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 students revealed to him a plan, in which the informant 
 was himself engaged, for firing the French magazine during 
 the night. Doubts had arisen in his mind as to the law- 
 fulness of such a mode of aiding his country's cause, and 
 he had resolved to lay the scheme before the teacher for 
 whose opinion he entertained an almost unbounded re- 
 verence. Fichte immediately disclosed the plot to the 
 superintendent of police, by whose timely interference it 
 was defeated. The same young man, who had acted so 
 honourably on this occasion, afterwards entered the army 
 as a volunteer in one of the grenadier battalions. At 
 the battle of Dennewitz his life was preserved in a very 
 remarkable manner. A musket ball, which struck him 
 during the fight, was arrested in its fatal progress by en- 
 countering a copy of Fichte's " Religionslehre," his constant 
 companion and moral safeguard, which on this occasion 
 served him likewise as a physical ^Egidus. On examining 
 the book, he found that the ball had been stopped at 
 these words (Lecture VIII) " denn alles was da kommt 
 ist der Wille Gottes mit ihm, und drum das Allerbeste 
 was da kommen konnte." (for everything that comes to 
 pass is the Will of God with him, and therefore the best 
 that can possibly come to pass."*) 
 
 During the summer of 1813, Fichte delivered from the 
 Academical chair in Berlin a course of lectures " Ueber das 
 Verhaltniss des Urstaates zum Vernunftreiche " ( On the re- 
 lation of the Primitive to the Ideal State), which afterwards 
 appeared as a posthumous publication in 1820 under the 
 title of " Die Staatslehre." In these lectures he set forth 
 those views of the existing circumstances of his country, 
 and of the war in which it was engaged, which he was pre- 
 vented from communicating to the army directly. One i 
 of them bore the title of " Ueber den Begriff des wahren 
 Kriegs " (On the Idea of a true War.) With a clearness 
 and energy of thought which seemed to increase with
 
 WAR OF LIBERATION. 141 
 
 the difficulties and dangers of his country, he roused an 
 irresistible opposition to the proposals for peace which, 
 through the mediation of Austria, were offered during the 
 armistice in June and July. The demands of Napoleon 
 left Germany only a nominal independence ; a brave and 
 earnest people sought for true freedom. " A stout heart 
 and no peace," was Fichte's motto, and, fortunately for 
 Germany and for the world, his countrymen agreed with 
 him. Hostilities were recommenced in August 1813. 
 
 In the beginning of the winter half-year, Fichte resumed 
 his philosophical prelections at the University. His sub- 
 ject was an introduction to philosophy upon an entirely 
 new plan, which should render a knowledge of his whole 
 system much more easily attainable. It is said that this, 
 his last course of academical lectures, was distinguished 
 by unusual freshness and brilliancy of thought, as if he 
 were animated once more by the energy of youthful enthu- 
 siasm, even while he stood, unconsciously, on the threshold 
 of another world.* He had now accomplished the great 
 object of his life, the completion, in his own mind, of 
 that scheme of knowledge by which his name was to be 
 known to posterity. Existing in his own thought as one 
 clear and comprehensive whole, he believed that he could 
 now communicate it to others in a simpler and more intel- 
 ligible form than it had yet assumed. It was his intention 
 to devote the following summer to this purpose, and, in 
 the solitude of some country retreat, to prepare a finished 
 record of his philosophy in its maturity and completeness. 
 But fate had ordered otherwise. 
 
 The vicinity of Berlin to the seat of the great struggle 
 on which the liberties of Germany were depending ren- 
 dered it the most eligible place for the reception of the 
 
 * The substance of the Lectures of 1812 and 1813 was afterwards em- 
 braced in the collections of posthumous writings published at Berlin in 
 1820 and at Bonn in 1824.
 
 142 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 wounded and diseased. The hospitals of the city were 
 crowded, and the ordinary attendants of these establish- 
 ments were found insufficient in number to supply the 
 wants of the patients. The authorities therefore called 
 upon the inhabitants for their assistance, and Fichte's 
 wife was one of the first who responded to the call. The 
 noble and generous disposition which had rendered her the 
 worthy companion of the philosopher, now led her forth, 
 regardless of danger, to give all her powers to woman's 
 holiest ministry. Not only did she labour with unwearied 
 assiduity to assuage the bodily sufferings of the wounded, 
 and to surround them with every comfort which their 
 situation required and which she had the power to supply ; 
 she likewise poured words of consolation into many a 
 breaking heart, and awakened new strength and faithful- 
 ness in those who were " ready to perish." 
 
 For five months she pursued with uninterrupted devo- 
 tion her attendance at the hospitals, and although not 
 naturally of a strong constitution, she escaped the con- 
 tagion which surrounded her. But on the 3d of January 
 1814 she was seized with a nervous fever, which speedily 
 rose to an alarming height, so that almost every hope of 
 her recovery was lost. Fichte's affection never suffered 
 him to leave her side, except during the time of his lec- 
 tures. It is an astonishing proof of his self-command that, 
 after a day of anxious watching at the deathbed, as it 
 seemed, of her he held dearest on earth, he should be able 
 to address his class in the evening, for two consecutive 
 hours, on the most profound and abstract subjects of hu- 
 man speculation, uncertain whether, on his return, he 
 might find that loved one still alive. At length the crisis 
 of the fever was past, and Fichte received again the faith- 
 ful partner of his cares rescued from the grave. 
 
 But even in this season of joy, in the embrace of gratu- 
 lation he received the seeds of death. Scarcely was his 
 wife pronounced out of danger when he himself caught
 
 LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH. 143 
 
 the infection and was attacked by the insidious disease. 
 Its first symptom was nervous sleeplesness, which resis- 
 ted the effects of baths and the other usual remedies. 
 Soon, however, the true nature of the malady was no 
 longer doubtful, and during the rapid progress of his ill- 
 ness, his lucid moments became shorter and less frequent. 
 In one of these he was told of Blucher's passage of the 
 Rhine, and the final expulsion of the French from Ger- 
 many. That spirit-stirring information touched a chord 
 which roused him from his unconsciousness, and he awoke 
 to a bright and glorious vision of a better future for his 
 fatherland. The triumphant excitement mingled itself 
 with his fevered fancies : he imagined himself in the 
 midst of the victorious struggle, striking for the liberties 
 of Germany; and then again it was against his own disease 
 that he fought, and power of will and firm determination 
 were the arms by which he was to conquer it. Shortly be- 
 fore his death, when his son approached him with medi- 
 cine, he said, with his usual look of deep affection " Leave 
 it alone ; I need no more medicine : I feel that I am well" 
 On the eleventh day of his illness, on the night of the 
 27th January 1814, he died. The last hours of his life 
 were passed in deep and unbroken sleep. 
 
 Fichte died in his fifty-second year, with his bodily and 
 mental faculties unimpaired by age ; scarcely a grey hair 
 shaded the deep black upon his bold and erect head. In 
 stature he was low, but powerful and muscular. His step 
 was firm, and his whole appearance and address bespoke 
 the rectitude, firmness, and earnestness of his character. 
 
 His widow survived him for five years. By the kindness 
 of the monarch she was enabled to pass the remainder of 
 her life in ease and competence, devoting herself to the 
 superintendence of her son's education. She died on the 
 29th January 1819, after an illness of seven days.
 
 144 MEMOIR OF FICHTE. 
 
 Fichte died as he bad lived, the priest of knowledge, 
 the apostle of freedom, the martyr of humanity. He belongs 
 to those Great Men whose lives are an everlasting pos- 
 session to mankind, and whose words the world does not 
 willingly let die. His character stands written in his life, 
 a massive but severely simple whole. It has no parts ; 
 the depth and earnestness on which it rests, speak forth 
 alike in his thoughts, words, and actions. No man of 
 his time few perhaps of any time exercised a more 
 powerful, spirit-stirring influence over the minds of his fel- 
 low-countrymen. The impulse which he communicated 
 to the national thought extended far beyond the sphere 
 of his personal influence ; it has awakened, it will still 
 awaken, high emotion and manly resolution in thousands 
 who never heard his voice. The ceaseless effort of his 
 life was to rouse men to a sense of the divinity of their 
 own nature ; to fix their thoughts upon a spiritual life 
 as the only true and real life ; to teach them to look 
 upon all else as mere show and unreality ; and thus to 
 lead them to constant effort after the highest Ideal of 
 purity, virtue, independence, and self-denial. To this en- 
 nobling enterprise he consecrated his being ; to it he 
 devoted his gigantic powers of thought, his iron will, his 
 resistless eloquence. But he taught it also in deeds more 
 eloquent than words. In the strong reality of his life, 
 in his intense love for all things beautiful and true, 
 in his incorruptible integrity and heroic devotion to the 
 right, we see a living manifestation of his principles. His 
 life is the true counterpart of his philosophy ; it is that 
 of a strong, free, incorruptible man. And with all the 
 sternness of his morality, he is full of gentle and generous 
 sentiments ; of deep, overflowing sympathies. No tone of 
 love, no soft breathing of tenderness, fall unheeded on 
 that high royal soul, but in its calm sublimity find a wel- 
 come and a home. Even his hatred is the offspring of a 
 higher love. Truly indeed has he been described by one
 
 ESTIMATE OF HIS CHAKACTEB. 145 
 
 of our own country's brightest ornaments as a " colossal, 
 adamantine spirit, standing erect and clear, like a Cato 
 Major among degenerate men ; fit to have been the 
 teacher of the Stoa, and to have discoursed of beauty and 
 virtue in the groves of Academe." But the sublimity of 
 his intellect casts no shade on the soft current of his 
 affections, which flows, pure and unbroken, through the 
 whole course of his life, to enrich, fertilize, and adorn it. 
 In no other man of modern times do we find the stern 
 grandeur of ancient virtue so blended with the kindlier 
 humanities of our nature which flourish best under a 
 gentler civilization. We prize his philosophy deeply, it 
 is to us an invaluable possession, for it seems the noblest 
 exposition to which we have yet listened of human nature 
 and divine truth, but with reverent thankfulness we ac- 
 knowledge a still higher debt, for he has left behind him 
 the best gift which man can bequeath to man, a brave, 
 heroic human life. 
 
 In the first churchyard outside the Oranienburg gate of 
 Berlin, stands a tall obelisk with this inscription : 
 
 THE TEACHERS SHALL SHINE 
 
 AS THE BRIGHTNESS OF THE FIRMAMENT ' 
 
 AND THEY THAT TURN MANY TO RIGHTEOUSNESS 
 
 AS THE STARS FOR EVER AND EVER. 
 
 It marks the grave of FlCHTE. The faithful partner of hig 
 life sleeps at his feet.
 
 THE 
 
 VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR 
 
 LECTURES 
 DELIVERED AT JENA 
 
 1794.
 
 LECTURE I 
 THE ABSOLUTE VOCATION OF MAN 
 
 LECTURE II 
 THE VOCATION OF MAN IN SOCIETY 
 
 LECTURE III 
 THE DISTINCTION OF CLASSES IN SOCIETY 
 
 LECTURE IV 
 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR 
 
 LECTURE V 
 
 EXAMINATION OF ROUSSEAU'S DOCTRINE CONCERNING 
 THE INFLUENCE OF ART AND SCIENCE 
 ON THE WELL-BEING OF MAN
 
 ( 149 ) 
 
 LECTURE I. 
 
 THE ABSOLUTE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 THE purpose of the Lectures which I commence to-day 
 is in part known to you. I would answer, or rather I 
 would prompt you to answer for yourselves, the following 
 questions : What is the vocation of the Scholar ? what is 
 his relation to Humanity as a whole, as well as to parti- 
 cular classes of men ? by what means can he most surely 
 fulfil his high vocation ? 
 
 The Scholar is invested with a special character only 
 in so far as he is distinguished from other men ; the idea 
 of his calling arises from comparison, from his relation to 
 Society at large, by which we understand not the State 
 merely, but generally that aggregate of reasonable men who 
 exist near each other in space, and are thus placed in mu- 
 tual relations with each other. 
 
 Hence the vocation of the Scholar, considered as such, 
 is only conceivable in society ; and thus the answer to the 
 question, " What is the vocation of the Scholar ? " pre- 
 supposes the answer to another question, " What is the 
 vocation of man io Society ? " 
 
 Again : the answer to this question presupposes the 
 answer to another still higher ; namely this, " What is 
 the absolute vocation of Man ? " i. e. of Man considered 
 simply as man, according to the mere abstract idea of
 
 150 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 Humanity ; isolated and without any relation which is not 
 necessarily included in the idea of himself? 
 
 I may be permitted to say to you at present without 
 proof, what is doubtless already known to many among 
 you, and what is obscurely, but not the less strongly, felt 
 by others, that all philosophy, all human thought and 
 teaching, all your studies, especially all that I shall address 
 to you, can tend to nothing else than to the answering of 
 these questions, and particularly of the last and highest of 
 them, What is the absolute vocation of Man ? and what 
 are the means by which he may most surely fulfil it ? 
 
 Philosophy is not essentially necessary to the mere feeling 
 of this vocation ; but the whole of philosophy, and indeed 
 a fundamental and all-embracing philosophy, is implied 
 in a distinct, clear, and complete insight into it. Yet this 
 absolute vocation of Man is the subject of to-day's lecture. 
 You will consequently perceive that what I have to say on 
 this subject on the present occasion cannot be traced down 
 from its first principles unless I were now to treat of all 
 philosophy. But I can appeal to your own inward sense 
 of truth, and establish it thereon. You perceive likewise, 
 that as the question which I shall answer in my public 
 lectures, What is the vocation of the Scholar ? or what 
 is the same thing, as will appear in due time, the vocation 
 of the highest, truest man ? is the ultimate object of all 
 philosophical inquiries ; so this question, What is the 
 absolute vocation of Man ? the answer to which I intend 
 to investigate fundamentally in my private lectures, but 
 only to point out very briefly to-day, is the primary ob- 
 ject of such investigations. I now proceed to the answer 
 to this question. 
 
 What the properly Spiritual in man the pure Ego, 
 considered absolutely in itself, isolated and apart from 
 all relation to anything out of itself, would be ? this 
 question is unanswerable, and strictly taken is self-con- 
 tradictor} 7 . It is not indeed true that the pure Ego is
 
 LECTURE I. 151 
 
 a product of the Non-Ego (so I denominate everything 
 which is conceived of as existing external to the Ego, dis- 
 tinguished from, and opposed to it :) it is not true, I say, 
 that the pure Ego is a product of the Non-Ego ; such 
 a doctrine would indicate a transcendental materialism 
 which is entirely opposed to reason ; but it is certainly 
 true, and will be fully proved in its proper place, that the 
 Ego is not, and can never become, conscious of itself ex- 
 cept under its empirical determinations ; and that these 
 empirical determinations necessarily imply something ex- 
 ternal to the Ego. Even the body of man, that which he 
 calls his body, is something external to the Ego. Without 
 this relation he would be no longer a man, but something 
 absolutely inconceivable by us, if we can call that some- 
 thing which is to us inconceivable. Thus to consider man 
 absolutely and by himself, does not mean, either here or 
 elsewhere in these lectures, to consider him as a pure 
 Ego, without relation to anything external to the Ego ; 
 but only to think of him apart from all relation to rea- 
 sonable beings like himself. 
 
 And, so considered, What is his vocation ? what be- 
 longs to him as Man, that does not belong to those known 
 existences which are not men ? in what respects does he 
 differ from all we do not call man amongst the beings with 
 which we are acquainted ? 
 
 Since I must set out from something positive, and as 
 I cannot here proceed from the absolute postulate the 
 axiom " I am," I must lay down, hypothetically in the 
 meantime, a principle which exists indestructibly in the 
 feelings of all men, which is the result of all philosophy, 
 which may be clearly proved, as I will prove it in my 
 private lectures ; the principle, that as surely as man is 
 a rational being, he is the end of his own existence ; i. e. 
 he does not exist to the end that something else may be, but 
 he exists absolutely because he himself is to be his being 
 is its own ultimate object; or, what is the same thing,
 
 152 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 man cannot, without contradiction to himself, demand an 
 object of his existence. He is, because he is. This cha- 
 racter of absolute being of existence for his own sake 
 alone, is his characteristic or vocation, in so far as he is 
 considered solely as a rational being. 
 
 But there belongs to man not only absolute being, 
 being for itself, but also particular determinations of 
 this being : he not only is, but he is something definite ; 
 he does not merely say " I am," but he adds " I am this 
 or that." So far as his absolute existence is concerned, 
 he is a reasonable being ; in so far as he is something be- 
 yond this, What is he ? This question we must answer. 
 
 That which he is in this respect, he is, not primarily 
 because he himself exists, but because something other 
 than himself exists. The empirical self-consciousness, 
 that is, the consciousness of a determinate vocation, is 
 not possible except on the supposition of a Non-Ego, as 
 we have already said, and in the proper place will prove. 
 This Non-Ego must approach and influence him through 
 his passive capacity, which we call sense. Thus in so far 
 as man possesses a determinate existence, he is a sensuous 
 being. But still, as we have already said, he is also a 
 reasonable being; and his Reason must not be super- 
 seded by Sense, but both must exist in harmony with 
 each other. In this connexion' the principle propounded 
 above, Man is becav.se he is, is changed into the follow- 
 ing, Whatever Man iSj that he should be solely because he 
 is ; i. e. all that he is should proceed from his pure Ego, 
 from his own simple personality; he should be all that 
 he is, absolutely because he is an Ego, and whatever he 
 cannot be solely upon that ground, he should absolutely 
 not be. This as yet obscure formula we shall proceed to 
 illustrate. 
 
 The pure Ego can only be conceived of negatively, as 
 the opposite of the Non-Ego, the character of which is mul- 
 tiplicity, consequently as perfect and absolute unity ;
 
 LECTURE I. 153 
 
 it is thus always one and the same, always identical with 
 itself. Hence the above formula may also be expressed 
 thus; Man should always be at one with himself, he should 
 never contradict his own being. The pure Ego can never 
 stand in opposition to itself, for there is in it no possible 
 diversity, it constantly remains one and the same ; but the 
 empirical Ego, determined and determinable by outward 
 things, may contradict itself ; and as often as it does so, 
 the contradiction is a sure sign that it is not determined 
 according to the form of the pure Ego, not by itself, but 
 by something external to itself. It should not be so ; for 
 man is his own end, he should determine himself, and 
 never allow himself to be determined by anything foreign 
 to himself ; he should be what he is, because he wills it, 
 and ought to will it. The determination of the empirical 
 Ego should be such as may endure for ever. I may here, 
 in passing, and for the sake of illustration merely, express 
 the fundamental principle of morality in the following 
 formula : " So act that thou mayest look upon the dictate of 
 thy will as an eternal law to thyself. " 
 
 The ultimate vocation of every finite, rational being is 
 thus absolute unity, constant identity, perfect harmony 
 with himself. This absolute identity is the form of the 
 pure Ego, and the one true form of it ; or rather, by the 
 possibility to conceive of this identity is the expression 
 of that form recognised. Whatever determination can be 
 conceived of as enduring eternally, is in conformity with 
 the pure form of the Ego. Let not this be understood 
 partially or from one side. Not the Will alone should be 
 always at one with itself, this belongs to morality only ; 
 but all the powers of man, which are essentially but one 
 power, and only become distinguished in their application 
 to different objects, should all accord in perfect unity and 
 harmony with each other. 
 
 The empirical determinations of our Ego depend, how- 
 ever, for the most part, not upon ourselves but upon some- 
 
 u
 
 154 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 tiling external to us. The Will is, indeed, within its own 
 circle i. e. in the compass of the objects to which it can 
 be applied after they have become known to man per- 
 fectly free ; as will be strictly proved at the proper time. 
 But sense, and the conceptions in which it is presupposed, 
 are not free ; they depend upon things external to the Ego, 
 the character of which is multiplicity, not identity. If the 
 Ego is to be constantly at one with itself in this respect 
 also, it must strive to operate directly upon the things 
 themselves on which the sensations and perceptions of 
 man depend ; man must endeavour to modify these, and 
 to bring them into harmony with the pure form of his 
 Ego, so that his conceptions of them likewise, so far as 
 these (his conceptions) depend upon the nature of their 
 objects, may harmonize with that form. This modifica- 
 tion of things according to our necessary ideas of what 
 they should be, is not however possible by mere Will, but 
 requires also a certain skill which is acquired and im- 
 proved by practice. 
 
 Further, what is still more important, our empirical de- 
 terminable Ego receives, from that unrestricted influence 
 of external things upon it to which we subject ourselves 
 without reservation so long as our Reason is still unde- 
 veloped, certain tendencies which cannot possibly harmo- 
 nize with the form of our pure Ego, since they proceed 
 from things external to us. In order to eradicate these 
 tendencies, and restore the pure original form, Will is not 
 sufficient of itself, but we need, besides, that skill which 
 is acquired and improved by practice. 
 
 The acquisition of this skill, partly to subdue and era- 
 dicate the improper tendencies which have arisen within 
 us prior to the awakening of Reason and the consciousness 
 of our own independence, partly to modify external 
 things, and alter them in accordance with our ideas, 
 the acquisition of this skill, I say, is called Culture ; and 
 any particular degree of it, when acquired, is likewise so
 
 LECTURE L 155 
 
 denominated. Culture differs only in degree, but it is 
 capable of infinite gradations. It is the last and highest 
 means to the attainment of the great end of man, when 
 he is considered as of a composite nature, rational and 
 sensuous ; complete harmony with himself : it is in 
 itself his ultimate end when he is considered only as a 
 sensuous being. Sense should be cultivated : that is the 
 highest and ultimate purpose which can be entertained 
 with respect to it. 
 
 The final result of all we have said is as follows : The 
 perfect harmony of man with himself, and that this may 
 be practicable, the harmony of all external things with 
 his necessary practical ideas of them, the ideas which 
 determine what these things should be ; this is the ulti- 
 mate and highest purpose of human existence. This 
 harmony is, to use the language of the critical philosophy, 
 the Highest Good ; which Highest Good, considered ab- 
 solutely, as follows from what we have already said, has no 
 parts, but is perfectly simple and indivisible, it is the 
 complete harmony of a rational being with himself. But 
 in reference to a rational being who is dependent on ex- 
 ternal things, it may be considered two-fold ; as the har- 
 mony of the Will with the idea of an Eternal Will, or, 
 moral goodness ; and as the harmony of external things 
 with our Will (our rational will, of course), or happiness. 
 It is thus, let it be remembered in passing, so far from 
 being true that man is determined to moral goodness by 
 the desire for happiness, that the idea of happiness itself 
 and the desire for it, rather arise in the first place out 
 of the moral nature of man. Not, That which produces 
 happiness is good ; but, That only which is good produces 
 happiness. Without morality happiness is impossible. 
 Agreeable sensations may indeed exist without it, or even 
 in opposition to it, and in the proper place we shall see 
 why this is the case ; but these are not happiness : fre- 
 quently they are much opposed to it.
 
 156 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 To subject all irrational nature to himself, to rule over 
 it unreservedly and according to his own laws, is the 
 ultimate end of man ; which ultimate end is perfectly un- 
 attainable, and must continue to be so, unless he were to 
 cease to be man, and become God. It is a part of the 
 idea of man that his ultimate end must be unattainable ; 
 the way to it endless. Hence it is not the vocation of 
 man to attain this end. But he may and should con- 
 stantly approach nearer to it ; and thus the unceasing 
 approximation to this end is his true vocation as man ; i. e. 
 as a rational but finite, as a sensuous but free being. If, 
 as we are surely entitled to do, we call this complete har- 
 mony with one's self perfection, in the highest meaning 
 of the word ; then perfection is the highest unattainable 
 end of man, whilst eternal perfecting is his vocation. He 
 exists, that he may become ever morally better himself, 
 and make all around him physically, and, if he be con- 
 sidered as a member of society, morally better also, and 
 thus augment his own happiness without limit. 
 
 This is the vocation of man considered as isolated, i. e. 
 apart from all relation to reasonable beings like himself. 
 We however are not thus isolated, and although I cannot 
 now direct your attention to the general inter-union of 
 all rational beings with each other, yet must I cast a 
 glance upon the relation with you, into which I enter 
 to-day. It is this noble vocation which I have now briefly 
 pointed out, that I would elevate into perfect clearness in 
 the minds of many aspiring young men that I desire to 
 make the preeminent object, and constant guide of your 
 lives ; young men who are destined on their part again 
 to operate most powerfully on humanity, in narrower or 
 wider circles, by teaching or action, or both, to extend one 
 day to others the culture they have themselves received, 
 and everywhere to raise our common brotherhood to a 
 higher stage of culture ; young men, in teaching whom 
 I in all probability teach yet unborn millions of our race.
 
 LECTURE I. 157 
 
 If some among you have kindly believed that I feel the 
 dignity of this my peculiar vocation, that in all my 
 thought and teaching I shall make it my highest aim to 
 contribute to the culture and elevation of humanity in you, 
 and in all with whom you may ever have a common point 
 of contact, that I hold all philosophy and all knowledge 
 which does not tend towards this object, as vain and worth- 
 less ; if you have so thought of me, I may perhaps venture 
 to say that you have judged rightly of my desire. How 
 far my ability may correspond to this wish, rests not alto- 
 gether on me ; it depends in part upon circumstances 
 which are beyond our control. It depends in part also on 
 you ; on your attention, which I solicit ; on your private 
 diligence, on which I reckon with trustful assurance ; on 
 your confidence, to which I commend myself, and which I 
 shall strive to justify by deeds.
 
 ( 159 ) 
 
 LECTURE II. 
 
 THE VOCATION OP MAN IN SOCIETY. 
 
 THERE are many questions which philosophy must answer 
 before she can assume the character of knowledge and 
 science : questions which are shunned by the dogmatist, 
 and which the sceptic only ventures to point out at the 
 risk of being charged with irrationality or wickedness, or 
 both. 
 
 If I would not treat in a shallow and superficial manner 
 a subject respecting which I believe that I possess some 
 fundamental knowledge, if I would not conceal, and pass 
 over in silence, difficulties which I see right well, it will 
 be my fate in these public Lectures to touch upon many 
 of those hitherto almost undisturbed questions without, 
 however, being able to exhaust them completely ; and, at 
 the risk of being misunderstood or misinterpreted, to give 
 mere hints towards more extended thought, mere direc- 
 tions towards more perfect knowledge, where I would 
 rather have probed the subject to the bottom. If I sup- 
 posed that there were among you many of those popular 
 philosophers, who easily solve all difficulties without 
 labour or reflection, by the aid of what they call sound 
 Common Sense, I would not often occupy this chair 
 without anxiety. 
 
 Among these questions may be classed the two fol- 
 lowing, which must be answered, with others, before any
 
 160 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 natural right is so much as possible ; -first, By what au- 
 thority does man call a particular portion of the physical 
 world his body ? how does he come to consider this body 
 as belonging to his Ego, whereas it is altogether opposed 
 to it ? and second, On what grounds does man assume 
 and admit the existence around him of rational beings 
 like himself, whereas such beings are by no means di- 
 rectly revealed to him in his own consciousness ? 
 
 I have to-day to establish the Vocation of Man in 
 Society ; and the accomplishment of this task presupposes 
 the solution of the latter question. By Society I mean 
 the relation of reasonable beings to each other. The idea 
 of Society is not possible without the supposition that ra- 
 tional beings do really exist around us, and without some 
 characteristic marks whereby we may distinguish them 
 from all other beings that are not rational, and conse- 
 quently do not belong to Society. How do we arrive at 
 this supposition ? what are these distinctive marks ? 
 This is the question which I must answer in the first 
 place. 
 
 " We have acquired both from experience : we know 
 " from experience that rational beings like ourselves exist 
 " around us, and also the marks by which they are dis- 
 " tin guish able from irrational creatures." This might be 
 the answer of those who are unaccustomed to strict philo- 
 sophical inquiry. But such an answer would be super- 
 ficial and unsatisfactory ; it would indeed be no answer 
 to our question, but to an entirely different one. The 
 experience which is here appealed to is also felt by 
 the Egoists, who nevertheless are not thoroughly refuted 
 by it. Experience only teaches us that the conception of 
 reasonable beings around us is a part of our empirical 
 consciousness ; and about that there is no dispute, no 
 Egoist has ever denied it. The question is, whether there 
 is anything beyond this conception which corresponds to 
 the conception itself; whether reasonable beings exist
 
 LECTURE II. 161 
 
 around us independently of our conceptions of them, and 
 even if we had no such conceptions ; and on this matter 
 experience has nothing whatever to teach us so surely as 
 it is only experience ; that is to say, the body of our 
 own conceptions. 
 
 Experience can at most teach us that there are pheno- 
 mena which appear to be the results of rational causes ; 
 but it can never teach us that these causes actually exist 
 as rational beings in themselves, for being in itself is no 
 object of experience. 
 
 We ourselves first introduce such a being into expe- 
 rience ; it is only we ourselves who explain our own 
 experience by assuming the existence of rational beings 
 around us. But by what right do we furnish this expla- 
 nation ? This right must be strictly proved before it is 
 made use of, for its validity can only be grounded on its 
 evidence, and not upon its actual use : and thus we have 
 not advanced a single step, but return again to the ques- 
 tion with which we set out : How do we come to assume 
 and admit the existence of rational beings around us ? 
 
 The theoretical domain of philosophy is unquestionably 
 exhausted by the fundamental researches of the Critical 
 School : all questions which still remain unanswered, must 
 be answered upon practical principles. We must try 
 whether the proposed question can be answered on such 
 principles. 
 
 The highest impulse in man is, according to our last 
 lecture, the impulse towards Identity, towards perfect 
 harmony with himself; and, in order that he may be in 
 constant harmony with himself, towards the harmony of 
 all external things with his necessary ideas of them. 
 There must not merely be nothing contradictory to his 
 ideas, so that the existence or non-existence of an exter- 
 nal representative of these ideas might be a matter of in- 
 difference to him, but there must actually be something 
 corresponding to his ideas. Every idea which exists in 
 
 x
 
 162 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAK. 
 
 the Ego must have a representative, an antitype, in the 
 Non-Ego : so is his impulse determined. 
 
 There is in man the idea not only of Reason, but also 
 of reasonable acts and thoughts, and his nature demands 
 the realization of this idea not only within himself but 
 also without himself. It is thus one of his wants that 
 there should be around him reasonable beings like himself. 
 
 He cannot create such beings ; but he lays the idea of 
 them at the foundation of his observation of the Non- 
 Ego, and expects to find something there corresponding 
 to it. The first mark of rationality which presents itself 
 is of a merely negative character, efficiency founded on 
 ideas, activity towards an end. Whatever bears the 
 marks of design may have a reasonable author ; that to 
 which the notion of design cannot be applied has cer- 
 tainly no reasonable author. But this characteristic is 
 ambiguous ; the' agreement of many things in one end 
 is the mark of design, but there are many kinds of agree- 
 ment which may be explained by mere natural laws, if 
 not by mechanical, then by organic laws ; hence we still 
 require a distinctive mark whereby we may confidently 
 infer from a particular phenomenon the existence of a 
 reasonable cause. Nature proceeds, even in the fulfil- 
 ment of her designs, by necessary laws ; Reason always 
 proceeds with freedom. Hence the agreement of many 
 things in one end, freely fulfilled, is the sure and infallible 
 'characteristic of rationality as manifested in its results. 
 We now inquire, How can we distinguish a phenomenon 
 in our experience produced by necessity, from a pheno- 
 menon produced by freedom ? 
 
 I can by no means be immediately conscious of a 
 freedom which exists out of myself, I cannot even be 
 conscious of a freedom which exists within myself, that 
 is, of my own freedom ; for essential freedom is the first 
 condition of consciousness, and hence cannot lie within 
 its sphere of observation. But I may be conscious of this,
 
 LECTURE II. 163 
 
 that I am not conscious of any other cause for a par- 
 ticular determination of my empirical Ego through my 
 will, than 'this will itself ; and this non-consciousness of 
 constraining cause may be called a consciousness of free- 
 dom, if this be clearly understood beforehand ; and we 
 shall call it so here. In this sense then, man may be 
 conscious of his own free activity. 
 
 If through our own free activity, of which we are con- 
 scious in the sense above indicated, the character of the 
 activity apparent in the phenomena which experience 
 presents to us is so changed that this activity is no longer 
 to be explained according to the law by which we for- 
 merly judged it, but according to that on which 'we have 
 based our own free action, and which is quite opposed to 
 the former ; then we cannot explain this altered view 
 of the activity apparent in experience otherwise than by 
 the supposition that the cause to which we refer it is 
 likewise reasonable and free. Hence arises, to use the 
 Kantian terminology, a free reciprocal activity founded 
 on ideas, a community pervaded by design; and^t is this 
 which I call Society. The idea of Society is thus suffi- 
 ciently defined. 
 
 It is one of the fundamental impulses of man to feel 
 that he must assume the existence around him of reason- 
 able beings like himself; and he can only assume their 
 existence under the condition of entering into Society 
 with them, according to the meaning of that word as 
 above explained. The social impulse thus belongs to the 
 fundamental impulses of man. It is man's vocation to 
 live in Society he must live in Society; he is no com- 
 plete man, but contradicts his own being, if he live in a 
 state of isolation. 
 
 You see how important it is not to confound the ab- 
 stract idea of Society with that particular empirically- 
 conditioned form of Society which we call the State. 
 Political Society is not a part of the absolute purpose of
 
 164 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 human life (whatever a great man may have said to the 
 contrary) ; but it is, under certain conditions, a possible 
 means towards the formation of a perfect Society. Like 
 all human institutions, which are merely means to an end, 
 the State constantly tends 'towards its own extinction ; the 
 ultimate aim of all government is to make government 
 superfluous. Of a surety that time is not now present 
 with us, and I know not how many myriads, or perhaps 
 myriads of myriads, of years may elapse before it arrive, 
 (and it must be understood that we have not now to deal 
 with a practical condition of life, but with the vindication 
 of a speculative principle) ; that time is not now, but it 
 is certain that in the a priori fore-ordered course of the 
 human race such a period does exist when all political com- 
 binations shall have become unnecessary. That is the time 
 when, in place of strength or cunning, Reason alone shall 
 be acknowledged as the supreme judge of all ; acknow- 
 ledged I say ; for although men may even then go astray, 
 and by their errors do hurt to their fellow-men, yet they 
 will then be open to conviction of their error, and, when 
 convinced of it, will be willing to turn back and make 
 amends for their fault. Until that time shall come, man- 
 kind, as a race, cannot be true men. 
 
 According to what we have said, free reciprocal activity 
 is the positive character of Society. It is an end to itself ; 
 and hence it exists solely and absolutely for its own sake. 
 This assertion, that Society is its own end, is however not 
 at all incompatible with another, that the form of this 
 association should have a special law which shall give it a 
 more definite aim. 
 
 The fundamental impulse of humanity was to discover 
 reasonable beings like ourselves, or men. The concep- 
 tion of man is an ideal conception, because the perfection 
 of man, in so far as he is such, is unattainable. Each 
 individual has his own particular ideal of man in general ; 
 these ideals are different in degree, though not in kind ;
 
 LECTURE II. 165 
 
 each tries by his own ideal every being whom he recog- 
 nises as a man. By this fundamental impulse each is 
 prompted to seek in others a likeness to his own ideal ; 
 he inquires, he observes on all sides, and when he finds 
 men below this ideal, he strives to elevate them to it. In 
 this struggle of mind with mind, he always triumphs who 
 is the highest and best man; and thus from the idea of 
 Society arises that of the perfection of the race, and we 
 have thus also discovered the ultimate purpose of all 
 Society as such. Should it appear as if the higher and 
 better man had no influence on the lower and unculti- 
 vated, we are partly deceived in our judgment, since 
 we often expect to find the fruit already ripe before the 
 seed has had time to germinate and unfold, and it may 
 partly arise from this, that the better man perhaps stands 
 at too high an elevation above the uncultivated, that they 
 have too few points of contact with each other, and hence 
 cannot sufficiently act upon each other ; a position which 
 retards civilization to an incredible extent, and the remedy 
 for which we shall point out at the proper time. But on 
 the whole, the ultimate triumph of the better man is 
 certain : a calming and consoling thought for the friend 
 of humanity and of truth when he looks out upon the 
 open war of light with darkness. The light shall surely 
 triumph at last ; we cannot indeed predict the time, 
 but it is already a pledge of victory, of near victory, when 
 darkness is compelled to come forth to an open encounter. 
 She loves concealment, she is already lost when forced 
 out into the open day. 
 
 Thus far, then, the result of our inquiries shows, that 
 man is destined for Society ; among the capacities which, 
 according to his vocation as laid down in our former lec- 
 ture, he is destined to improve and perfect, there is also 
 the social capacity. 
 
 This destination of man for Society in the abstract, 
 although arising out of the innermost and purest elements
 
 166 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 of human nature, is yet, as a mere impulse, subordinate 
 to the highest law of constant internal harmony, or the 
 moral law, and by it must be still further defined and 
 brought under a strict rule. When we have discovered 
 this rule, we shall have found the vocation of man in 
 Society, which is the object of our present inquiry and 
 of all the considerations we have hitherto set forth. 
 
 The social impulse is, in the first place, negatively 
 defined by the law of absolute harmony; it must not 
 contradict itself. The impulse leads to reciprocal activity, 
 to mutual influence, mutual giving and receiving, mutual 
 suffering and doing, not to mere causality not to mere 
 activity, of which others are but the passive objects. The 
 impulse requires us to discover free reasonable beings 
 around us, and to enter into Society with them ; it does 
 not demand subordination as in the material world, but 
 co-ordination. If we do not allow freedom to the reason- 
 able beings whom we seek around us, we take into account 
 merely their theoretical use, not their free practical ra- 
 tionality ; we do not enter into Society with them, but we 
 rule them as useful animals, and so place our social im- 
 pulse in opposition to itself. But what do I say ? we 
 place our social impulse in opposition to itself ? No : 
 rather we do not possess this higher impulse at all ; 
 humanity is not yet so far cultivated within us ; we our- 
 selves still stand on the lowest grade of imperfect hu- 
 manity, or slavery. We ourselves have not yet attained 
 to a consciousness of our freedom and self-activity, for 
 then we should necessarily desire to see around us similar, 
 that is, free beings. We are slaves ourselves; and 
 look around us but for slaves. Rousseau says " A man 
 often considers himself the lord of others, who is yet more 
 a slave than they." He might with still greater justice 
 have said " He who considers himself the lord of others 
 is himself a slave." Even should he not bear the outward 
 badge of servitude, yet he has most surely the soul of a
 
 LECTURE II. 167 
 
 slave, and will basely cringe before the first stronger man 
 who subdues him. He only is free, who would make all 
 around him free likewise ; and does really make them 
 free, by a certain influence the sources of which are 
 hitherto undiscovered. In his presence we breathe more 
 freely ; we feel that nothing has power to oppress, hinder, 
 or confine us ; we feel an unwonted desire to be and to do 
 all things which self-respect does not forbid. 
 
 Man may use irrational things as means for the accom- 
 plishment of his purposes, but not rational beings; he 
 may not even use these as means for attaining the end 
 of their own being ; he may not act upon them as upon 
 dead matter or upon the beasts, so as to prosecute his 
 designs with them without taking their freedom into 
 account ; he may not make any reasonable being either 
 virtuous, or wise, or happy, against his own will. Laying 
 aside the fact that such an attempt would be utterly fruit- 
 less, that no being can become virtuous, or .wise, or 
 happy, but by his own labour and effort ; laying aside 
 the fact that man cannot do this, yet even if he could, or 
 believed he could, he must not even desire to do it; for 
 it is unjust, and by so doing he would be placed in oppo- 
 sition to himself. 
 
 The social impulse is also positively defined by the law 
 of perfect internal harmony, and thus we arrive at the 
 peculiar vocation of man in Society. All the individuals 
 who compose the human race differ from each other; 
 there is only one thing in which they entirely agree ; 
 that is, their ultimate end perfection. Perfection has 
 but one form ; it is equal to itself : could all men become 
 perfect, could they attain their highest and ultimate end, 
 they would all be equal to each other, they would be 
 only one, one single subject. But in Society each strives 
 to make others perfect, at least according to his own stan- 
 dard of perfection ; to raise them to the ideal of humanity 
 which he has formed. Thus, the last, highest end of
 
 168 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 Society is perfect unity and unanimity of all its possible 
 members. But since the attainment of this end supposes 
 the attainment of the destination of each individual man, 
 the attainment of absolute perfection ; so it is quite 
 as impossible as the latter, it is unattainable, unless 
 man were to lay aside his humanity and become God. 
 Perfect unity with all the individuals of his race is thus 
 indeed the ultimate end, but not the vocation, of man in 
 Society. 
 
 But to approach nearer this end, constantly to ap- 
 proach nearer it, this he can and ought to do. This ap- 
 proximation towards perfect unity and unanimity with all 
 men may be called co-operation. Thus co-operation, growing 
 ever firmer at its centre and ever wider in its circum- 
 ference, is the true vocation of man in Society : but such 
 a co-operation is only possible by means of progressive 
 improvement, for it is only in relation to their ultimate 
 destination that men are one, or can become one. We 
 may therefore say that mutual improvement, improve- 
 ment of ourselves by the freely admitted action of others 
 upon us, and improvement of others by our reaction upon 
 them as upon free beings, is our vocation in Society. 
 
 And in order to fulfil this vocation, and fulfil it always 
 more and more thoroughly, we need a qualification which 
 can only be acquired and improved by culture ; and in- 
 deed a qualification of a double nature : an ability to give, 
 or to act upon others as upon free beings ; and an open- 
 ness to receive, or to derive the greatest advantage from 
 the action of others upon us. Of both we shall speak 
 particularly in the proper place. We must . especially 
 strive to acquire the latter, when we possess the former 
 in a high degree; otherwise we cease to advance, and 
 consequently retrograde. Seldom is any man so perfect 
 that he may not be much improved through the agency 
 of any other man, in some perhaps apparently unimportant 
 or neglected point of culture.
 
 LECTURE II. 169 
 
 I know few more sublime conceptions, than the idea of 
 this universal inter-action of the whole human race on 
 itself; this ceaseless life and activity; this eager emula- 
 tion to give and to receive,' the noblest strife in which 
 man can take a part ; this general indentation of countless 
 wheels into each other, whose common motive-power is 
 freedom ; and the beautiful harmony which is the result 
 of all. " Whoever thou art," may each of us say " who- 
 ever thou art, if thou bear the form of man, thou too art 
 a member of this great commonwealth ; through what 
 countless media soever our mutual influence may be trans- 
 mitted, still by that title I act upon thee, and thou on 
 me ; no one who bears the stamp of Reason on his front, 
 however rudely impressed, exists in vain for me. But I 
 know thee not, thou knowest not me ! Oh ! so surely 
 as we have a common calling to be good, ever to become 
 better, so surely though millions of ages may first pass 
 away (what is time !) so surely shall a period at last 
 arrive when I may receive thee, too, into my sphere of 
 action, when I may do good to thee, and receive good 
 from thee in return ; when my heart may be united 
 to thine also, by the fairest possible bond, a free and 
 generous interchange of mutual influence for good.
 
 (171 ) 
 
 LECTUEE III. 
 
 ON THE DISTINCTION OP CLASSES IN SOCIETY. 
 
 . 
 
 THE vocation of man as an individual, as well as the 
 vocation of man in society, is now before you. The Scholar 
 is only invested with his distinctive character when con- 
 sidered as a member of society. We may therefore proceed 
 to the inquiry, What is the peculiar vocation of the 
 Scholar in society ? But the Scholar is not merely a 
 member of society ; he is also a member of a particular 
 class in society : at least it is customary to speak of the 
 Scholar-class with what propriety or impropriety will 
 appear in due time. 
 
 Our chief inquiry What is the vocation of the Scholar ? 
 thus pre-supposes the solution of a third and very im- 
 portant question, besides those two which we have alread 
 answered ; this, namely, Whence arises the difference 
 of Classes in Society ? or, What is the source of the 
 inequality existing among men ? 
 
 It will be readily understood without preliminary ex- 
 planation, that this word Class does not mean anything 
 which has come to pass fortuitously and without our aid, 
 but something determined and arranged by free choice 
 for an understood purpose. For an inequality which 
 occurs fortuitously and without our aid, i. e. for physical 
 inequality, Nature is accountable ; but inequality of classes
 
 172 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAK. 
 
 seems to be a moral inequality, with respect to which, 
 therefore, the question naturally arises, By what right 
 do different classes exist ? 
 
 Attempts have often been made to answer this question ; 
 and enquirers, proceeding merely on the grounds of ex- 
 perience, have eagerly laid hold of and rhapsodically 
 enumerated the numerous purposes which are accom- 
 plished by such a division and the many advantages 
 which are gained by it ; but by such means any other 
 question may sooner be answered than the one we have 
 proposed. The advantage of a certain disposition of things 
 does not prove its justice ; and we did not propose the 
 historical question, What purpose had man in this 
 arrangement ? but the moral question, Whether it was 
 lawful for him to bring it about, whatever purpose he 
 might have had in view by so doing. The question must 
 be answered on the principles of Reason, pure as well as 
 practical ; and such an answer has, so far as I know, 
 never yet been even attempted. To prepare for it, I must 
 law down a few general scientific principles. 
 
 All the laws of Reason are founded in our spiritual 
 nature ; but it is only through an actual experience to 
 which they are applicable that they attain empirical con- 
 sciousness ; and the more frequent such application the 
 more intimately do they become interwoven with this 
 consciousness. It is thus with all the laws of Reason ; it 
 is thus especially with the practical, which do not, like 
 the theoretical, terminate in a mere act of judgment, but 
 proceed to an activity without us, and announce them- 
 selves to consciousness under the form of impulses. The 
 foundation of all impulses lies in our own being : but 
 not more than the foundation. Every impulse must be 
 awakened by experience if it is to arrive at consciousness, 
 and must be developed by numerous experiences of the 
 same kind if it is to become a desire, and its appropriate 
 gratification a want, of man. Experience, however, does
 
 LECTURE III. 173 
 
 not depend upon ourselves, and therefore neither does the 
 awakening nor the development of our impulses. 
 
 The independent Non-Ego as the foundation of ex- 
 perience or Nature, is manifold ; no one part of it is 
 perfectly the same as another ; this principle is main- 
 tained and even strictly proved in the Kantian philosophy. 
 It follows from this, that its action on the human mind is 
 of a very varied character, and nowhere calls forth the 
 capacities and talents of men in the same manner. By 
 these different ways in which Nature acts upon man, are 
 individuals, and what we call their peculiar, empirical, in- 
 dividual character, determined ; and in this respect we 
 may say that no individual is perfectly like another in 
 his awakened and developed capacities. Hence arises 
 a physical inequality to which we not only have not 
 contributed, but which we even cannot remove by our 
 freedom ; for before we can, through freedom, resist the in- 
 fluence of Nature upon us, we must first have arrived at 
 the consciousness and use of this freedom ; and we cannot 
 arrive thereat except by that awakening and unfolding of 
 of our impulses which does not depend upon ourselves. 
 
 But the highest law of man and of all reasonable 
 beings, the law of perfect internal harmony, of absolute 
 identity, in so far as this law becomes positive and 
 material by means of special individual applications, de- 
 mands that all the faculties of the individual shall be 
 uniformly developed, all his capacities cultivated to the 
 highest possible perfection; a demand, the object -of 
 which cannot be realized by the mere law itself ; because 
 the fulfilment of the law, as we have said, does not depend 
 upon the law itself, nor upon our will which is deter- 
 minable by the law, but upon the free action of Nature. 
 
 If we apply this law to society, if we assume the exis- 
 tence of reasonable beings around us, then the demand 
 that all the faculties of the individual should be uniformly 
 cultivated includes also the demand that all reasonable
 
 174 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 beings should be cultivated uniformly with each other. 
 If the faculties of all are essentially the same, as they 
 are, since they are all founded upon pure Eeason, if they 
 are all to be cultivated after a similar fashion, which is 
 what the law requires, then the result of such a cultiva- 
 tion must be similar capacities in every respect equal to 
 each other : and thus by another way we arrive at the 
 ultimate end of all society, as declared in our former lec- 
 ture, the perfect equality of all its members. 
 
 We have already shown in our last lecture that the 
 mere law cannot, of itself, realize the object of this 
 demand, any more than it can realize that of the demand 
 on which our present lecture is founded. But Free- Will 
 can and ought to strive constantly to approach nearer this 
 ultimate end. 
 
 And here the activity of the social impulse comes into 
 play, which also proceeds upon this same purpose, and is 
 the means of the requisite continual approximation to its 
 attainment. The social impulse, or the impulse towards 
 mutual cooperation with free reasonable beings as such, 
 includes the two following impulses : the communicative 
 impulse, that is, the impulse to impart to others that 
 form of culture which we ourselves possess most com- 
 pletely, to make others, as far as possible, like ourselves, 
 like the better self within us ; and the receptive impulse, 
 that is, the impulse to receive from others that form of 
 culture which they possess most completely, and in which 
 we are deficient. Thus defects of Nature in us are reme- 
 died by Reason and Freedom ; the partial culture which 
 Nature has given to the individual becomes the property 
 of the whole race, and the race in turn bestows all its 
 culture upon him ; it gives him all the culture which is 
 possible under the determining conditions of Nature, if 
 we suppose that all the individuals who are possible under 
 these conditions do actually exist. Nature cultivates each 
 individual only in part ; but she bestows culture at every
 
 LECTURE III. 175 
 
 point where she encounters reasonable beings. Reason 
 unites these points, presents to Nature a firmly compacted 
 and extended front, and compels her to cultivate the Race 
 at least in all its particular capacities, since she will not 
 bestow that culture upon the Individual. Reason has 
 already, by means of the social impulse, provided for the 
 equal distribution of the culture thus acquired among the 
 individual members of society, and will provide for it still 
 further ; for the sway of Nature does not extend here. 
 
 Reason will take care that each individual receive in- 
 directly from the hands of society, the whole and complete 
 cultivation which he cannot obtain directly from Nature. 
 Society will gather together the special gifts of every 
 individual member into a common fund for the free use 
 of all, and thus multiply them by the number of those 
 who share their advantages ; the deficiencies of each indi- 
 vidual will be borne by the community, and will thus be 
 reduced to an infinitely small quantity : or, to express 
 this in another form more generally applicable, the aim 
 of all culture of human capacity is to subject Nature (as I 
 have defined this expression) to Reason ; to bring Ex- 
 perience, in so far as it is not dependent on the laws of 
 our perceptive faculties, into harmony with our necessary 
 practical ideas of Reason. Thus Reason stands in con- 
 tinual strife with Nature. This warfare can never come 
 to an end, unless we were to become gods ; but the in- 
 fluence of Nature can and ought to be gradually weakened, 
 the dominion of Reason constantly made more powerful ; 
 so that the latter shall gain victory after victory over 
 the former. An individual may perhaps struggle success- 
 fully against Nature at his own particular point of contact 
 with her, while at all other points he may be completely 
 subject to her sway. But now society is combined like 
 one man : what the individual could not accomplish by 
 himself, all are enabled to perform by the combined 
 powers of the community. Each indeed strives singly,
 
 176 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 but the enfeeblement of Nature which is the result of the 
 common struggle, and the partial triumph which each 
 gains over her in his own department, come to the aid of 
 all. Thus even from the physical inequality of individuals 
 arises a new security for the bond which unites them all 
 in one body ; the pressure of individual wants, and the 
 still sweeter impulse to supply the wants of others, bind 
 them more closely together ; and Nature has strengthened 
 the power of Reason, even while she attempted to weaken it. 
 Thus far everything proceeds in its natural order : we 
 have found different personalities, various in the kind and 
 degree of their cultivation ; but we have as yet no dif- 
 ferent classes, for we have not yet pointed out any special 
 determination of the social impulse by free activity, any 
 voluntary selection of a particular kind of culture. I say, 
 we have not yet been able to show any special determina- 
 tion by means of free activity ; but let not this be erro- 
 neously or partially understood. The social impulse, 
 considered generally, addresses itself to freedom only ; it 
 merely instigates, it does not compel. We may oppose, 
 and even subdue it ; we may, through misanthropic sel- 
 fishness, separate ourselves from our. fellow-men, and refuse 
 to receive anything at the hands of society, that we may 
 not have to render back anything in return ; we may, 
 from rude animalism, forget the freedom of society, and 
 look upon it only as something subject to our will, because 
 we have no higher idea of ourselves than as subjects of the 
 power of Nature. But this is not the question here. On 
 the supposition that man obeys the social impulse gene- 
 rally, it is necessary that under its guidance he should 
 impart the advantages which he possesses to those who 
 have need of them, and receive those of which he himself 
 stands in need from those who possess them. And for 
 this purpose there is no need of any particular determina- 
 tion or modification of the social impulse by a new act of 
 freedom, which is all that I meant to affirm.
 
 LECTURE III. 177 
 
 The characteristic distinction is this : Under the con- 
 ditions now laid down, I as an individual give myself up 
 to Nature for the one-sided cultivation of some particular 
 capacity, because / must do so ; I have no choice in the 
 matter, but blindly follow her leading. I take all that 
 she gives me, but I cannot take that which she does not 
 give ; I neglect no opportunity offered to me of cultivating 
 myself on all sides as far as I can, but I do not create such 
 opportunity, because I cannot create it. If, on the contrary, 
 1 choose a class, a class being understood to be something 
 chosen by free will, according to the common use of 
 language, if I choose a class, I must first have become 
 subject to Nature before it was possible for me to choose ; 
 for to that end different impulses must be awakened with- 
 in me, different capacities elevated into consciousness ; but 
 in the choice itself I determine henceforward to leave en- 
 tirely out of consideration certain possible opportunities 
 which Nature may perchance offer to me, in order that I 
 may apply all my powers and all the gifts of Nature to 
 the exclusive development of one or more particular capa- 
 cities ; and by the particular capacity to the cultivation 
 of which I thus devote myself by free choice, will my class 
 or condition in society be determined. 
 
 The question arises, Ought I to choose a particular 
 class ? or, if the demand be not imperative, Dare I de- 
 vote myself to a particular class, that is, to a one-sided 
 culture ? If / ought, if it be absolute duty, then it must 
 be possible to educe from the highest laws of Reason an 
 impulse directed towards the selection of a class, as we 
 may educe from these laws the impulse towards society in 
 general. If I only may do this, then it will not be pos- 
 sible to educe such an impulse from the laws of Reason, 
 but only a permission ; and for the determination of the 
 will to the actual choice thus permitted by Reason, it 
 must be possible to assign some empirical data bj T means 
 of which, not a law, but only a rule of prudence, may be 
 
 z
 
 178 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 laid down. How this matter stands will be seen upon 
 further inquiry. 
 
 The law says, " Cultivate all thy faculties completely 
 and uniformly, so far as thou canst;" but it does not 
 determine whether I shall exercise them directly upon 
 Nature, or indirectly through intercourse with my fellow- 
 men. On this point the choice is thus left entirely to my 
 own prudence. The law says, " Subdue Nature to thy 
 purposes;" but it does not say that if I should find Na- 
 ture already sufficiently adapted to certain of my purposes 
 by other men, I should nevertheless myself adapt it to all 
 the possible purposes of humanity. Hence the law does 
 not forbid me to choose a particular class ; but neither does 
 it enjoin me to do so, for precisely the same reason which 
 prevents the prohibition. I am now in the field of Free- 
 Will ; / may choose a class, and I must now look out for 
 quite other grounds of determination than those which 
 are derived immediately from the law itself, on which to 
 resolve the question, not "What class shall I choose?" 
 (of this we shall speak at another time) but, " Shall 
 I choose any class at all, or shall I not ? " 
 
 As things are at present, man is born in society. He 
 finds Nature no longer rude, but already prepared in 
 many respects for his purposes. He finds a multitude of 
 men employed in its different departments, cultivating it 
 on every side for the use of rational beings. He finds 
 much already done which otherwise he would have had 
 to do for himself. He might perhaps enjoy a very plea- 
 sant existence without ever applying his own powers 
 immediately to Nature ; he might even attain a kind of 
 perfection by the enjoyment of what society has already 
 accomplished, and in particular of what it has done for 
 its own cultivation. But this may not be ; he must at 
 least endeavour to repay his debt to society ; he must 
 take his place among men ; he must at least strive to 
 forward in some respect the perfection of the race which 
 has done so much for him.
 
 LECTURE III. 179 
 
 And to that end two ways present themselves : either 
 he may determine to cultivate Nature on all sides ; and, 
 in this case, he would perhaps require to apply his whole 
 life, or many lives if he had them, even to acquire a know- 
 ledge of what has been already done by others before him 
 and of what remains to do ; and thus his life would be 
 lost to the human race, not indeed from evil intent, but 
 from lack of wisdom : or he may take up some particular 
 department of Nature, with the previous history of which 
 he is perhaps best acquainted, and for the cultivation of 
 which he is best adapted by natural capacity and social 
 training, and devote himself exclusively to that. In the 
 latter case, he leaves his own culture in its other depart- 
 ments to Society, whose culture in that department which 
 he has chosen for himself is the sole object of his re- 
 solves, his labours, his desires ; and thus he has selected 
 a class, and his doing so is perfectly legitimate. But still 
 this act of freedom is, like all others, subject to the uni- 
 versal moral law, in so far as that law is the rule of our 
 actions ; or to the categorical imperative, which I may 
 thus express : " Never let the determinations of thy will 
 be at variance with thyself ;" a law which, as expressed 
 in this formula, may be fulfilled by every one, since the 
 determinations of our will do not depend upon Nature 
 but on ourselves alone. 
 
 The choice of a class is a free choice ; therefore no man 
 whatever ought to be compelled to any particular class, 
 nor be shut out from any. Every individual action, as 
 well as every general arrangement, which proceeds on 
 such compulsion, is unjust. It is unwise to force a man 
 into one class, or to exclude him from another; because 
 no man can have a perfect knowledge of the peculiar 
 capacities of another, and because a member is often lost 
 to society altogether, in consequence of being thrust into 
 an improper place. But laying this out of view, such a 
 course is unjust in itself, for it sets our deed itself in
 
 180 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 opposition to our practical conception of it. We wish to 
 give society a member, aud we make a tool ; we wish to 
 have a free fellow-workman in the great business of life, 
 and we create an enslaved and passive instrument ; we 
 destroy the man within him, so far as we can do so by 
 our arrangements, and are guilty of an injury both to him 
 and to society. 
 
 We make choice of a particular class, we select one 
 particular talent for more extended cultivation, only 
 that we may thereby be enabled to render back to society 
 what it has done for us ; and thus each of us is bound to 
 make use of our culture for the advantage of society. No 
 one has a right to labour only for his own enjoyment, to 
 shut himself up from his fellow-men, and make his cul- 
 ture useless to them ; for it is only by the labour of 
 society that he has been placed in a position wherein he 
 could acquire that culture : it is in a certain sense a pro- 
 duct, a property of society ; and he robs society of a 
 property which belongs to it if he does not apply his cul- 
 ture to its use. It is the duty of every one, not only to 
 endeavour to make himself useful to society generally, 
 but also to direct all his efforts, according to the best 
 knowledge he possesses, towards the ultimate object of 
 society, towards the ever-increasing ennoblement of the 
 human race ; that is, to set it more and more at liberty 
 from the bondage of Nature, constantly to increase its 
 independence and spontaneous activity ; and thus, from 
 the new inequality of classes a new equality arises a uni- 
 form progress of culture in all individual men. 
 
 I do not say that human life is at any time such as I 
 have now depicted it ; but it ought to be so, according to 
 our practical ideas of society and of the different classes 
 it contains ; and we may and ought to labour that it may 
 become so in reality. How powerfully the Scholar in par- 
 ticular may contribute to this end, and how many means 
 for its accomplishment lie at his disposal, we shall see at 
 the proper time.
 
 LECTURE IIL 181 
 
 When we contemplate the idea now unfolded, even 
 without reference to ourselves, we see around us a com- 
 munity in which no one can labour for himself without at 
 the same time labouring for his fellow-men, or can labour 
 for others without also labouring for himself ; where the 
 success of one member is the success of all, and the loss 
 of one a loss to all : a picture which, by the harmony 
 it reveals in the manifold diversity of life, satisfies our 
 deepest aspirations, and powerfully raises the soul above 
 the things of time. 
 
 But the interest is heightened when we turn our thoughts 
 to ourselves, and contemplate ourselves as members of this 
 great spiritual community. The feeling of our dignity and 
 our power is increased when we say, what each of us 
 may say, "My existence is not in vain and aimless ; I 
 am a necessary link in the great chain of being which 
 reaches from the awakening of the first man to perfect 
 consciousness of his existence, onward through eternity ; 
 all the great and wise and noble that have ever appeared 
 among men, those benefactors of the human race whose 
 names I find recorded in the world's history, and the 
 many others whose benefits have outlived their names, 
 all have laboured for me ; I have entered into their 
 labours ; I follow their footsteps on this earth where they 
 dwelt, where they scattered blessings as they went along. 
 I may, as soon as I will, assume the sublime task which 
 they have resigned, of making our common brotherhood 
 ever wiser and happier ; I may continue to build where 
 they had to cease their labours ; I may bring nearer to 
 its completion the glorious temple which they had to 
 leave unfinished." 
 
 "But" some one may say "I too, like them, must 
 rest from my labours." Oh ! this is the sublimest thought 
 of all ! If I assume this noble task, I can never reach its 
 end ; and so surely as it is my vocation to assume it, I can 
 never cease to act, and hence can never cease to be. That
 
 182 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR 
 
 which men call Death cannot interrupt my activity ; for 
 my work must go on to its completion, and it cannot be 
 completed in Time ; hence my existence is not limited 
 by Time, and I am Eternal : with the assumption of this 
 great task, I have also laid hold of Eternity. I raise my 
 head boldly to the threatening rock, the raging flood, or 
 the fiery tempest, and say "I am Eternal, and I defy 
 your might ! Break all upon me ! and thou Earth, and 
 thou Heaven, mingle in the wild tumult, and all ye ele- 
 ments, foam and fret yourselves, and crush in your conflict 
 the last atom of the body which I call mine ! my WILL, 
 secure in its own firm purpose, shall soar undisturbed and 
 bold over the wreck of the universe : for I have entered 
 upon my vocation, and it is more enduring than ye are : 
 it is ETERNAL, and I am ETERNAL like it."
 
 ( 183 ) 
 
 LECTURE IV. 
 
 
 
 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 I HAVE to-day to speak of the Vocation of the Scholar. I 
 stand in a peculiar relation to this subject. All, or most 
 of you, have chosen knowledge as the business of your 
 lives; and I have made the same choice: all of you, I 
 presume, apply your whole energies, to fill honourably the 
 station to which you aspire ; and I too have done and do 
 the like. I have to speak as a Scholar, before future 
 Scholars, of the Scholar's vocation. I must examine the 
 subject to its foundation ; exhaust it, if I can ; hold back 
 nothing in my representation of the truth. And if I dis- 
 cover for the Scholar a vocatioo most honourable, most 
 lofty, and distinguished above that of all other classes 
 of men, how is it possible for me to lay it before you with- 
 out exceeding the limits of modest expression, without 
 seeming to undervalue other vocations, without being 
 apparently blinded by self-conceit ? But I speak as a phi- 
 losopher, whose duty it is strictly to define all his ideas. 
 I cannot exclude this idea from the system of which it is 
 a necessary part. I dare not keep back any part of the 
 truth which I recognise. It still remains true; and 
 modesty itself is subordinate to it : it is a false modesty 
 which is violated by truth. Let us then consider our sub- 
 ject in the first place with indifference, as if it had no
 
 184 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 relation to ourselves : let us treat it as an idea belonging 
 to a world quite foreign to our own. Let us on that 
 account look with the greater strictness to our arguments. 
 Let us never forget, what I hope I have already impressed 
 upon you with some success, that every station in life is 
 necessary ; that each deserves our respect ; that not the 
 station itself, but the worthy fulfilment of its duties, does 
 honour to a man ; and that we only merit esteem the 
 nearer we approach to the perfect performance of the 
 duties assigned to us in the order of things ; that there- 
 fore the Scholar has reason to be of all others the most 
 modest, because an aim is set before him of which he 
 must continually fall far short, because he has a most 
 elevated ideal to reach, which commonly he approaches 
 only at the greatest distance. 
 
 There are many tendencies and powers in man, and it 
 is the vocation of each individual to cultivate all his powers, 
 so far as he is able to do so. Among others is the social 
 impulse ; which offers him a new and peculiar form of 
 cultivation, that for society, and affords an unusual 
 facility for culture in general There is nothing prescribed 
 to man on this subject ; whether he shall cultivate all 
 his faculties as a whole, unaided and by nature alone, or 
 mediately through society. The first is difficult, and in 
 no wise advances society ; hence in the social state each 
 individual rightfully selects his own part of the common 
 culture, leaves the rest to his fellows, and expects that 
 they will allow him to share the benefits of their culture, 
 as he permits them to participate in the advantages of his 
 own : and this is the origin and ground of the distinction 
 of classes in society. 
 
 Such are the results arrived at in our previous dis- 
 courses. For an arrangement of these different classes 
 according to the ideas of Pure Reason, which is quite 
 possible, a foundation must be sought in a complete 
 enumeration of all the natural capacities and wants of
 
 LECTURE IV. 185 
 
 man; not, however, of his merely artificial wants. A 
 particular class in society may be devoted to the culti- 
 vation of each faculty, or, what is the same thing, to the 
 satisfaction of each want founded on an original impulse 
 in human nature. We reserve this inquiry for another 
 occasion, that we may now enter upon one which lies 
 nearer to us. 
 
 If a question should arise as to the perfection or imper- 
 fection of a state of society arranged on the principles 
 which we have already propounded, (and every society 
 does so arrange itself by the natural tendencies of man, 
 without foreign guidance, as was shown in our inquiry 
 into the origin of society), if, I say, such a question should 
 arise, the answer to it would pre-suppose the solution of 
 the following query : " Is the development and satisfac- 
 tion of all the wants of man, and indeed the harmonious 
 development and satisfaction of them all, provided for in 
 the given state of society ? " Is this provided for, then 
 the society, as a society, is perfect ; that is, not that it 
 has attained its final purpose, which as we have previous- 
 ly shown is impossible ; but that it is so arranged that it 
 must of necessity continually approximate thereto : is 
 this not provided for, then society may indeed by some 
 happy chance be impelled forward in the way of culture ; 
 but that cannot be calculated on with certainty, for it 
 may with as much probability be carried by some unlucky 
 occurrence in the opposite direction. 
 
 A provision for the harmonious development of all the 
 faculties of man pre-supposes an acquaintance with them 
 all, a knowledge of all his tendencies and w r ants, a 
 complete survey of his whole being. But this perfect 
 knowledge of human nature is itself founded on a faculty 
 which must be developed ; for there is certainly an im- 
 pulse in man to know, and particularly to know that which 
 affects himself. The development of this faculty, how- 
 ever, demands all the time and energy of a man : if there 
 
 Aa
 
 186 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 be any want common to mankind which urgently requires 
 that a particular class be set aside for its satisfaction, it is 
 this. 
 
 The mere knowledge, however, of the faculties and 
 wants of man, without an acquaintance with the means of 
 developing and satisfying them, would be not only a most 
 sorrowful and discouraging, but also a vain and perfectly 
 useless, acquirement. He acts a most unfriendly part 
 towards me, who points out to me my defects without at 
 the same time showing me the means supplying them ; 
 who raises me to the feeling of my wants without enabling 
 me to satisfy them. Would that he had rather left me 
 in brutish ignorance ! In short, this would not be such 
 knowledge as society requires, and for which a particu- 
 lar class of men is needed, to whom the possession of it 
 may be committed ; for this knowledge does not aim at 
 the perfection of the species, and through that perfec- 
 tion at its harmonious combination, as it ought to do : 
 hence to this knowledge of wants there must be added a 
 knowledge of the means Tyy which they may be satisfied ; 
 and this knowledge properly devolves upon the same class, 
 because the one cannot be complete, and still less can it 
 be active and living, without the other. Knowledge of 
 the first kind is founded on the principles of Pure Reason, 
 and is philosophical ; that of the second, partly on Ex- 
 perience, and is in so far philosophico-historical ; not 
 merely historical, for I must connect the purposes which 
 can only be recognised philosophically, with their appro- 
 priate objects revealed in Experience, in order to be able 
 to recognise the latter as the means to the attainment of 
 the former. 
 
 If, however, this knowledge is to become useful to 
 society, it is not sufficient to ascertain what faculties be- 
 long essentially to man, and through what means they may 
 be developed ; such knowledge would still remain quite 
 unproductive. It must proceed a step farther, in order to
 
 LECTURE IV. 187 
 
 secure the wished-for benefits : we must also know on 
 what particular grade of cultivation the society to which 
 we belong stands at a particular point of time ; to what 
 particular stage it has next to ascend, and what are the 
 means at its command for that purpose. Now on the 
 grounds of Reason alone ; on the supposition of Experi- 
 ence in the abstract, but prior to all actual Experience, 
 we can calculate the direction which human progress must 
 take ; we can declare approximately the particular steps 
 by which it must pass to the attainment of a definite 
 stage of cultivation ; but to declare the particular step 
 on which it actually stands at a given point of time is 
 impossible for Reason alone ; for this, Experience must be 
 questioned, the events of the past must be examined, but 
 with an eye purified by philosophy; we must look around 
 us, and consider our contemporaries. This last part of the 
 knowledge needful to society is thus purely historical. 
 
 The three branches of knowledge which we have pointed 
 out, when combined together (and without such union 
 they will be found of but little avail) constitute what 
 is called learning, or at least what alone ought to be so 
 called ; and he who devotes his life to the acquisition of 
 this knowledge is a Scholar. 
 
 But every individual must not attempt to grasp the 
 whole extent of human learning in all these three forms 
 of knowledge ; that would be impossible for most men ; 
 and therefore the striving after it would be fruitless, and 
 the whole life of a member, who might have been of much 
 value to society, would disappear without society reaping 
 the slightest advantage from it. Each individual may 
 mark out for himself a particular portion of this territory ; 
 but each ought to cultivate his part according to all the 
 three views, philosophically, philosophico-historically, and 
 historically. And I now declare beforehand (what I shall 
 further illustrate at another time) that you may in the 
 meantime at least receive it on my testimony, that the
 
 188 THE VOCATION OF TUB SCHOLAR. 
 
 study of a profound philosophy does not render the acqui- 
 sition of empirical knowledge a superfluous labour, if that 
 knowledge be well grounded ; but that it rather proves 
 the necessity of such knowledge in the most convincing 
 manner. The common purpose of these different branches 
 of knowledge has already been pointed out ; viz. that 
 by their means provision may be made for the uniform 
 but constantly progressive development of all the faculties 
 of man : and hence arises the true vocation of the 
 Scholar ; the most widely extended survey of the actual ad- 
 vancement of the human race in general, and the steadfast 
 promotion of that advancement. I must impose some re- 
 straint upon myself, that I may not allow my feelings to 
 expatiate upon the elevated idea which is now brought 
 before you ; the path of rigid inquiry is not yet ended. 
 Yet T must remark, in passing, what it really is which 
 they would do who should seek to check the free progress 
 of knowledge. I say would do ; for how can I know whether 
 such persons really exist or not ? Upon the progress of 
 knowledge the whole progress of the human race is imme- 
 diately dependent : he who retards that, hinders this also. 
 And he who hinders this, what character does he assume 
 towards his age and posterity ? Louder than with a thou- 
 sand voices, by his actions he proclaims into the deafened 
 ear of the world present and to come " As long as I live 
 at least, the men around me shall not become wiser or 
 better ; for in their progress I too, notwithstanding all 
 my efforts to the contrary, should be dragged forward in 
 some direction ; and this I detest. I will not become 
 more enlightened, I will not become nobler. Darkness 
 and perversion are my elements, and I will summon all my 
 powers together that I may not be dislodged from them." 
 
 Humanity may endure the loss of everything : all its 
 
 possessions may be torn away without infringing its true 
 dignity ; all but the possibility of improvement. Coldly 
 and craftily, as the enemy of mankind pictured to us in
 
 LECTURE IV. 189 
 
 the Bible, these foes of man have calculated and devised 
 their schemes, and explored the holiest depths to discover 
 a point at which to assail humanity, so that they might 
 crush it in the bud ; and they have found it. Humanity 
 
 turns indignantly from the picture. We return to 
 
 our investigation. 
 
 Knowledge is itself a branch of human culture ; that 
 branch must itself be further advanced if all the faculties 
 of man are to be continuously developed ; hence it is the 
 duty of the Scholar, as of every man who has chosen a 
 particular condition of life, to strive for the advancement 
 of knowledge, and chiefly of his own peculiar department 
 of knowledge ; it is his duty as it is the duty of every 
 man in his own department ; yes, and it is much more 
 his duty. It is for him to watch over and promote the 
 advancement of other departments ; and shall he himself 
 not advance ? Upon his progress, the progress of all other 
 departments of human culture is dependent : he should 
 always be in advance to open the way for others, to ex- 
 plore their future path, and to lead them forward upon it ; 
 and shall he remain behind ? From that moment he 
 would cease to be what he ought to be ; and being nothing 
 else, would then be nothing. I do not say that every 
 Scholar must actually extend the domain of knowledge, 
 that may not be within his power : but I do say that he 
 must strive to extend it ; that he must not rest, that he 
 must not think his duty sufficiently performed, until he 
 have extended it. So long as he lives he may yet 
 accomplish this. Does death overtake him before he has 
 attained his purpose ? then he is released from his duties 
 in this world of appearances, and his earnest endeavour 
 will be accounted to him for the deed. If the following 
 maxim be applicable to all men, it is more especially 
 applicable to the Scholar: that he forget what he has 
 done as soon as it is accomplished, and constantly direct 
 his whole thoughts upon what he has yet to do. He has
 
 190 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAB. 
 
 advanced but little way indeed, whose field of exertion 
 does not extend its boundaries at every step he takes in it. 
 
 The Scholar is destined in a peculiar manner for 
 society : his class, more than any other, exists only through 
 society and for society : it is thus his peculiar duty to 
 cultivate the social talents, an openness to receive, and 
 a readiness to communicate knowledge, in the first place 
 and in the highest degree. Receptivity must already be 
 developed in him if he has thoroughly mastered the 
 requisite empirical sciences. He must be thoroughly con- 
 versant with the labours of those who have gone before 
 him in his own department, and this knowledge he cannot 
 have acquired otherwise than by instruction, either oral 
 or literary ; he cannot have arrived at it by mere re- 
 flection on the principles of Reason. But he should at 
 all times maintain this receptivity by means of new 
 acquirements, and endeavour to preserve himself from a 
 growing insensibility to foreign opinions and modes of 
 thought, which is so common even among the most inde- 
 pendent thinkers ; for no one is so well informed but he 
 may still continue to learn, and may have something very 
 necessary yet to learn ; and it is seldom that any one is 
 so ignorant that he cannot teach something to the most 
 learned, which the latter did not know before. Readiness 
 of communication is always needed by the Scholar, for he 
 possesses his knowledge not for himself, but for society. 
 This he must practise from his youth, and keep in con- 
 stant activity, through what means, we shall inquire at 
 the proper time. 
 
 The knowledge which he has acquired for society he 
 must now actually apply to the uses of society ; he must 
 rouse men to the feeling of their true wants, and make 
 them acquainted with the means of satisfying these. Not 
 that he should enter with them into the deep inquiries 
 which he himself has been obliged to undertake, in order 
 to find some certain and secure foundation of truth : that
 
 LECTURE IV. 191 
 
 would be an attempt to make all men Scholars like him- 
 self, which is impossible, and of no advantage for the 
 purposes of life ; the other forms of human activity must 
 also be prosecuted, and to that end there are other classes 
 of men ; if they devoted their time to learned inquiries, 
 the Scholars themselves would soon cease to be Scholars. 
 How then can he spread abroad his knowledge, and how 
 ought he to do so ? Society could not subsist without trust 
 in the honesty and skill of others ; this confidence is 
 deeply impressed upon our hearts, and by a peculiar 
 favour of Nature we never possess it in a higher degree 
 than when we most need the honesty and skill of others. 
 The Scholar may securely reckon upon this trust in his 
 honesty and skill, as soon as he has earned it as he ought. 
 Further, there is in all men a feeling of truth, which 
 indeed is not sufficient in itself, but must be developed, 
 proved, and purified; and to do this is the task of 
 the Scholar. This feeling is not sufficient in itself to 
 lead the unlearned to all the truth of which they stand in 
 need; but when it has not become artificially falsified 
 (which indeed is often the work of some who call them- 
 selves Scholars) it is always sufficient to enable them, 
 even without deep argument, to recognise truth when 
 another leads them to her presence. On this intuitive 
 feeling of truth the Scholar too may rely. Thus, so far as 
 we have yet unfolded the idea of his vocation, the Scholar 
 is, by virtue of it, the Teacher of the human race. 
 
 But he has not only to make men generally acquainted 
 with their wants, and with the means of satisfying these 
 wants ; he has likewise, in particular, at all times and in 
 all places, to teach them the wants arising out of the special 
 condition in which they stand, and to lead them to the 
 appropriate means of reaching the peculiar objects which 
 they are there called upon to attain. He sees not merely 
 the present, he sees also the future : he sees not merely 
 the point which humanity now occupies, but also that to
 
 192 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 which it must next advance if it remain true to its final 
 end, and do not wander or turn back from its legitimate 
 path. He cannot desire to hurry forward humanity at 
 once to the goal which perhaps gleams brightly before his 
 own vision ; the road cannot be overleaped ; he must 
 only take care that it do not stand still, and that it do 
 not turn back. In this respect the Scholar is the Guide 
 of the human race. 
 
 I remark here expressly, that in this as in all his other 
 avocations, the Scholar is subject to the rule of the moral 
 law, of the requisite harmony of his own being. He 
 acts upon society ; it is founded on the idea of freedom ; 
 it, and every member of it, is free ; and he dares not 
 approach it otherwise than by moral means. The Scholar 
 will never be tempted to bring men to the adoption of 
 his convictions by coercion or the use of physical force : 
 in the present age it ought to be unnecessary to throw 
 away a single word upon this folly : neither will he 
 deceive them. Setting aside the fact that he would there- 
 by offend against himself, and that the duties of the man 
 are in every case higher than those of the Scholar : he 
 would also thereby offend against society. Each individual 
 in society ought to act from his own free choice, from his 
 own mature and settled conviction ; he ought to be able 
 to look upon himself as a joint object of all his actions, 
 and be regarded as such by all his fellow-men. He who 
 is deceived, is used only as a means by which another 
 may attain his purpose. 
 
 The ultimate purpose of each individual man, as well as 
 of all society, and consequently of all the labours of the 
 Scholar in society, is the moral elevation of all men. It 
 is the duty of the Scholar to have this final object con- 
 stantly in view, never to lose sight of it in all that he 
 does in society. But no one can successfully labour for 
 the moral improvement of his species who is not himself 
 a good man. We do not teach by words alone, we also
 
 LECTURE IV. 193 
 
 teach much more impressively by example ; and every 
 one who lives in society owes it a good example, because 
 the power of example has its origin in the social relation. 
 How much more is this due from the Scholar, who ought 
 to be before all others in every branch of human culture ? 
 If he be behind in the first and highest of them all, that 
 to which all the others tend, how can he be the pattern 
 which he ought to be, and how can he suppose that others 
 will follow his teachings, which he himself contradicts be- 
 fore all men in every action of his life ? The words which 
 the founder of the Christian Religion addressed to his 
 disciples apply with peculiar force to the Scholar, " Ye 
 are the salt of the earth : if the salt have lost its savour, 
 wherewith shall it be salted ? " if the chosen among men 
 be depraved, where shall we seek for moral good ? Thus, 
 in this last respect, the Scholar ought to be morally the 
 best man of his age ; he ought to exhibit in himself the 
 highest grade of moral culture then possible. 
 
 This is our common vocation, this our common^destiny. 
 A happy vocation it is which calls upon you to do that, as 
 your own peculiar occupation, which all men must do by 
 reason of their common destiny as men ; to employ all 
 your time and powers upon that alone for which other 
 men must hoard up time and power with wise parsimony ; 
 to have for your employment, your business, the sole every- 
 day labour of your life, what only comes to others as sweet 
 refreshment after toil ! It is an invigorating, soul-ele- 
 vating thought which each one among you, who is worthy 
 of his calling, may entertain, " To me also, for my part, is 
 entrusted the culture of my own and following ages ; from 
 my labours will proceed the course of future generations, 
 the history of nations who are yet to be. To this am I 
 called, to bear witness to the Truth : my life, my fortunes 
 are of little moment ; the results of my life are of infinite 
 moment. I am a Priest of Truth ; I am in her pay ; I 
 have bound myself to do all things, to venture all things, 
 
 B a
 
 194 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 to suffer all things for her. If I should be persecuted and 
 hated for her sake, if I should even meet death in her 
 service, what wonderful thing is it I shall have done ? 
 what but that which I clearly ought to do ?" 
 
 I know how much I have now said ; I know too, 
 that an effeminate and nerveless generation will tolerate 
 neither these feelings nor the expression of them ; that 
 with a timorous voice which betrays its inward shame, it 
 stigmatizes as extravagance everything which is above its 
 reach; that it turns away its eyes with agony from a 
 picture in which it beholds nothing but its own enerva- 
 tion and disgrace ; that everything vigorous and elevating 
 is to it as every touch to one diseased in all his limbs. I 
 know all this ; but I know too where I speak. I speak 
 before young men who are at present secured by their 
 youth against this utter enervation ; and along with a 
 manly morality, and by means of it, I would deeply impress 
 such feelings on their souls as may preserve them for the 
 future also from such effeminacy. I avow it freely, that 
 from the point on which Providence has placed me, I too 
 would willingly contribute something to extend in every 
 direction, as far as my native tongue can reach and farther 
 if possible, a more manly tone of thought, a stronger sense 
 of elevation and dignity, a more ardent zeal to fulfil our 
 destiny at every hazard; so that when you shall have 
 left this place and are scattered abroad in all directions, 
 I may one day know in you, wherever you may dwell, 
 men whose chosen friend is Truth, who adhere to her in 
 life and in death, who receive her when she is cast out 
 by all the world, who take her openly under their protec- 
 tion when she is traduced and calumniated, who for her 
 sake will joyfully bear the cunningly concealed enmity 
 of the great, the dull sneer of the coxcomb, and the com- 
 passionating shrug of the fool. With this view I have now 
 spoken ; and in everything which I may address to you 
 in future, I shall have the same ultimate design.
 
 ( 195 ) 
 
 LECTURE V. 
 
 EXAMINATION OF ROUSSEAU'S DOCTRINES CONCERNING 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF ART AND SCIENCE 
 
 ON THE WELL-BEING OF MAN. 
 
 THE combating of error is of no important advantage in 
 the discovery of truth. If truth be once derived by just 
 deduction from its essential principles, it follows without 
 express refutation that everything opposed to it must 
 necessarily be false ; and if the whole path, which must 
 be traversed in order to arrive at certain knowledge, lie 
 clear before our view, we can at the same time easily 
 observe the by-ways which lead from it towards erroneous 
 opinions, and shall even be able readily to indicate to 
 every wanderer the precise point from which he has gone 
 astray. For every truth can be derived only from one 
 fundamental principle. What the fundamental principle 
 is, upon which each problem of human knowledge may be 
 solved, it is the province of a fundamental philosophy to 
 declare; how each principle should be followed out to 
 its consequences, universal logic must teach ; and thus 
 the true as well as the false may be easily ascertained. 
 
 But the consideration of opposite opinions is of great 
 value in imparting distinct and clear views of discovered 
 truth. In comparing truth with error, we are obliged to 
 note with greater accuracy the distinctive marks of both ; 
 and our conceptions of them acquire sharper precision
 
 196 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 and greater clearness. I now avail myself of this method 
 to give you a short and plain view of what has been 
 already brought forward in these lectures. 
 
 I have placed the vocation of man in the continual 
 advancement of culture, and in the harmonious develop- 
 ment of all his faculties and wants ; and I have assigned 
 to that class whose duty it is to watch over the progress 
 and harmony of this development, a most honourable 
 place in human society. 
 
 No man has opposed this truth more decidedly, on 
 more plausible grounds, or with more powerful eloquence, 
 than Rousseau. To him the advancement of culture is 
 the sole cause of all human depravity. According to him 
 there is no salvation for man but in a State of Nature ; 
 and what indeed flows most accurately from his prin- 
 ciples that class of men who most effectually promote 
 the advancement of culture, the Scholar-class, is at 
 once the source and centre of all human misery and 
 corruption. 
 
 Such a theory has been propounded by a man who has 
 himself cultivated his mental faculties in a very high 
 degree. With all the power which he acquired by this 
 superior cultivation, he laboured, wherever it was possible, 
 to convince mankind of the justice of his doctrines, to 
 persuade them to return to that State of Nature which 
 he so much commended. To him retrogression was pro- 
 gress, and that forsaken State of Nature the ultimate end 
 which a now marred and perverted humanity must finally 
 attain. Thus he did precisely that which we do, he la- 
 boured to advance humanity according to his own ideas, 
 and to aid its progress towards its highest end. He did 
 that precisely which he himself so bitterly censured ; his 
 actions stand in opposition to his principles. 
 
 The same contradiction reigns in his principles them- 
 selves. What excited him to action but some impulse 
 of his heart ? Had he examined into this impulse, and
 
 LECTURE V. 197 
 
 connected it with that which led him into error, he would 
 then have had unity and harmony both in his actions and 
 in his conclusions. If we can reconcile the first contra- 
 diction, we shall, at the same time, have reconciled the 
 second ; the point of agreement of the first is likewise 
 that of the second. We shall discover this point, we shall 
 solve the contradiction, we shall understand Rousseau 
 better than he understood himself, and we shall then 
 discover him to be in perfect harmony with himself and 
 with us. 
 
 Whence did Rousseau derive this extraordinary theory, 
 maintained indeed partially by others before him, but as 
 a whole so completely opposed to the general faith ? Did 
 he deduce it by reason from some higher principle ? Oh 
 no ! Rousseau did not penetrate on any side to the con- 
 fines of human knowledge ; he does not appear ever to 
 have proposed such an investigation to himself. What 
 truth he possessed, he founded immediately on his feelings ; 
 and his knowledge has therefore the faults common to all 
 knowledge founded on mere undeveloped feeling, that 
 it is partly uncertain, because man cannot render to him- 
 self a complete account of his feelings ; that the true is 
 mixed up with the untrue, because a judgment resting 
 upon feeling alone regards as of like meaning things which 
 are yet essentially different. Feeling does not err; but 
 the judgment errs, because it misinterprets feeling, and 
 mistakes a compound for a pure feeling. From these 
 undeveloped feelings, upon which Rousseau grounds his 
 reflections, he proceeds with perfect justice : once in the 
 region of syllogism, he is in harmony with himself, and 
 hence carries the reader who can think with him, irre- 
 sistibly along. Had he allowed his feelings to influence 
 the course of his inquiries, they would have brought him 
 back to the right path from which they had first led him 
 astray. To have erred less than he did, Rousseau must 
 have possessed either more or less acuteness of intellect
 
 198 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 than he actually did possess ; and so he who reads his 
 works must, in order not to be led astray by them, 
 possess either a much higher or a much lower degree of 
 acuteness than he possessed ; he must be either a com- 
 plete thinker, or no thinker at all. 
 
 Separated from the great world, and guided by his pure 
 feeling and lively imagination, Rousseau had sketched a 
 picture of society, and particularly of the Scholar-class, 
 with whose labours he especially occupied himself, as 
 they ought to be, and as they necessarily must and would 
 be, if they followed the guidance of common feeling. He 
 came into the great world ; he cast his eyes around him, 
 and what were his sensations when the world and its 
 Scholars, as they actually were, met his gaze ! He saw, at 
 its most fearful extreme, that scene which every one may 
 see who turns his eyes towards it ; * men bowed down 
 to the dust like beasts, chained to the earth regardless of 
 their high dignity and the divinity within them ; saw 
 their joys, their sorrows, their whole existence, dependent 
 on the satisfaction of a base sensuality whose demands rose 
 higher with every gratification ; saw them careless of 
 right or wrong, hoty or unholy, in the satisfaction of their 
 appetites, and ever ready to sacrifice humanity itself to 
 the desire of the moment ; saw them ultimately lose all 
 sense of right and wrong, and place wisdom in selfish cun- 
 ning, and duty in the gratification of lust ; saw them at 
 last place their glory in this degradation and their honour 
 in this shame, and even look down with contempt on 
 those who were not so wise, and not so virtuous as them- 
 selves ; saw those who ought to have been the teachers 
 and guides of the nation sunk into the accommodating 
 slaves of its corruption ; those who ought to have given 
 to the age a character of wisdom and of earnestness, 
 
 * The reader will bear in mind that these Lectures were delivered in 
 1794, during the Revolutionary Epoch in France.
 
 LECTURE V. 199 
 
 assiduously catching the tones of the reigning folly and the 
 predominant vice ; heard them ask, for the guidance of 
 their inquiries, not, Is it true ? is it good and noble ? but, 
 Will it be well received ? not, What will humanity gain 
 by it ? but, What shall / gain by it ? how much gold, or 
 what prince's favour, or what beauty's smile ? saw them 
 even look on this mode of thought as their highest honour, 
 and bestow a compassionating shrug on the imbeciles who 
 understood not like, them to propitiate the spirit of the 
 time ; saw talent, and art, and knowledge, united in the 
 despicable task of extorting a more delicate enjoyment 
 from nerves already wasted in pleasure, or in the detes- 
 table attempt to palliate or justify human depravity, to 
 raise it to the rank of virtue, and wholly demolish every- 
 thing which yet placed a barrier in its way ; saw at 
 length, and learned it by his own unhappy experience, 
 that those unworthy men were sunk so low that the 
 last misgiving which truth once produced within them, 
 the last doubt which its presence called into being, having 
 utterly disappeared, they became quite incapable of even 
 examining its principles ; that even with the demand for 
 inquiry ringing in their ears, they could only answer, 
 " Enough ! it is not true, we do not wish it to be true, for 
 it is no gain to us." He saw all this, and his strained and 
 disappointed feelings revolted against it. With deep in- 
 dignation he rebuked his Age. 
 
 Let us not blame him for this sensibility, it is the 
 mark of a noble soul : he who feels the godlike within 
 him, will often thus sigh upwards to eternal Providence : 
 " These then are my brethren ! these the companions 
 whom thou hast given me on the path of earthly exis- 
 tence ! Yes, they bear my shape, but our minds and 
 hearts are not related ; my words are to them a foreign 
 speech, and theirs to me : I hear the sound of their voices, 
 but there is nothing in my heart to give them a mean- 
 ing ! Oh eternal Providence ! wherefore didst thou cause
 
 200 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 me to be born among such men ? or if it were necessary 
 that I should be born among them, wherefore didst thou 
 give me these feelings, this ]onging presentiment of some- 
 thing better and higher ? why didst thou not make me 
 like them ? why didst thou not make me base even as 
 they are ? I could then have lived contentedly among 
 them." Ye do well to reprove his melancholy, and censure 
 his discontent, ye to whom all around you seems good ; ye 
 do well to commend to him the contentment with which 
 ye derive enjoyment from all things, and the modesty with 
 which ye accept men as they are ! He would have been 
 as modest as ye are, had he been tormented with as few 
 noble aspirations. Ye cannot rise to the conception of a 
 better state, and for you truly the present is well enough. 
 
 In this fulness of bitter feeling, Rousseau was now 
 incapable of seeing anything but the object which had 
 called it forth. Sensualism reigned triumphant ; that was 
 the source of the evil : he would know how to destroy 
 this empire of sensualism at all hazards, cost what it 
 might. No wonder that he fell into the opposite ex- 
 treme. Sensualism shall not reign; it cannot reign 
 when it is destroyed, when it ceases to exist ; or when 
 it is not developed, when it has not acquired power. 
 Hence Rousseau's State of Nature. 
 
 In the State of Nature the faculties peculiar to man 
 shall not be cultivated ; they shall not even be distin- 
 guished. Man shall have no other wants than those of 
 his animal nature ; he shall live like the beast on the 
 meadow beside him. It is true that in this State none of 
 those crimes against which Rousseau's feelings so strong- 
 ly revolted would find a place ; man would eat when he 
 hungered, and drink when he was athirst, whatever he 
 found before him ; and, when satisfied, would have no 
 interest in depriving others of that which he could not 
 use himself. Once satiated himself, any one might eat 
 or drink before him what and how much soever he would,
 
 LECTURE V. 201 
 
 for now he desires rest, and has no time to disturb others. 
 In the anticipation of the future lies the true character of 
 humanity ; it is therefore the source of all human vice. 
 Shut out the source, and vice is no more ; and Rousseau 
 did effectually exclude it from his State of Nature. 
 
 But it is also true that man, as surely as he is man and not 
 a beast, is not destined to remain in this condition. Vice, 
 indeed, would thus cease ; but with it Virtue, and Reason 
 too, would be destroyed. Man becomes an irrational crea- 
 ture ; there is a new race of animals ; men no longer exist. 
 
 There can be no doubt that Rousseau acted honourably 
 with men : he longed himself to live in that State of 
 Nature which he so warmly recommended to others, and 
 showed throughout every indication of this desire. We 
 may then put the question to him, what was it in truth 
 which he sought in this State of Nature ? He felt him- 
 self imprisoned, crushed down by manifold wants, and 
 what is indeed no great evil to the majority of men, but 
 the bitterest oppression to such a man as he was, he was 
 often seduced from the path of rectitude and virtue by 
 these wants. Living in a State of Nature, he thought he 
 should be without these wants ; and be spared so much 
 pain from their denial, and so much yet bitterer pain 
 from their dishonourable gratification ; he should then 
 be at peace with himself. He also found himself oppressed 
 on every side by others, because he stood in the way of 
 the satisfaction of their desires. Man does not do evil in 
 vain and for no purpose, thought Rousseau, and we with 
 him ; none of those who injured him would have done so, 
 had they not felt these desires. Had all around him lived 
 in a State of Nature, he should then have been at peace 
 with others. Thus Rousseau desired undisturbed tranquil- 
 lity within and without. Well : but we inquire further 
 To what purpose would he apply this unruffled peace ? 
 Undoubtedly to that to which he applied the measure of 
 rest that did actually belong to him ; to reflection on his 
 
 C a
 
 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAE. 
 
 destiny and his duties, thereby to ennoble himself and his 
 fellow-men. But how was that possible in the state of 
 animalism which he assumed, how was it possible with- 
 out the previous culture which he could only obtain in 
 the state of civilization ? He thus insensibly transplanted 
 himself and society into this State of Nature, with all that 
 cultivation which they could only acquire by coming out of 
 the State of Nature ; he imperceptibly assumed that they 
 had already left it and had traversed the whole path of 
 civilization, and yet had not left it and had not become 
 civilized. And thus we have arrived at Rousseau's false 
 assumption, and are now able to solve his paradoxes with- 
 out any serious difficulty. 
 
 Rousseau would not transplant men back into a State 
 of Nature with respect to spiritual culture, but only with 
 respect to independence of the desires of sense. And it 
 is certainly true, that as man approaches nearer to the 
 highest end of his existence, it must constantly become 
 easier for him to satisfy his sensual wants ; that his 
 physical existence must cost him less labour and care ; 
 that the fruitfulness of the soil must increase, the climate 
 become milder; an innumerable multitude of new dis- 
 coveries and inventions be made to diversify and facili- 
 tate the means of subsistence ; that further, as Reason 
 extends her dominion, the wants of man will constantly 
 diminish in strength, not as in a rude State of Nature in 
 which he is ignorant of the delights of life, but because 
 he can bear their deprivation ; he will be ever equally 
 ready to enjoy the best with relish, when it can be en- 
 joyed without violation of duty, and to endure the want of 
 everything which he cannot obtain with honour. Is this 
 state considered ideal ? in which respect it is unattainable 
 like every other Ideal State, then it is identical with the 
 golden age of sensual enjoyment without physical labour 
 which the old poets describe. Thus what Rousseau, under 
 the name of the State of Nature, and these poets under 
 the title of the Golden Age, place behind us } lies actually
 
 
 LECTURE V. 203 
 
 before vs. (It may be remarked in passing, that it is a phe- 
 nomenon of frequent occurrence, particularly in past ages, 
 that what we shall become is pictured as something which 
 we already have been ; and that what we have to attain is 
 represented as something which we have formerly lost : 
 a phenomenon which has its proper foundation in human 
 nature, and which I shall explain on a suitable occasion.) 
 
 Rousseau forgot that humanity can and ought to ap- 
 proach nearer to this state only by care, toil, and struggle. 
 Nature is rude and savage without the hand of man : 
 and it should be so, that thereby man may be forced to 
 leave his natural state of inactivity, and elaborate her 
 stores ; that thereby he himself, instead of a mere product 
 of Nature, may become a free reasonable being. He does 
 most certainly leave it ; he plucks at all hazards the apple 
 of knowledge, for the impulse is indestructibly implanted 
 within him, to be like God. The first step from this state 
 leads him to misery and toil : his wants are awakened, 
 and clamorously demand gratification. But man is na- 
 turally indolent and sluggish, like matter from whence he 
 proceeded. Hence arises the hard struggle between want 
 and indolence : the first triumphs, but the latter bitterly 
 complains. Now in the sweat of his brow he tills the 
 field, and it frets him that it should bear thorns and 
 thistles which he must uproot. Want is not the source 
 of vice, it is the motive to activity and virtue ; indolence, 
 sluggishness, is the source of all vice. How to enjoy as much 
 as possible, how to do as little as possible ? this is the 
 question of a perverted nature, and the various attempts 
 made to answer this question are its crimes. There is no 
 salvation for man until this natural sluggishness is suc- 
 cessfully combated, until he find all his pleasures and 
 enjoyments in activity, and in activity alone. To that 
 end pain is associated with the feeling of want. It should 
 rouse us to activity. 
 
 This is the object of all pain ; it is peculiarly the object 
 of that pain which we experience at every view of the
 
 $04 THE VOCATION OF THE SCHOLAK. 
 
 imperfection, depravity, and misery of our fellow men. 
 He who does not feel this pain, this bitter indignation, is 
 a mean-souled man. He who does feel it, ought to en- 
 deavour to release himself from it, by directing all his 
 powers to the task of improving, as far as possible, all 
 within his sphere and around him. And even supposing 
 that his labours should prove fruitless, and he should see 
 no use in their continuance, still the feeling of his own 
 activity, the consciousness of his own power which he calls 
 forth to the struggle against the general depravity, will 
 cause him to forget this pain. Here Rousseau failed. 
 He had energy, but energy rather of suffering than of ac- 
 tion ;> he felt strongly the miseries of mankind, but he 
 was far less conscious of his own power to remedy them ; 
 and thus as he felt himself he judged of others ; as he 
 conducted himself amid his own peculiar sorrows, so did 
 humanity at large, in his view, endure the common lot. 
 He took account of its sorrows ; but he forgot the power 
 which the human race possesses, to help itself. 
 
 Peace be with his ashes, and blessings upon his memory ! 
 He has done his work. He has kindled fire in many souls, 
 who have carried on what he began. But he wrought 
 almost without being conscious of his own influence ; 
 he wrought without intending to rouse others to the 
 work, without weighing their labour against the sum 
 of general evil and depravity. This want of endeavour 
 after self-activity reigns throughout his whole system of 
 ideas. He is the man of passive sensibility, not at the 
 same time of proper active resistance to its power. His 
 lovers, led astray by passion, become virtuous ; but we do 
 not rightly perceive how they become so. The struggle 
 of reason against passion, the victory, gradual and slow, 
 gained only by exertion, labour, and pain, that most 
 interesting and instructive of all spectacles, he conceals 
 from our view. His pupil is developed by himself alone. 
 The teacher does little more than remove the obstructions 
 to his growth, and leave the rest to the care of Nature.
 
 LECTURE V. 205 
 
 She must henceforth and for ever retain him under her 
 guardianship. The energy, ardour, and firm determina- 
 tion to war against and to subdue her, he has not taught 
 him. Among good men he will be happy ; but among bad, 
 and where is it that the majority are not bad ? he will 
 suffer unspeakable misery. Thus Rousseau throughout 
 depicted Reason at peace, but not in strife ; he weakened 
 Sense, instead of strengthening Reason. 
 
 I have undertaken the present inquiry in order to solve 
 the famous paradox which stood so directly opposed to 
 our principles : but not for that purpose alone. I would 
 at the same time show you, by the example of one of the 
 greatest men of our own age, what you ought not to be. I 
 would, by his example, unfold to you an important lesson 
 for your whole life. You are now learning, by philosophic 
 inquiry, what the men ought to be with whom you have 
 not as yet generally entered into any near, close, and 
 indissoluble relations. You will soon come into closer re- 
 lations with them. You will find them very different in 
 reality from what your philosophy would have them to 
 be. The nobler and better you are yourselves, the more 
 painfully will you feel the experience which awaits you. 
 Be not overcome by this pain, but overcome it by action : 
 it does not exist without a purpose ; it is a part of the 
 plan of human improvement. To stand aloof and lament 
 over the corruption of man, without stretching forth a 
 hand to diminish it, is weak effeminacy ; to cast reproach 
 and bitter scorn on man, without showing him how he can 
 become better, is unfriendly. Act ! act ! it is to that end 
 we are here. Should we fret ourselves that others are 
 not so perfect as we are, when we ourselves are only some- 
 what less imperfect than they ? Is not this our greatest 
 perfection, the vocation which has been given to us, 
 that we must labour for the perfecting of others ? Let us 
 rejoice in the prospect of that widely extended field which 
 we are called to cultivate ! Let us rejoice that power is 
 given to us, and that our task is infinite !
 
 ON 
 
 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR 
 
 AND ITS 
 
 MANIFESTATIONS 
 
 LECTURES 
 
 DELIVERED AT ERLANGEN 
 1805. 
 
 \
 
 LECTURE I. GENERAL PLAN. 
 
 II. CLOSER DEFINITION OF THE MEANING or THE DIVINE 
 IDEA. 
 
 III. OF THE PROGRESSIVE SCHOLAR GENERALLY, AND IN 
 
 PARTICULAR OF GENIUS AND INDUSTRY. 
 
 IV. OF INTEGRITY IN STUDY. 
 
 V. How THE INTEGRITY OF THE STUDENT MANIFESTS ITSELF. 
 VI. OF ACADEMICAL FREEDOM. 
 VII. OF THE FINISHED SCHOLAR IN GENERAL, 
 VIII. OF THE SCHOLAR AS RULER. 
 IX. OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER* 
 X. OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR.
 
 ( 209 ) 
 
 LECTURE I. 
 
 GENERAL PLAN. 
 
 I NOW open the course of public lectures which I have 
 announced on the roll under the title " De Moribus Eru- 
 ditorum" This inscription may be translated " Morality 
 for the Scholar," " On the Vocation of the Scholar," 
 " On the Duty of the Scholar," &c. ; but in what way 
 soever the title may be translated and understood, the 
 idea itself demands a deeper investigation. I proceed to 
 this preliminary inquiry. 
 
 Generally speaking, when we hear the word Morality 
 the idea is suggested of a formation of character and con- 
 duct according to rule and precept. But it is true only 
 in a limited sense, and only as seen from a lower point 
 of enlightenment, that man is formed by precept, or can 
 form himself upon precept. On the contrary, from the 
 highest point, that of absolute truth, on which we here 
 take our stand, whatever is to be manifested in the 
 thought or deed of man, must first be inwardly present in 
 his Nature, and indeed itself constitute his Nature, being, 
 and life ; for that which lies in the essential Nature of 
 man must necessarily reveal itself in his outward life, 
 shine forth in all his thoughts, desires, and acts, and be- 
 come his unvarying and unalterable character. How the 
 freedom of man, and all the efforts by means of culture, 
 
 D a
 
 210 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 instruction, religion, legislation, to form him to goodness, 
 are to be reconciled with this truth, is the object of an 
 entirely different inquiry, into which we do not now enter. 
 We can here only declare in general, that the two prin- 
 ciples may be thoroughly reconciled, and that a deeper 
 study of philosophy will clearly show the possibility of 
 their union. 
 
 The fixed disposition and modes of action, or in a word, 
 the character, of the true Scholar, when contemplated 
 from the highest point of view, can, properly speaking, 
 only be described, not by any means enacted or imposed. 
 On the contrary, this apparent and outwardly manifest 
 character of the true Scholar is founded upon that which 
 already exists in his own inward Nature, independently of 
 all manifestation and before all manifestation ; and it is 
 necessarily produced and unchangeably determined by 
 this inward Nature. Hence, if we are to describe his 
 character, we must first unfold his Nature : only from 
 the idea of the latter can the former be surely and com- 
 pletely deduced. To make such a deduction from this 
 pre-supposed Nature, is the proper object of these lectures. 
 Their contents may therefore be briefly stated : they are 
 a description of the Nature of the Scholar, and of its mani- 
 festations in the world of freedom. 
 
 The following propositions will aid us in attaining some 
 insight into the Nature of the Scholar : 
 
 1. The whole material world, with all its adaptations 
 and ends, and in particular the life of man in this world, 
 are by no means, in themselves and in deed and truth, 
 that which they seem to be to the uncultivated and natu- 
 ral sense of man ; but there is something higher, which 
 lies concealed behind all natural appearance. This con- 
 cealed foundation of all appearance may, in its greatest 
 universality, be aptly named the Divine Idea ; and this 
 expression, " Divine Idea," shall not in the meantime
 
 GENERAL PLAN. 211 
 
 signify anything more than this higher ground of appear- 
 ance, until we shall have more clearly defined its meaning. 
 
 2. A certain part of the meaning of this Divine Idea 
 of the world is accessible to, and conceivable by, the cul- 
 tivated mind ; and, by the free activity of man, under the 
 guidance* of this Idea, may be impressed upon the world 
 of sense and represented in it. 
 
 3. If there were among men some individuals who had 
 attained, wholly or partially, to the possession of this last- 
 mentioned or attainable portion of the Divine Idea of the 
 world, whether with the view of maintaining and ex- 
 tending the knowledge of the Idea among men by com- 
 municating it to others, or of imaging it forth in the 
 world of sense by direct and immediate action thereon, 
 then were these individuals the seat of a higher and more 
 spiritual life in the world, and of a progressive develop- 
 ment thereof according to the Divine Idea. 
 
 4. In every age, that kind of education and spiritual 
 culture by means of which the age hopes to lead mankind 
 to the knowledge of the ascertained part of the Divine 
 Idea, is the Learned Culture of the age ; and every man 
 who partakes in this culture is a Scholar of the age. 
 
 From what has now been said, it clearly follows that 
 the whole of the training and education which an age calls 
 Learned Culture, is only the means towards a knowledge 
 of the attainable portion of the Divine Idea, and is only 
 valuable in so far as it actually is such a means, and truly 
 fulfils its purpose. Whether in any given case this end 
 has been attained or not, can never be determined by 
 common observation, for it is quite blind to the Idea, and 
 can do no more than recognize the merely empirical fact 
 whether a man has enjoyed, or has not enjoyed, the ad- 
 vantage of what is called Learned Culture. Hence there 
 are two very different notions of a Scholar : the one,
 
 212 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 according to appearance and mere intention; and in this 
 respect, every one must be considered a Scholar who has 
 gone through a course of Learned Culture, or as it is com- 
 monly expressed, who has studied or who still studies : 
 the other, according to truth ; and in this respect, he only 
 is to be looked upon as a Scholar who has, through the 
 Learned Culture of his age, arrived at a knowledge of the 
 Idea. Through the Learned Culture of his age, I say; for 
 if a man, without the use of this means, can arrive at a 
 knowledge of the Idea by some other way (and I am far 
 from denying that he may do so), yet such an one will be 
 unable either to communicate his knowledge theoretically, 
 or to realize it immediately in the world, according to any 
 well-defined rule, because he must want that knowledge 
 of his age, and of the means of influencing it, which can 
 be acquired only in schools of learning. Hence there 
 may indeed be a higher life alive within him, but not 
 such a life as can grasp the rest of the world and call 
 forth its powers ; he may display all the special results 
 of Learned Culture, but without this plastic power; and 
 hence we may have a most excellent Man indeed, but not 
 a Scholar. 
 
 As for us, we have here no thought of considering this 
 matter by outward seeming, but only according to truth. 
 Henceforward, throughout the whole course of these Lec- 
 tures, he only will be esteemed a Scholar who, through 
 the Learned Culture of his age, has actually attained a 
 knowledge of the Idea, or at least strives with life and 
 strength to attain it. He who has received this culture 
 without thereby attaining to the Idea, is in truth (as we 
 are now to look upon the matter) nothing ; he is an 
 equivocal mongrel between the possessor of the Idea and 
 him who derives his strength and confidence from com- 
 mon reality ; in his vain struggles after the Idea, he has 
 lost the power to lay hold of and cultivate reality, and 
 now wavers between two worlds without properly belong- 
 ing to either of them.
 
 GENERAL PLAN. 213 
 
 The distinction which we have already noticed in the 
 modes of the direct application of the Idea in general, is 
 obviously also applicable in particular to him who comes 
 to the possession of this Idea through Learned Culture ; 
 that is, to the Scholar. Either, it is his special and pecu- 
 liar object to communicate to others the Ideas of which 
 he has himself attained a living knowledge ; and then 
 his proper business is the theory of Ideas, general or par- 
 ticular, he is a Teacher of Knowledge. But it is only as 
 distinguished from, and contrasted with the second appli- 
 cation of Ideas, that the business of the scientific teacher 
 is characterized as mere theory ; in a wider sense it is as 
 practical as that of the directly active man. The object 
 of his activity is the human mind and spirit ; and it is a 
 most ennobling employment systematically to prepare and 
 elevate these for the reception of Ideas. Or, it may be 
 the peculiar business of him who through Learned Culture 
 has obtained possession of Ideas, to fashion the world 
 (which, as regards his design, is a passive world) in accord- 
 ance with these Ideas ; perhaps to model the Legislation, 
 the legal and social relations of men to each other, or 
 even that all-surrounding nature which constantly presses 
 upon their higher being, after the Divine Idea of justice 
 or of beauty, so far as that is possible in the age and under 
 the conditions in which he is placed ; while he reserves to 
 himself his own original conceptions, as well as the art 
 with which he impresses them on the world. In this case 
 he is a pragmatic Scholar. No one, I may remark in 
 passing, ought to intermeddle in the direct guidance and 
 ordering of human affairs, who is not a Scholar in the 
 true sense of the word ; that is, who has not by means of 
 Learned Culture become a participator in the Divine Idea. 
 With labourers and hodmen it is otherwise: their virtue 
 consists in punctual obedience, and in the careful avoid- 
 ance of independent thought or self-reliant action in the 
 ordering of their occupations.
 
 214- THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 From a different point of view arises another significant 
 distinction in the idea of the Scholar : this, namely, 
 either the Scholar has actually laid hold of the whole 
 Divine Idea in so far as it is attainable by man, or of a 
 particular part of it, which last indeed is not possible 
 without having first a clear survey of the whole ; either 
 he has actually laid hold of it, and penetrated into its 
 significance until it stands lucid and distinct before him, 
 
 O 
 
 so that it has become his own possession, to be recalled 
 at any time in the same shape, an element in his per- 
 sonality ; and then he is a complete and Finished Scholar, 
 a man who has studied: or, he as yet only strives and 
 struggles to attain a clear insight into the Idea generally, 
 or into that particular portion or point of it from which 
 he, for his part, will penetrate the whole : already, one 
 by one, sparks of light arise on every side, and disclose a 
 higher world before him ; but they do not yet unite into 
 one indivisible whole, they vanish as they came, without 
 his bidding, and he cannot as yet bring them under the 
 dominion of his will ; and then he is a Progressive, a self- 
 forming Scholar a Student. That it be really the Idea 
 which is either possessed or struggled after is common to 
 both of these : if the striving be only after the outward 
 form the mere letter of Learned Culture, then we have, if 
 the round be finished the complete, if it be unfinished 
 the progressive, bungler. The latter is always more toler- 
 able than the former, for it may still be hoped that in 
 pursuing his course he may perhaps at some future point 
 be laid hold of by the Idea ; but of the former all hope 
 is lost. 
 
 This, gentlemen, is our conception of the Nature of the 
 Scholar ; and these are all the possible modifications of 
 that conception not in any respect changing, but rather 
 wholly arising out of the original, the conception, namely, 
 of fixed and definite being, which alone furnishes a suffi- 
 cient answer to the question, What is the Scholar ?
 
 GENERAL PLAN. 215 
 
 But philosophical knowledge, such as we are now seek- 
 ing, is not satisfied with answering the question, What is ? 
 philosophy asks also for the How, and, strictly speaking, 
 asks for this only, as for that which is already implied in 
 the What. All philosophical knowledge is, by its nature, 
 not empiric, but genetic, not merely apprehending exis- 
 ting being, but producing and constructing this being from 
 the very root of its life. Thus, with respect to the Scholar, 
 the determinate form of whose being we have now 
 described, there still remains the question, How does he 
 become a Scholar ? and since his being and growth is an 
 uninterrupted, living, constantly self-producing being, 
 How does he maintain the life of a Scholar ? 
 
 I answer shortly, by his inherent, characteristic, and 
 all-engrossing love for the Idea. Consider it thus : 
 Every form of existence holds and upholds itself ; and in 
 living existences this self-support, and the consciousness 
 of it, is self-love. In individual human beings the Eter- 
 nal Divine Idea takes up its abode, as their spiritual 
 nature this indwelling Divine Idea encircles itself in 
 them with unspeakable love ; and then we say, adapting 
 our language to common appearance, this man loves the 
 Idea, and lives in the Idea, when in truth it is the Idea 
 itself which, in his place and in his person, lives and loves 
 itself ; and his person is but the sensible manifestation of 
 this existence of the Idea, and has, in and for itself alone, 
 neither significance nor life. These strictly framed defini- 
 tions or formula lay open the whole matter, and we may 
 now proceed once more to adopt the language of appear- 
 ance without fear of misapprehension. In the True 
 Scholar the Idea has acquired a personal existence which 
 has entirely superseded his own, and absorbed it in itself. 
 He loves the Idea, not before all else, for he loves nothing 
 else beside it, he loves it alone ; it alone is the source 
 of all his joys, of all his pleasures ; it alone is the spring 
 of all his thoughts, efforts, and deeds ; for it alone does
 
 216 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 he live, and without it life would be to him odious and 
 unmeaning. In both in the Finished as well as in 
 the Progressive Scholar does the Idea reside, with this 
 difference only, that in the former it has attained all 
 the clearness and firm consistency which was possible in 
 that individual and under existing circumstances, and 
 having now a settled abode within him, seeks to expatiate 
 abroad, strives to flow forth in living words and deeds ; 
 while in the latter it is still active only within himself, 
 striving after the development and strengthening of such 
 an existence as it may attain under the circumstances in 
 which he is placed. To both alike would their life be 
 valueless, could they not fashion either others or them- 
 selves after the Idea. 
 
 This is the sole and unvarying life-principle of the 
 Scholar, of him to whom we give that name. All his 
 deeds and efforts, under all possible conditions in which 
 he can be supposed to exist, spring with absolute neces- 
 sity from this principle. Hence, we have only to contem- 
 plate him in those relations which are requisite for our 
 purpose, and we may calculate with certainty both his 
 inward and outward life, and describe it beforehand. And 
 in this way it is possible to deduce with scientific 1 accuracy, 
 from the essential Nature of the Scholar, its manifesta- 
 tions in the world of freedom or apparent chance. This 
 is our present task, and that the rule for its fulfilment. 
 
 We shall turn first of all to the Students, that is to 
 say, to those who are justly entitled to the name of Pro- 
 gressive Scholars in the sense of that word already defined ; 
 and it is proper that we should first apply to them the 
 principles which we have laid down. If they be not such 
 as we have supposed them to be, then our words Avill be 
 to them mere words, without sense, meaning or applica- 
 tion. If they be such as we have supposed them to be, 
 then they will in due time become mature and perfect 
 Scholars ; for that effort of the Idea to unfold itself, which
 
 GENERAL PLAN. 217 
 
 is so much higher than all the pursuits of sense, is also 
 infinitely more mighty, and with silent power breaks a 
 way for itself through every obstacle. It will be well for 
 the studious youth to know now what he shall one day 
 become, to contemplate in his youth a picture of his 
 riper age. I shall therefore, after performing my first 
 duty, proceed also to construct from the same principles 
 the character of the Finished Scholar. 
 
 Clearness is gained by contrast ; and therefore, wher- 
 ever I show how the Scholar will manifest himself, I shall 
 also declare how, for the same reasons, he will not manifest 
 himself. 
 
 In both divisions of the subject, but particularly in 
 the second, where I shall have to speak of the Finished 
 Scholar, I shall guard myself carefully from making any 
 satirical allusion to the present state of the literary world, 
 any censure of it, or generally any reference to it ; and 
 I entreat my hearers once for all not to impute to me 
 any such suggestion. The philosopher peacefully con- 
 structs his theorem upon given principles, without deigning 
 to turn his attention to the actual state of .things, or 
 needing the recollection of it to enable him to pursue his 
 inquiry ; just as the geometer constructs his scheme without 
 troubling himself whether his purely abstract figures can 
 be copied with our instruments. And it is especially well 
 that the unprejudiced and studious youth should remain 
 in ignorance of the degeneracies and corruptions of the so- 
 ciety into which he must one day enter, until he shall have 
 acquired power sufficient to stem the tide of its example. 
 
 This, gentlemen, is the entire plan of the lectures which 
 I now propose to deliver, with the principles on which they 
 shall be founded. To-day I shall only add one or two ob- 
 servations to what I have already said. 
 
 In considerations like those of to-day, or those, neces- 
 sarily similar in their nature, which are to follow, it is 
 common for men to censure, first, their severity, very 
 
 E a
 
 218 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 often with the good-natured supposition that the speakei 
 was not aware that his strictness would be disagreeable 
 to them, that they have only frankly to tell him this, 
 and he will then reconsider the matter, and soften down 
 his principles. Thus we have said that he who with his 
 Learned Culture has ' not attained a knowledge of the 
 Idea, or does not at least struggle to attain it, is, properly 
 speaking, nothing ; and farther on, we have said he is a 
 bungler. This is in the manner of those severe sayings 
 by which philosophers give so much offence. Leaving the 
 present case, to deal directly with the general principle, 
 I have to remind you that a thinker of this sort, without 
 having firmness enough to refuse all respect to Truth, 
 seeks to chaffer with her and cheapen something from 
 her, in order by a favourable bargain to obtain some 
 consideration for himself. But Truth, who is once for 
 all what she is, and cannot change her nature in aught, 
 proceeds on her way without turning aside ; and there 
 remains nothing for her, with respect to those who do not 
 seek her simply because she is true, but to leave them 
 standing there, just as if they had never accosted her. 
 
 Again, it is a common charge against discourses of this 
 kind, that they cannot be understood. Thus I can sup- 
 pose not you, gentlemen, but some Finished Scholar 
 according to appearance, under whose eye, perhaps, these 
 thoughts may come, approaching them, and, puzzled and 
 doubtful, at last thoughtfully exclaiming : The Idea the 
 Divine Idea, that which lies at the bottom of all appear- 
 ance, what may this mean ? I would reply to such an 
 inquirer, What then may this question mean ? Strictly 
 speaking, it means, in most cases, nothing more than the 
 following : Under what other name, and by what other 
 formula, do I already know this thing which thou ex- 
 pressest by a name so extraordinary, and to me so unheard 
 of ? and to that again, in most cases, the only fitting 
 answer would be, Thou knowest not this thing at all,
 
 GENERAL PLAN. 219 
 
 and during thy whole life hast understood nothing of it, 
 neither under this nor under any other name ; and if thou 
 art to come to any knowledge of it, thou must even now 
 begin anew to learn it, and then most fitly under that 
 name by which it is first offered to thee. 
 
 In the following lectures the word Idea, which I have 
 used to-day, will be in many respects better defined and 
 explained, and, as I hope, ultimately brought to perfect 
 clearness ; but that is by no means the business of a 
 single hour. We reserve this, as well as everything else 
 to which we have to direct your attention, for the suc- 
 ceeding lectures.
 
 ( 221 
 
 LECTURE II. 
 
 CLOSER DEFINITION OF THE MEANING OP 
 THE DIVINE IDEA. 
 
 THE following were the principles which we laid down in 
 our last lecture as the grounds of our investigation into 
 the Nature of Scholar. 
 
 The Universe is not, in deed and truth, that which it 
 seems to be to the uncultivated and natural sense of 
 man ; but it is something higher, which lies behind mere 
 natural appearance. In its widest sense, this foundation of 
 all appearance may be aptly named the Divine Idea of 
 the world. A certain part of the meaning of this Divine 
 Idea is accessible to, and conceivable by, the cultivated 
 mind. 
 
 We said at the close of last lecture, that this as yet 
 obscure conception of a Divine Idea, as the ultimate and 
 absolute foundation of all appearance, should afterwards 
 become quite clear and intelligible by means of its subse- 
 quent applications. 
 
 Nevertheless we find it desirable, in the first place, to 
 define this conception more closely in the abtsract, and 
 to this purpose we shall devote the present lecture. To 
 this end we lay down the following principles, which, so 
 far as we are concerned, are the results of deep and formal 
 investigation, and are perfectly demonstrable in them-
 
 222 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 selves, but which we can here communicate to you only 
 historically, calculating with confidence on your own natu- 
 ral sense of truth to confirm our principles even without 
 perfect insight into their fundamental basis ; and also on 
 your observing that by principles thus laid down the most 
 important questions are answered, and the most searching 
 doubts solved. 
 
 "We lay down, then, the following principles : 
 
 1. Being, strictly and absolutely considered, is living 
 and essentially active. There is no other Being than 
 Life ; it cannot be dead, rigid, inert. What death, that 
 constantly recurririg phenomenon, really is, and how it is 
 connected with the only true Being with Life, we shall 
 see more clearly afterwards. 
 
 2. The only Life which exists entirely in itself, from 
 itself, and by itself, is the Life of God, or of the Absolute ; 
 which two words mean one and the same thing ; so that 
 when we say the Life of the Absolute, we use only a form 
 of expression, since in truth the Absolute is Life, and Life 
 is the Absolute. 
 
 3. This Divine Life lies entirely hidden in itself; it 
 has its dwelling within itself, and abides there completely 
 realized in, and accessible only to, itself. It is all Being, 
 and besides it there is no Being. It is therefore wholly 
 without change or variation. 
 
 4. Now this Divine Life discloses itself, appears, becomes 
 visible, manifests itself as such as the Divine Life : and 
 this its Manifestation, presence, or outward existence, is 
 the World. Strictly speaking, it manifests itself as it essen- 
 tially and really is, and cannot manifest itself otherwise ; 
 and hence there is no groundless and arbitrary medium 
 interposed between its true and essential nature and its 
 outward Manifestation, in consequence of which it would 
 be only in part revealed and in part remain concealed; 
 but its Manifestation, i. e. the World, is fashioned and un-
 
 DEFINITION OF THE DIVINE IDEA. 223 
 
 changeably determined by two conditions only ; namely, 
 by the essential nature of the Divine Life itself, and by 
 the unvarying and absolute laws of a revelation or Mani- 
 festation abstractly considered. God reveals himself as 
 God can reveal himself: His whole, in itself essentially 
 inconceivable, Being comes forth entire and undivided, in 
 so far as it can come forth in any mere Manifestation. 
 
 5. The Divine Life in itself is absolute self-compre- 
 hending unity, without change or variableness, as we said 
 above. In its Manifestation, for a reason which is quite 
 conceivable although not here set forth, it becomes a self- 
 developing existence, eternally unfolding itself, and ever 
 advancing towards higher realization in an endless stream 
 of time. In the first place, it continues in this Manifesta- 
 tion, as we said, to be life. Life cannot be manifested in 
 death, for these two are altogether opposed to each other ; 
 and hence, as Absolute Being alone is life, so the only 
 true Manifestation of that Being is living existence, and 
 death has neither a real, nor, in the highest sense of the 
 word, has it even a relative existence. This living and 
 visible Manifestation we call the human race. The human 
 race is thus the only true finite existence. As Being 
 Absolute Being constitutes the Divine Life, and is wholly 
 exhausted therein, so does Existence in Time, or the Mani- 
 festation of that Divine Life, constitute the whole united 
 life of mankind, and is thoroughly and entirely exhausted 
 therein. Thus, in its Manifestation the Divine Life 
 becomes a continually progressive existence, unfolding 
 in perpetual growth according to the degree of inward 
 activity and power which belongs to it. Hence, and 
 the consequence is an important one, hence the Mani- 
 festation of Life in Time, unlike the Divine Life, is limited 
 at every point of its existence, i. e. it is in part not living, 
 not yet interpenetrated by life, but in so far dead. These 
 limitations it must gradually break through, lay aside, and 
 transform into life, in its onward progress.
 
 224 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 In this view of the limitations which surround Existence 
 in Time, we have, when it is thoroughly laid hold of, the 
 conception of the objective and material world, or what 
 we call Nature. This is not living and capable of infinite 
 growth like Reason ; but dead, a rigid, self-contained 
 existence. It is this which, arresting and hemming in the 
 Time-Life, by this hindrance alone spreads over a longer 
 or shorter period of time what would otherwise burst forth 
 at once, a perfect and complete life. Further, in the de- 
 velopment of spiritual existence, Nature itself is gradually 
 interpenetrated by life ; and it is thus both the obstacle 
 to, and the sphere of, that activity and outward mani- 
 festation of power in which human life eternally unfolds 
 itself. 
 
 This, and absolutely nothing more than this, is Nature 
 in the most extended meaning of the word; and even 
 man himself, in so far as his existence is limited in com- 
 parison with the original and Divine Life, is nothing more 
 than this. Since the perpetual advancement of this second 
 life, not original, but derived and human, and also its 
 fmitude and limitation in order that such advancement 
 may be so much as possible, both proceed from the self- 
 manifestation of the Absolute, so Nature also has its 
 foundation in God, not indeed as something that is and 
 ought to be for its own sake alone, but only as the means 
 and condition of another being, of the Living Being in 
 man, and as something which shall be gradually and 
 unceasingly superseded and displaced by the perpetual 
 advancement of this being. Hence we must not be 
 blinded or led astray by a philosophy assuming the name 
 of natural* which pretends to excel all former philosophy 
 by striving to elevate Nature into Absolute Being, and 
 into the place of God. In all ages, the theoretical errors 
 as well as the moral corruptions of humanity have arisen 
 
 * Schelling's " Natur-Philosophie 'is here referred to.
 
 DEFINITION OF THE DIVINE IDEA. 225 
 
 from falsely bestowing the name of life on that which in 
 itself possesses neither absolute nor even finite being, and 
 seeking for life and its enjoyment in that which in itself 
 is dead. Very far therefore from being a step towards 
 truth, that philosophy is but a return to old and already 
 most widely spread error. 
 
 6. All truth contained in the principles which we have 
 now laid down may be perceived by man, who himself is 
 the Manifestation of the Original and Divine Life, in its 
 general aspect, as we for example, have now perceived it, 
 either through rational conviction, or only from being 
 led to it by an obscure feeling or sense of truth, or from 
 finding it probable because it furnishes a complete solu- 
 tion of the most important problems. Man may perceive 
 it ; that is, the Manifestation may fall back on its Original, 
 and picture it forth in reflection with absolute certainty 
 as to the fact ; but it can by no means analyse and com- 
 prehend it fully, for the Manifestation ever remains only, 
 a Manifestation, and can never go beyond itself and re- 
 turn to Absolute Being. 
 
 7. We have said that man may perceive this in so far 
 as regards the fact, but he cannot perceive the reason and 
 origin of the fact. How and why from the Divine Life, 
 this and no other Time-Life arises and constantly flows 
 forth, can be understood by man only on condition of fully 
 comprehending all the parts of this latter, and interpreting 
 them all, one by the other, mutually and completely, so 
 as to reduce them once more to a single idea, and that 
 idea equivalent to the one Divine Life. But this forth- 
 flowing Time-Life is infinite, and hence the comprehension 
 of its parts can never be completed : besides, the compre- 
 hender is himself a portion of it, and at every conceivable 
 point of time he himself stands chained in the finite and 
 limited, which he can never throw off without ceasing to 
 be Manifestation, without being himself transformed into 
 the Divine Life. 
 
 F a
 
 226 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 8. From this it seems to follow, that the Time-Life can 
 be conceived of by thought only as a whole, and according 
 to its general nature, i. e. as we have endeavoured to 
 conceive of it above, and then as a Manifestation of the 
 one Original and Divine Life ; but that its details must 
 be immediately felt and experienced in their individual 
 import, and can only by and through this Experience be 
 imaged forth in thought and consciousness. And such is 
 actually the case in a certain respect and with a certain 
 portion of human life. Throughout all time, and in every 
 individual part of it, there remains in human life some- 
 thing which does not entirely reveal itself in Idea, and 
 which therefore cannot be anticipated or superseded by 
 any Idea, but which must be directly felt if it is ever to 
 attain a place in consciousness ; and this is called the 
 domain of pure empiricism or Experience. The above- 
 mentioned philosophy errs in this, that it pretends to 
 have resolved human life entirely into Idea, and thus 
 wholly superseded Experience ; instead of which, it defeats 
 its own purpose, and in attempting to explain life com- 
 pletely, loses sight of it altogether. 
 
 9. I said that such was the case with the Time-Life in 
 a certain respect and with a certain portion of it. For in 
 another respect and with another portion of it, the case is 
 quite otherwise, and that on the following ground, which 
 I shall here only indicate in popular phraseology, but 
 which is well worthy of deeper investigation. 
 
 The Time-Life does not enter into Time in individual 
 parts only, but also in entire homogeneous masses ; and 
 it is these masses, again, which divide themselves into the 
 individual parts of actual life. There is not only Time, 
 but there are times, and succession of times, epoch after 
 epoch, and age succeeding age. Thus, for example, to the 
 deeper thought of man, the entire Earthly Life of the 
 human race, as it now exists, is such a homogeneous 
 mass, projected at once into Time, and ever present there,
 
 DEFINITION OF THE DIVINE IDEA. 227 
 
 whole and undivided, only as regards sensuous appear- 
 ance spread out into world-history. When these homo- 
 geneous masses have appeared in Time, the general laws 
 and rules by which they are governed may be compre- 
 hended, and, in relation to the whole course of these 
 masses, anticipated and understood ; while the obstacles 
 over which they take their way that is, the hindrances 
 and obstructions of life are only accessible to immediate 
 Experience. 
 
 10. These cognizable laws of homogeneous masses of 
 Life, which may be perceived and understood prior to 
 their actual consequences, must necessarily appear as laws 
 of Life itself, as it ought to be, and as it should strive to 
 become, founded on the self-supporting and independent 
 principle of this Time-Life, which must here appear as 
 Freedom : hence, as laws for the free action and conduct 
 of the living being. If we go back to the source of this 
 legislation, we shall find that it lies in the Divine Life 
 itself, which could not reveal itself in Time otherwise 
 than under this form of a law ; and, indeed, as is implied 
 in the preceding ideas, nowise as a law ruling with blind 
 power and extorting obedience by force, such as we 
 assume in passive and inanimate nature, but as the law 
 of a Life which is conscious of its own independence, and 
 cannot be deprived of it, without at the same time tear- 
 ing up the very root of its being ; hence, as we said above, 
 as a Divine Law of Freedom, or Moral Law. 
 
 Further, as we have already seen, this life according to 
 the law of the original Divine Life, is the only True Life 
 and ground of all other ; all things else besides this Life 
 are but hindrances and obstructions thereto, existing only 
 that by them the True Life may be unfolded and mani- 
 fested in its strength : hence, all things else have no 
 existence for their own sakes, but only as means for the 
 development of the True Life. Reason can comprehend 
 the connexion between means and end only by supposing
 
 228 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 a mind in which the end has been determined. The 
 thoroughly moral Human Life has its source in God : by 
 analogy with our own understanding we conceive of God 
 as proposing to himself the moral Life of man as the sole 
 purpose for which He has manifested himself and called 
 into existence every other thing ; not that it is absolutely 
 thus as we conceive of it, and that God really thinks like 
 man, and that Existence itself is in him distinguished 
 from the conception of Existence, but we think thus only 
 because we are unable otherwise to comprehend the rela- 
 tion between the Divine and the Human Life. And in 
 this absolutely necessary mode of thought, Human Life as 
 it ought to be becomes the idea and fundamental conception 
 of God in the creation of a world, the purpose and the 
 plan which God intended to fulfil by the creation of the 
 world. 
 
 And thus it is sufficiently explained for our present 
 purpose how the Divine Idea, lies at the foundation of the 
 actual world, and how, and how far, this Idea, hidden from 
 the common eye, may become conceivable and attainable 
 by cultivated thought, and necessarily appear to it as that 
 which man by his free activity ought to manifest in the 
 world. 
 
 Let us not forthwith restrict our conception of this 
 ought, this free act of man, to the familiar categorical 
 imperative, and to the narrow and paltry applications of 
 it which are given in our common systems of Morality, 
 such applications as must necessarily be made by such a 
 science. Almost invariably, and that from causes well 
 founded in the laws of philosophical abstraction through 
 which systems of Morality are produced, it has been usual 
 to dwell at greatest length on the mere form of Morality, 
 to inculcate simply and solely obedience to the com- 
 mandment ; and even when our moralists have proceeded 
 to its substance, still their chief aim seems to have been
 
 DEFINITION OF THE DIVINE IDEA. 229 
 
 to induce men to cease from doing evil, rather than to 
 persuade them to do good. Indeed, in any system of hu- 
 man duties, it is necessary to maintain such a generality 
 of expression that the rules may be equally applicable to 
 all men, and for this reason to point out more clearly what 
 man ought not to do, than what he ought to do. This, too, 
 is the Divine Idea, but only in its remote and borrowed 
 shape not in its fresh originality. The original Divine 
 Idea of any particular point of time remains for the most 
 part unexpressed until the God-inspired man appears and 
 declares it. What the Divine Man does, that is divine. 
 In general, the original and pure Divine Idea that which 
 he who is immediately inspired of God should do and 
 actually does is (with reference to the visible world) 
 creative, producing the new, the unheard-of, the original. 
 The impulse of mere natural existence leads us to abide 
 in the old, and even when the Divine Idea is associated 
 with it, it aims at the maintenance of whatever has 
 hitherto seemed good, or at most to petty improvements 
 upon it ; but where the Divine Idea attains an existence 
 pure from the admixture of natural impulse, there it 
 builds new worlds upon the ruins of the old. All things 
 new, great, and beautiful, which have appeared in the 
 world since its beginning, and those which shall appear 
 until its end, have appeared and shall appear through the 
 Divine Idea, partially expressed in the chosen ones of our 
 race. 
 
 And thus, as the Life of Man is the only immediate 
 implement and organ of the Divine Idea in the visible 
 world, so is it also the first and immediate object of its 
 activity. The progressive Culture of the human race is 
 the object of the Divine Idea, and of those in whom that 
 Idea dwells. This last view makes it possible for us to 
 separate the Divine Idea into its various modes of action, 
 or to conceive of the one indivisible Idea as several. 
 
 First, In the actual world, the Life of Man, which is
 
 230 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 in truth essentially one and indivisble, is divided into the 
 life of many proximate individuals, each of whom possesses 
 freedom and independence. This division is an arrange- 
 ment of nature, and hence is a hindrance or obstruction 
 to the True Life, and exists only in order that through 
 it, and in conflict with it, that unity of Life which is 
 demanded by the Divine Idea may freely fashion itself. 
 Human Life has been divided by nature into many parts, 
 in order that it may form itself to unity, and that all the 
 separate individuals who compose it may through Life 
 itself blend themselves together into oneness of mind. In 
 the original state of nature, the various wills of these 
 individuals, and the different powers which they call into 
 play, mutually oppose and hinder each other. It is not so 
 in the Divine Idea, and it shall not continue so in the 
 visible world. The first interposing power (not founded 
 in nature, but subsequently introduced into the world by 
 a new creation) on which this strife of individual powers 
 must break and expend itself until it shall entirely disap- 
 pear in a general morality, is the founding of States, and 
 of just relations between them ; in short, all those institu- 
 tions by which individual powers, single or united, have 
 each their proper sphere assigned to them, to which they 
 are confined, but in which at the same time they are se- 
 cured against all foreign aggression. This institution lay 
 in the Divine Idea ; it was introduced into the world by 
 inspired men in their efforts for the realization of the 
 Divine Idea ; by these efforts it will be maintained in the 
 world, and constantly improved until it attain perfection. 
 Secondly, This Race of Man, thus raising itself through 
 internal strife to internal unity, is surrounded by an inert 
 and passive Nature, by which its free life is constantly 
 hindered, threatened, and confined. So it must be, in 
 order that this Life may attain such unity by its own 
 free effort ; and thus, according to the Divine Idea, must 
 this strength and independence of the sensuous life, pro-
 
 DEFINITION OF THE DIVINE IDEA. 231 
 
 gressively and gradually unfold itself. To that end it is 
 necessary that the powers of Nature be subjected to hu- 
 man ends, and (in order that this subjection may be 
 possible) that man should be acquainted with the laws 
 by which these powers act, and be able to calculate before- 
 hand the course of their operations. Moreover, Nature is 
 not designed merely to be useful and profitable to man, 
 but also to become his fitting companion, bearing the 
 impress of his higher dignity, and reflecting it in radiant 
 characters on every side. This dominion over Nature 
 lies in the Divine Idea, and is ceaselessly extended by 
 the power of that Idea through the agency of all in whom 
 it dwells. 
 
 Lastly, Man is not placed in the world of sense alone, 
 but the essential root of his being is, as we have seen, in 
 God. Hurried along by sense and its impulses, the know- 
 ledge of this Life in God may readily be concealed from 
 him, and then, however noble may be his nature, he lives 
 in strife and disunion with himself, in discord and un- 
 happiness, without true dignity and enjoyment of Life. 
 Only when the consciousness of the true source of his 
 existence first rises upon him, and he joyfully resigns him- 
 self to it till his being is steeped in the thought, do 
 peace, joy, and blessedness flow in upon his soul. And 
 it lies in the Divine Idea that all men must come to this 
 gladdening consciousness, that the otherwise aimless 
 Finite Life may thus be pervaded by the Infinite and so 
 enjoyed ; and to this end all who have been filled with 
 the Divine Idea have laboured and shall still labour, that 
 this consciousness in its purest possible form may be 
 spread throughout the race of man. 
 
 The modes of activity which we have indicated, 
 LEGISLATION, SCIENCE (knowledge of nature power 
 over nature) RELIGION, are those in which the Divine 
 Idea most commonly reveals and manifests itself through 
 man in the world of sense. It is obvious that each of
 
 232 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 these chief branches has also its separate parts, in each of 
 which, individually, the Idea may he revealed. Add to 
 these the KNOWLEDGE of the Divine Idea, knowledge 
 that there is such a Divine Idea, as well as knowledge of 
 its import, either in whole or in some of its parts, and 
 further, the ART or SKILL actually to make manifest in 
 the world the Idea which is thus clearly recognised and 
 understood, both of which, however, Knowledge and 
 Art can be acquired only through the immediate im- 
 pulse of the Divine Idea, and then we have the five 
 great modes in which the Idea reveals itself in man. 
 
 That mode of culture by which, in the view of any age, 
 a man may attain to the possession of this Idea or these 
 Ideas, we have named the Learned Culture of that age ; 
 and those who, by this culture, do actually attain the de- 
 sired possession, we have named the Scholars of the age ; 
 and from what we have said to-day you will be able 
 more easily to recognise the truth of our position, to refer 
 back to it the different branches of knowledge recog- 
 nised among men, or to deduce them from it ; and thus 
 test our principle by its applications.
 
 ( 233 
 
 LECTURE III. 
 
 OF THE PROGRESSIVE SCHOLAR GENERALLY; AND IN 
 PARTICULAR OF GENIUS AND INDUSTRY. 
 
 IT is the Divine Idea itself which, by its own inherent 
 power, creates for itself an independent and personal life 
 in man, constantly maintains itself in this life, and by 
 means of it moulds the outward world in its own image. 
 The natural man cannot, by his own strength, raise him- 
 self to the supernatural ; he must be raised thereto by 
 the power of the supernatural. This self-forming and 
 self-supporting life of the Idea in man manifests itself as 
 Love ; strictly speaking, as Love of the Idea for itself ; 
 but, in the language of common appearance, as Love of 
 man for the Idea. This was set forth in our first lecture. 
 So it is with Love in general ; and it is not otherwise, 
 in particular, with the love of the knowledge of the Idea, 
 which knowledge the Scholar is called upon to acquire. 
 The love of the Idea absolutely for itself, and particularly 
 for its essential light, shows itself in those men whom it 
 has inspired, and of whose being it has fully possessed 
 itself, as knowledge of the Idea ; -in the Finished Scholar, 
 with a well-defined and perfect clearness, in the Pro- 
 gressive Scholar, as a striving towards such a degree of 
 clearness as it can attain under the circumstances in which 
 
 G a
 
 234 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 he is placed. Following out the plan laid down in the 
 opening lecture, we shall speak, in the first place, of the 
 Progressive Scholar. 
 
 In him the Idea strives, in the first place, to assume a 
 definite form, and to establish for itself a fixed place amid 
 the tide of manifold images which flows in ceaseless change 
 over his soul. In this effort he is seized with a presenti- 
 ment of a truth still unknown to him, of which he has as 
 yet no clear conception ; he feels that every new acquisi- 
 tion which he makes still falls short of the full and perfect 
 truth, without being able to state distinctly in what it is 
 deficient, or how the fullness of knowledge which is to 
 take its place can be attained or brought about. This 
 effort of the Idea within him becomes henceforward his 
 essential life, the highest and deepest impulse of his 
 being, superseding his hitherto sensuous and egoistical 
 impulse, which was directed only towards the mainte- 
 nance of his personal existence and physical well-being, 
 subjecting this latter to itself, and thereby for ever ex- 
 tinguishing it as the one and fundamental impulse of his 
 nature. Actual personal want does still, as hitherto, 
 demand its satisfaction; but that satisfaction does not 
 continue, as it has hitherto continued, even when its 
 immediate demands have been supplied, to be the engros- 
 sing thought, the ever-present object of contemplation, 
 the motive to all conduct and action of the thinking 
 being. As the sensuous nature has hitherto asserted its 
 rights, so does emancipated thought, armed with new 
 power, in its own strength and without outward compul- 
 sion or ulterior design, return from the strange land into 
 which it has been led captive, to its own proper home, 
 and betake itself to the path which leads towards that 
 much wished-for Unknown, whose light streams upon 
 it from afar. Towards that unknown it is unceasingly 
 attracted ; in meditating upon it, in striving after it, 
 it employs its best spiritual power.
 
 OF THE PROGRESSIVE SCHOLAR. 235 
 
 This impulse towards an obscure, imperfectly-discerned 
 spiritual object, is commonly named Genius ; and it is 
 so named on good grounds. It is a supernatural instinct 
 in man, attracting him to a supernatural object ; thus 
 indicating his relationship to the spiritual world and his 
 original home in that world. Whether we suppose that 
 this impulse, which, absolutely considered, should prompt 
 to the pursuit of the Divine Idea in its primitive unity and 
 indivisibility, does originally, and at the first appearance 
 of any individual in the world of sense, so shape itself 
 that this individual can lay hold of the Idea only at some 
 one particular point of contact, and only from that point 
 penetrate gradually to the other parts of the spiritual 
 universe ; or whether we hold that this peculiar point of 
 contact for the individual is determined during the first 
 development of the individual power on the manifold 
 materials which surround it, and always occurs in that 
 material which chance presents at the precise moment 
 when the power is sufficiently developed ; which of these 
 opinions soever we adopt, still, so far as its outward mani- 
 festation is concerned, the impulse which shows itself in 
 man and urges him onward, will always exhibit itself 
 as an impulse towards some particular side of the one 
 indivisible Idea ; or, as we may express it, after the prin- 
 ciples laid down in our last lecture, without fear of being 
 misunderstood, as an impulse towards one particular 
 idea in the sphere of all possible ideas ; or if we give to 
 this impulse the name of Genius, then Genius will always 
 appear as a specific Genius, for philosophy, poetry, natural 
 science, legislation, or the like, never clothed with an 
 absolute character, as Genius in the abstract. According 
 to the first opinion, this specific Genius possesses its dis- 
 tinguishing character as an innate peculiarity ; according 
 to the second, it is originally a universal Genius deter- 
 mined to a particular province only by the accident of 
 culture. The decision of this controversy lies beyond the 
 limits of our present task.
 
 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 In whatever way it may be decided, two things are 
 evident : in general, the necessity of previous spiritual 
 culture, and of preliminary acquaintance with ideas and 
 knowledge, so that Genius, if present, may disclose itself; 
 and, in particular the necessity of bringing within the 
 reach of every man, ideas of many different kinds, so that 
 either the inborn specific Genius may come into contact 
 with its appropriate material, or the originally universal 
 Genius may freely choose one particular object from among 
 the many. Even in this preliminary spiritual culture, 
 future Genius reveals itself; for its earliest impulse is 
 directed towards Knowledge only as Knowledge, merely 
 for the sake of knowing ; and thus manifests itself sole- 
 ly as a desire to know. 
 
 But even when this impulse has visibly manifested 
 itself either in the active investigation of some attractive 
 problem or in happy anticipations of its solution, still per- 
 severing industry, uninterrupted labour, are imperatively 
 requisite. The question has often been raised, whether 
 Genius or Industry be more essential in science. I 
 answer, both must be united : the one is of little worth 
 without the other. Genius is nothing more than the 
 effort of the Idea to assume a definite form. The 
 Idea, however, has in itself neither body nor substance, 
 but only shapes for itself an embodiment out of the 
 scientific materials which environ it in Time, of which 
 Industry is the sole purveyor. On the other hand, In- 
 dustry can do nothing more than provide the elements 
 of this embodiment ; to unite them organically, and 
 to breathe into them a living spirit, is not the work of 
 Industry, but belongs only to the Idea revealing itself as 
 Genius. To impress its image on the surrounding world 
 is the object for which the living Idea dwelling in the 
 True Scholar seeks for itself an embodiment. It is to 
 become the highest life-principle, the innermost soul of 
 the world around it ; it must therefore assume the same
 
 OF THE PROGRESSIVE SCHOLAR. 237 
 
 forms which are borne by the surrounding world, establish 
 itself in these forms as its own proper dwelling-place, and 
 with a free authority regulate the movements of all their 
 individual parts according to the natural purposes of 
 each, even as a healthy man can set in motion his own 
 limbs. As for him with whom the indwelling Genius 
 proceeds but half-way in its embodiment, and stops there, 
 whether it be because the paths of Learned Culture 
 are inaccessible to him, or because, from idleness or pre- 
 sumptuous self-conceit, he disdains to avail himself of 
 them, between him and his age, and consequently be- 
 tween him and every possible age, and the whole human 
 race in every point of its progress, an impassable gulf is 
 fixed, and the means of mutual influence are cut off. 
 Whatever may now dwell within him, or, more strictly 
 speaking, whatever he might have acquired in the course 
 of his progressive culture, he is unable to explain clear- 
 ly either to himself or others, or to make it the deliberate 
 rule of his actions and thus realize it in the world. He 
 wants the two necessary elements of the true life of the 
 Idea, clearness and freedom. Clearness ;-^- his funda- 
 mental principle is not thoroughly transparent to his own 
 mind, he cannot follow it securely throughout all its mo- 
 difications, from its innermost source where it descends 
 immediately from the Divinity upon his soul, to all those 
 points at which it has to manifest and embody itself in 
 the visible world, and through the different forms which, 
 under different conditions, it must assume. Freedom; 
 which springs from clearness, and can never exist with- 
 out it ; for he does not recognise at first sight the form 
 which the Idea must assume in each phase of reality that 
 presents itself, and the proper means of that realization ; 
 nor has he those means at his free disposal. He is 
 commonly called a visionary, and he is rightly so called. 
 He, on the contrary, in whom the Idea perfectly reveals 
 itself, looks out upon and thoroughly penetrates all reality
 
 238 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 by the light of the Idea. Through the Idea itself he 
 understands all its related objects, how they have be- 
 come what they are, what in them is complete, what is 
 still awanting, and how the want must be supplied ; and 
 he has, besides, the means of supplying that want com- 
 pletely in his power. The embodiment of the Idea is 
 then for the first time completed in him, and he is a 
 matured Scholar; the point where the Scholar passes 
 into the free Artist is the point of maturity for the 
 Scholar. Hence it is evident that even when Genius has 
 disclosed itself, and visibly becomes a self-forming life of 
 the Idea, untiring Industry is necessary to its perfect 
 growth. To show that at the point where the Scholar 
 reaches maturity the creative existence of the Artist be- 
 gins ; that this, too, requires Industry, that it is infinite ; 
 lies not within our present inquiry ; we only allude to 
 it in passing. 
 
 But what did I say ? that even after the manifestation 
 of Genius, Industry is requisite ? as if I would call forth 
 Industry by my prescription, my advice, my demonstration 
 of its necessity, and thus expected to rouse to exertion 
 those in whom it is wanting ! Rather let us say, that 
 where Genius is really present, Industry spontaneously 
 appears, grows with a steady growth, and ceaselessly im- 
 pels the advancing Scholar onwards towards perfection ; 
 where, on the contrary, Industry is not to be found, it is 
 not Genius nor the impulse of the Idea which has shown 
 itself, but, in place of it, only some mean and unworthy 
 motive. 
 
 The Idea is not the ornament of the individual (for, 
 strictly speaking, there is no such thing as individuality 
 in the Idea), but it seeks to flow forth in the whole 
 human race, to animate it with new life, and to mould 
 it after its own image. This is the distinctive character of 
 the Idea ; and whatever is without this character is not 
 the Idea. Wherever, therefore, it attains such a life, it
 
 OF THE PROGRESSIVE SCHOLAR. 239 
 
 irresistibly strives after this universal activity, not through 
 the life of the individual, but through its own essential 
 nature. It thus impels every one in whom it has an 
 abode, even against the will and wish of his sensuous, per- 
 sonal nature, and as though he were a passive instrument, 
 impels him forward to this universal activity, to the 
 skill which is demanded in its exercise, and to the In- 
 dustry which is necessary for the acquisition of that skill. 
 Even without need of the personal intention of its in- 
 strument, it never ceases from spontaneous activity and 
 self-development until it has attained such a living and 
 efficient form as is possible for it under the conditions by 
 which it is surrounded. Wherever a man, after having 
 availed himself of the existing and accessible means for 
 the acquirement of Learned Culture (for the second case, 
 where those means do not exist or are inaccessible, does 
 not belong to our present subject) wherever, I say, in 
 the first case, such a man remains inactive, satisfied with 
 the persuasion that he is in possession of something re- 
 sembling the Idea or Genius, then in him there is neither 
 Idea nor Genius, but only a vain ostentatious disposition, 
 which assumes a singular and fantastic costume in order 
 to attract notice. Such a disposition shows itself at once 
 in self-gratulatory contemplation of its own parts and en- 
 dowments, dwelling on these in complacent indolence, 
 commonly accompanied by contemptuous disparagement 
 of the personal qualities and gifts of others ; while, on 
 the contrary, he who is constantly urged on by the Idea 
 has no time left to think of his own personality} lost 
 with all his powers in the object he has in view, he never 
 weighs his own capacities of grasping it against those of 
 other men. Genius, where it is present, sees its object 
 only never sees itself; as the sound eye fixes itself 
 upon something beyond it, but never looks round upon its 
 own brightness. In such an one the Idea does certainly 
 not abide. What is it, then, that animates him, that
 
 240 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 moves him to those eager and restless efforts which we be- 
 hold ? It is mere pride and self-conceit, and the desperate 
 purpose, despite of natural disqualification, to assume a 
 character which does not belong to him ; these animate, 
 impel, and spur him on, and stand to him in the room of 
 Genius. And what is it which he produces, which appears 
 to the common eye (itself neither clear nor pure, and in 
 particular incapable of appreciating the sole criteria of all 
 true Ideals clearness, freedom, reasonableness, artistic 
 form) as if it were the Idea ? what is it ? Either some- 
 thing which he has himself imagined, or which has ac- 
 cidentally occurred to him, which, indeed, he does not 
 understand, but which he hopes, nevertheless, may appear 
 new, striking, paradoxical, and therefore blaze forth far 
 and wide ; with this he commits himself to the chance 
 of fortune, trusting that in the sequel he himself, or some 
 one else, may discover a meaning therein. Or else he 
 has borrowed it from others, cunningly distorting, dis- 
 arranging, and unsettling it, so that its original form 
 cannot easily be recognised ; and, by way of precaution, 
 depreciating the source whence it came, as utterly barren 
 and unprofitable, lest the unprejudiced observer might be 
 led to inquire whether he has not possibly obtained from 
 thence that which he calls his own. 
 
 In one word, self-contemplation, self-admiration, and 
 self-flattery, although the last may remain unexpressed, 
 and even carefully shrouded from any other eye than 
 his own, these, and the indolence and disdain of the 
 treasures already gathered together in the storehouses of 
 learning which spring from these, are sure signs of the 
 absence of true Genius ; whilst forgetfulness of self in the 
 object pursued, entire devotion to that object, and inability 
 to entertain any thought of self in its presence, are the 
 inseparable accompaniments of true Genius. It follows 
 that true Genius in every stage of its growth, but particu- 
 larly during its early development, is marked by amiable
 
 OF THE PROGRESSIVE SCHOLAR. 241 
 
 modesty and retiring bashfulness. Genius knows least of 
 all about itself; it is there, and works and rules with 
 silent power, long before it comes to consciousness of its 
 own nature. Whoever is constantly looking back upon 
 himself to see how it stands with him, of what powers he 
 can boast, and who is himself the first discoverer of these, 
 in him truly there is nothing great. 
 
 Should there then be here among you any opening 
 Genius, far be it from me to wound its native modesty 
 and diffidence by any general invitation to you to examine 
 yourselves to see whether or not you are in possession of 
 the Idea, I would much rather earnestly dissuade you 
 from such self-examination. And that this advice may 
 not seem to you the suggestion of mere pedantic school- 
 wisdom, and perhaps of extravagant caution, but may 
 approve itself to your minds as arising from absolute 
 necessity, I would add that this question can neither 
 be answered by yourselves, nor can you obtain any sure 
 answer to it from any one else ; that therefore truth 
 is not elicited by such a premeditated self-examination, 
 but, on the contrary, the youth is taught a self-contem- 
 plation and conceited brooding over his own nature, 
 through which the man becomes at length an intel- 
 lectual and moral ruin. There are many signs by which 
 we may know that the Genius which possibly lies con- 
 cealed in a Student has not yet declared itself, and we 
 shall find occasion in the sequel to point out the most 
 remarkable of these ; but there is only one decisive 
 criterion by which we may determine whether Genius 
 has existed or has never existed in him ; and that one 
 decisive criterion can be applied only after the result has 
 become apparent. Whoever has really become a mature 
 Scholar and Artist, in the sense in which we have used 
 these words, grasping the world in his clear, penetrating 
 Idea, and able to impress that Idea upon the world at 
 every point he has had Genius, he has been inspired by 
 
 H a
 
 242 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 the Idea ; and this may now confidently be said of him. 
 He who, notwithstanding the most diligent study, has 
 come to years of maturity without having raised himself 
 to the Idea he has been without Genius, without com- 
 munion with the Idea ; and this may henceforth be said 
 of him. But of him who is still upon the way, neither of 
 these judgments can be pronounced. 
 
 This disposition of things, which is as wise as it is 
 necessary, leaves but one course open to the youthful 
 student who cannot know with certainty whether or not 
 Genius dwells within him ; this, namely, that he continue 
 to act as though there were latent within him that which 
 must at last come to light ; that he subject himself to all 
 conditions, and place himself in all circumstances, in which, 
 if present, it may come to light; that, with untiring 
 Industry and true devotion of his whole mind, he avail 
 himself of all the means which Learned Culture offers to 
 him. In the worst case, if at the termination of his 
 studies he find that, out of the mass of learning which he 
 has accumulated, no spark of the Idea has beamed upon 
 him, there yet remains for him this consciousness at least, 
 a consciousness more indispensable to man than even 
 Genius itself, and without which the possessor of the 
 greatest Genius is far less worthy than he, the con- 
 sciousness that if he has not risen higher, no blame can 
 attach to him, that the point at which he has stopped 
 short is the place which God has assigned to him, whose 
 law he will joyfully obey. No one need pride himself 
 upon Genius, for it is the free gift of God ; but of honest 
 Industry and true devotion to his destiny any man may 
 well be proud ; indeed this thorough Integrity of Purpose 
 is itself the Divine Idea in its most common form, and 
 no really honest mind is without communion with God. 
 
 Farther: the knowledge which he has acquired by 
 means of this sincere effort after something higher, will 
 render him always a suitable instrument in the hands of
 
 I 
 
 OF THE PROGRESSIVE SCHOLAR. 243 
 
 the higher Scholar, of him who has attained possession 
 of the Idea. To him he will unhesitatingly submit with- 
 out grudge or jealousy, without any unsatisfied struggle 
 after an elevation for which he was not formed ; his guid- 
 ance he will follow with a true loyalty which shall have 
 become to him a second nature, and thus he will obtain a 
 sure consciousness of having fulfilled his vocation as the 
 last and highest destiny to which, in any sphere of life, 
 man can attain.
 
 ( 245 ) 
 
 LECTURE IV. 
 
 OF INTEGRITY IN STUDY. 
 
 HE who is to become a True Scholar, so that in him the 
 Divine Idea of the world may attain to such a measure of 
 clearness and influence over the surrounding world as is 
 possible in his circumstances, must be laid hold of by the 
 Idea itself through its own inherent power, and by it be 
 urged forward unceasingly towards the desired end. 
 
 In our portraiture of the Nature of the True Scholar, 
 we are now engaged with the Progressive Scholar, or the 
 Student. 
 
 If the Student is really inspired by the Idea, or, what 
 is the same thing, if he possesses Genius and true talent, 
 he is already far above all our counsels ; Genius will fulfil 
 its vocation in him without our aid, and even without his 
 own concurrence : of this we have spoken sufficiently in 
 our last lecture. 
 
 But, as we have likewise seen in the same lecture, 
 the Progressive Scholar can never determine for himself 
 whether or not he possesses Genius in our sense of the 
 term, nor can any one else determine this for him : hence 
 there is nothing left for him but with sincere and perfect 
 Integrity so to act as if there lay within him Genius 
 which must ultimately come to light. True Genius, when 
 present, manifests itself precisely in the same way as does
 
 246 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 this Integrity in Study ; in appearance, both assume the 
 same form, and cannot be distinguished the one from the 
 other. 
 
 Turning from the tests of Genius which, in the Progres- 
 sive Scholar at least, are inscrutable, we have now only 
 to exhaust the indications of Integrity in Study, and 
 we shall then have completed the portraiture of the true 
 follower of learning. The honest Student is to us the 
 only True Student ; the two ideas flow into each other. 
 
 Integrity in the abstract, as we have also remarked 
 before, is itself a Divine Idea ; it is the Divine Idea in 
 its most common form, embracing all men. Hence, like 
 the Idea itself, it acts by its own inherent power; it 
 makes itself, as we said before of Genius, without aid from 
 personal feeling, nay, even annihilating self-love as far 
 as possible, into an independent life in man, irresistibly 
 urging him forward and pervading all his thoughts and 
 actions. His actions, I say ; for the idea of Integrity is 
 an immediately practical idea, determining the outward, 
 visible, free doings of man ; whereas the influence of 
 Genius is, in the first place, internal, affecting spiritual 
 insight. He who truly possesses Genius must be success- 
 ful in his studies : to him light and knowledge will spring 
 up on all sides from the objects of his contemplation. He 
 who possesses Integrity in Study, of him this success can- 
 not be so surely predicted : but should it not follow, he 
 will be blameless, for he will neglect nothing within his 
 power which may enable him to attain it ; and even if he 
 be not at last a sharer in the triumph, he shall at least 
 have deserved to be so. 
 
 Integrity, as a living and governing principle, rises 
 above the person of him who is animated by it, and re- 
 gards this person as standing under a definite law, as 
 existing only for a certain purpose, and as means to a 
 higher end. Man shall be and do something ; his temporal 
 life shall leave behind it in the spiritual world an im-
 
 OF INTEGRITY IN STUDY. 247 
 
 perishable and eternal result, a particular result arising 
 from the life of each individual, belonging to him alone 
 and demanded of him alone. It is thus that the true- 
 minded man looks upon all personal Life in Time, and 
 particularly on that life which lies nearest to him, 
 namely, his own. He in whom this Integrity has become 
 a living idea cannot conceive of human life in any other 
 way than this ; from this principle he sets forth, to it he 
 constantly returns, and by it he regulates all his other 
 modes of thought. Only in so far as he obeys this law 
 and fulfils this purpose, which he recognises as his being's 
 end and aim, is he satisfied with himself : everything in 
 him which is not directed to this high end, which is not 
 evidently a means to its attainment, he despises, hates, 
 desires to have swept away. He looks upon his individual 
 person as a thought of the Deity ; and thus his vocation 
 the design of his being is to him as a purpose of God 
 himself. This, and nothing else, is the idea of Integrity, 
 whether he who is ruled by it calls it by this name or by 
 another. 
 
 Success cannot indeed be certainly predicted of mere 
 Integrity as such, either in study or in any other purpose 
 it may propose to itself; but in all its pursuits it will 
 surely display the independent power of the Idea pressing 
 steadily forward to its mark ; and of the true-minded man 
 it may confidently be said, that in Integrity itself, his 
 defence and support, he will find a noble reward. In ad- 
 vancing on the path of rectitude, it will become continually 
 less needful for him to admonish, to arouse himself to the 
 struggle against recurring evil desires ; for the true feeling, 
 the legitimate mode of thought, will spontaneously reveal 
 itself to him, and become his ruling principle, his second 
 nature. Whatever thou doest, do it with Integrity : if 
 thou studiest, let it guide thy studies ; and then, as to 
 whether thou shalt prosper in what thou doest, leave 
 that to God ; thou hast most surely left it to him, when
 
 248 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 thou- goest to work with true and honest purpose : with 
 the attainment of that Integrity thou shalt also attain 
 unbroken peace, inward cheerfulness, and an unstained 
 conscience ; and in so far thou shalt assuredly prosper. 
 
 We have said that the honest man in general looks upon 
 his free personal life as unalterably determined by the 
 eternal thought of God ; the honest Student in particular 
 looks upon himself as designed by the thought of God to 
 the end that the Divine Idea of the constitution of this 
 universe may enter his soul, shine in him with steady 
 lustre, and through him maintain a certain influence on 
 the surrounding world. Thus does he conceive of his 
 vocation ; for in this lies the essential Nature of the 
 Scholar : so surely as he has entered upon his studies 
 with Integrity, i. e. with the persuasion that God has given 
 a purpose to his life, and that he must direct all his free 
 actions towards the fulfilment of that purpose, so surely 
 has he made the supposition that it is the Divine Will 
 that he should become a Scholar. It matters not whether 
 we have chosen this condition for ourselves with freedom 
 and foresight, or others have chosen it for us, placed us in 
 the way of preparation for it, and closed every other con- 
 dition of life against us. How could any one, at the early 
 age at which this choice of a condition usually occurs, and 
 in most cases must occur, have attained the mature wis- 
 dom by which to decide for himself whether or not he is 
 possessed of the as yet untried and undeveloped capacity 
 for knowledge ? When we come to exercise our own 
 understanding, the choice of a condition is already made, 
 it has been made without our aid, because we were in- 
 capable at the time of rendering any aid in the matter ; 
 and now we cannot turn back, a necessity precisely simi- 
 lar to the unalterable conditions under which our freedom 
 is placed by the Divine Will. If an error should occur in 
 the choice thus made for us by others, the fault is not 
 ours : we could not decide whether or not an error had
 
 OF INTEGRITY IN STUDY. 249 
 
 been committed, and could not venture to presuppose 
 one ; if it has occurred, then it is our business, so far as in 
 us lies, to correct it. In any case, it is the Divine Will 
 that every one, in the station where he has been placed 
 by necessity, should do all things which properly belong 
 to that station. We have met together to study ; hence 
 it is assuredly the Divine Will that we consider ourselves 
 as Students, and apply to ourselves all that is compre- 
 hended in that idea. 
 
 This thought, with its indestructible certainty, enters 
 and fills the soul of every honest Student : this, namely 
 " I, this sent, this expressly commissioned individual, 
 as I may now call myself, am actually here, have entered 
 into existence for this cause and no other, that the eter- 
 nal counsel of God in this universe may through me be 
 seen of men in another, hitherto unknown light, may be 
 made clearly manifest in the world so as not again to be 
 extinguished ; and this phase of the Divine Thought, thus 
 bound up with my personality, is the only true living 
 being within me ; all else, though looked upon even by 
 myself as belonging to my being, is dream, shadow, 
 nothing ; this alone is imperishable and eternal within 
 me ; all else shall again disappear in the void from which 
 it has seemingly, but never really, come forth." This 
 thought fills his whole soul ; whether it is itself clearly 
 conceived and expressed or not, everything else which is 
 there clearly conceived, expressed, wished, or willed, is 
 referred back to it as to its first condition, can only be 
 explained by it, and only considered possible on the sup- 
 position of its truth. 
 
 Through this fundamental principle of all his thoughts, 
 he himself, and Knowledge, the object of his activity, 
 become to him, before all other things, honourable and 
 holy. He himself becomes honourable and holy. Not, by 
 any means, that he dwells with self-complacent pride on 
 the superiority of his vocation to share in some degree 
 
 I a
 
 250 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 the counsel of God and reveal it to the world over other 
 less distinguished callings, invidiously weighing them 
 against each other, and thus esteeming himself as of more 
 value than other men. If one form of human destiny 
 appears to him superior to another, it is not because it 
 offers a better field for personal distinction, but because 
 in it the Divine Idea reveals itself with greater clearness. 
 Man has no peculiar value beyond that of faithfully ful- 
 filling his vocation, whatever that may be ; and in this all 
 are alike, irrespective of the different natures of their 
 callings. Moreover, the Progressive Scholar does not even 
 know whether he shall ultimately attain the proper end 
 of his studies, the possession of the Idea ; nor, therefore, 
 if that noble vocation be really his ; he is only bound to 
 suppose the possibility of this. The perfect Scholar of 
 whom we do not now speak when he has the completed 
 result in his possession, can then indeed with certainty 
 recognise his vocation ; but even in him the cravings of 
 the Idea for more extended manifestation still continue, 
 and shall continue while life endures, so that he can never 
 have time to muse over the superiority of his vocation, 
 even were such musings not utterly vain in themselves. 
 All pride is founded on what we think we are, are in 
 attained and perfect being ; and thus pride is in itself 
 vain and contradictory, for that which is our true being, 
 that to which endless growth belongs, is precisely that 
 to which we have not yet attained. Our true and un- 
 derived being in the Divine Idea always manifests itself as 
 a desire for progress, and hence as dissatisfaction with our 
 present state; and thus the Idea makes us truly modest, 
 and bows us down to the dust before its majesty. By 
 his pride itself, the proud man shows that, more than any 
 one else, he has need of humility ; for while he thinks of 
 himself that he is something, he shows by his pride that 
 he is really nothing. 
 
 Hence, in the thought to which we gave utterance, the
 
 OF INTEGRITY IN STUDY. 251 
 
 Student is holy and honourable to himself above every- 
 thing else, not in respect of what he is, but of what he 
 ought to be, and what he evermore must strive to become. 
 The peculiar self-abasement of a man consists in this, 
 when he makes himself an instrument of a temporary and 
 perishable purpose, and deigns to spend care and labour 
 on something else than the Imperishable and Eternal. 
 In this view, every man should be honourable and holy to 
 himself, and so, too, should the Scholar. 
 
 To what end, then, O Student, dost thou give to Know- 
 ledge this attention, which, be it great or small, still costs 
 thee some effort, wherefore concentrate thy thoughts 
 here, when thou wouldst rather let them rove abroad, 
 wherefore deny thyself so many enjoyments, for which, 
 nevertheless, the appetite is not wanting in thee ? Dost 
 thou answer, " That I may not some day come to want ; 
 that I may acquire a sufficient maintenance, a respect- 
 able competency, whereby I may satisfy myself with good 
 things ; that my fellow-citizens may respect me, and that 
 I may more easily move them to the fulfilment of my pur- 
 poses"? I ask, Who then is this thou, in whose future 
 nursing and comfort thou art so keenly interested, and for 
 whom thou dost now toil so hard and sacrifice so much ? 
 It is as yet quite uncertain whether it ever reach this 
 hoped-for land of self-gratification : but suppose it should 
 do so, and even enjoy for many years the pampering thou 
 hast provided for it, what will be the end of it all at last ? 
 All this nursing will have an end ; the pampered body 
 will sink and crumble into a heap of ashes ; and for this 
 wilt thou begin the monotonous, mechanical, often irksome 
 business of life, and even add to its inherent bitterness 
 by deliberating beforehand on the burden which it lays 
 on thee ? In such circumstances, I at least would rather 
 begin at the end of the romance, and go down this day to 
 the grave, into which sooner or later I must descend. Or 
 dost thou answer thus, more praiseworthily in appearance
 
 252 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 at least, but not more profoundly, " I will thereby be- 
 come useful to my fellow-men and promote their welfare ? " 
 then I ask, What end will thy usefulness serve ? In a few 
 years, of all whom thou desirest to serve, and whom I freely 
 grant thou mayest serve, not one shall remain, not one 
 shall have the least need of thy services any more : thou 
 hast spent thy labour on perishable things ; they disap- 
 pear, and thou disappearest with them, and a time comes 
 when every trace of thy existence shall be utterly effaced. 
 Not so the true Student, who has brought Integrity with 
 him to his task. " I am," he may say ; " but as surely as I 
 am, is my existence a thought of God ; for He alone is the 
 fountain of all being, and besides Him there is no being. 
 Whatever I am, in and by this thought, I am before 
 all Time, and do so remain independent of all time 
 and change. This thought will I strive to know, to its 
 fulfilment I will apply all my powers ; then shall they 
 be employed on what is eternal, and their result shall 
 endure for ever. I am Eternal, and it is below the dig- 
 nity of the Eternal to waste itself on things that perish." 
 By the same principle does Knowledge, the object of his 
 activity, become honourable to the Student. At his entrance 
 into the world of science, he meets with many things 
 which seem to him strange and unaccountable, insignifi- 
 cant or unattractive ; he cannot comprehend the grounds 
 of their necessity, nor their influence on the great whole 
 of Knowledge, which he is as yet unable to embrace in 
 one view. How shall the beginner, who must first gather 
 together the different parts, how shall he see and under- 
 stand them in the light of the whole, to which he has not 
 yet attained ? Whilst one man thoughtlessly neglects and 
 despises whatever is unintelligible to him, and so remains 
 ignorant ; whilst another learns it mechanically, with 
 blind faith, or in the hope that it may one day prove 
 useful to him in some business of life ; the True Scholar 
 worthily and nobly welcomes it into the general idea of
 
 OF INTEGRITY IN STUDY. 253 
 
 Knowledge which he already possesses. All which comes 
 before him belongs in every case to the circle of things 
 out of which the Divine Idea is to appear to him, and to 
 the material in which the Eternal Life within him shall 
 reveal itself and assume a definite form. If Knowledge 
 appears to those who are without both Genius and In- 
 tegrity only as a means to the attainment of certain 
 worldly ends, she reveals herself to him who with honest 
 heart consecrates himself to her service, not only in her 
 highest branches which touch closely upon things divine, 
 but down even to her meanest elements, as something 
 originating in, and determined by, the Eternal Thought 
 of God himself, originated there expressly for, and in 
 relation to, him, destined to be perfected by its action 
 upon him, and, through him, upon the whole Eternal 
 Universe. 
 
 And so does his own person ever become holier to him 
 through the holiness of Knowledge, and Knowledge again 
 holier through the holiness of his person. His whole life, 
 however unimportant it may outwardly seem, has acquired 
 an inward meaning, a new significance. Whatever may 
 or may not flow from it, it is still a god-like life. And 
 in order to become a partaker in this life, neither the 
 Student, nor the follower of any human pursuit, needs 
 peculiar talents, but only a living and active Integrity of 
 Purpose, to which the thought of our high vocation and 
 of our allegiance to an Eternal Law, with all that flows 
 from these, will be spontaneously revealed.
 
 ( 255 ) 
 
 LECTURE V. 
 
 HOW THE INTEGBITY OP THE STUDENT MANIFESTS 
 ITSELF. 
 
 THE lectures which I now resume have been begun under 
 many unfavourable circumstances. In the first place, I 
 have had to contemplate my subject from a point of view 
 much higher than the common one, from an elevation to 
 which every Student may not have been prepared to rise. 
 A newly-installed teacher in a University cannot be well 
 acquainted with the extent to which scientific culture is 
 really to be found there ; and yet it may naturally be 
 assumed that the means of such culture long notoriously 
 in existence have been already brought into use. But 
 could I have known, even to certainty, that the public 
 as a whole were not sufficiently prepared' for such views, 
 yet I must have treated my subject precisely in the way 
 in which I have treated it, or else have never touched it 
 at all. No man should linger about the surface of a 
 thought, and repeat in another form what has been said 
 an hundred times before : he who can do no more than 
 this had better be silent altogether ; but he who can do 
 otherwise will never hesitate to do so. Further, the 
 individual parts of what is in itself a systematic whole, 
 have been necessarily broken up by intervals of weeks ;
 
 256 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 and in these public lectures, I could not well adhere 
 strictly to the practice which I have generally adopted in 
 all purely philosophical instruction, i. e. before every new 
 lecture to recapitulate the substance of the previous one 
 in its connexion with the subject at large, and thus con- 
 duct the hearer once more over all that has gone before, 
 and enable him again to grasp the spirit of the whole. 
 Lastly, in these lectures my discourse is not, as in iny 
 other lectures, entirely free, descending to the familiar 
 tones of conversation ; but is deliberately composed, and 
 delivered as it is written down. This too, I conceive, is 
 demanded by propriety, that I should give these lectures 
 all the outward polish which is possible in the only avail- 
 able time which I can spare from my other duties to 
 devote to them. Public lectures are the free gifts of an 
 academical teacher ; and he who is not ignoble would 
 wish to make his gifts the best which he has it in his 
 power to bestow. 
 
 The two last-mentioned circumstances are unavoidable, 
 and nothing remains for you but to change them into 
 favourable conditions for yourselves. The first is already 
 obviated, for such of you as attend my private course, by 
 my last lecture upon the distinction between the philo- 
 sophical and historical points of view ; and I therefore 
 consider you to be sufficiently prepared by that lecture 
 for the reception of the views we shall now take of our 
 present subject. To-day I shall, in the first place, survey 
 the whole of that subject in the form to which you have 
 been accustomed in the other course, and in that form 
 exhibit and repeat it to you. 
 
 Any subject whatever which engages the attention of 
 man, may be considered in a double aspect, and, as it 
 were, with a double organ of sense ; either historically, by 
 mere outward perception alone ; or philosophically, by 
 inward spiritual vision ; and in this double aspect may 
 the object of our present inquiries the Nature of the
 
 HOW INTEGRITY MANIFESTS ITSELF. 257 
 
 Scholar be surveyed. The historical view lays hold of 
 existing opinions about the object, selects from among 
 them the most common and prevalent, regards these as 
 truth, but thus obtains mere illusion and not truth. The 
 philosophical view regards things as they are in themselves, 
 i. e. in the world of pure thought, of which world God 
 is the essential and fundamental principle, and thus as 
 God himself must have thought of them, could we attribute 
 thought to him. Hence the inquiry, What is the Nature 
 of the Scholar ? as a philosophical question, means the 
 following : How must God conceive of the Nature of the 
 Scholar, were He to conceive of it ? In this spirit we 
 have taken up the question, and in this spirit we have 
 given it the following answer : In the first place, God 
 has conceived of the whole world, not only 05 it now is, 
 but also as it shall become by its own spontaneous growth ; 
 moreover, what it now is lies in the original Divine Thought 
 as the germ of an endless development, and that a 
 development proceeding from the highest that exists in 
 it, namely, from the rational beings, by means of their 
 own freedom. If, then, these rational beings are to 
 realize, by their own free act, that Divine Thought of 
 the world as it ought to be, they must before all things 
 comprehend and know this Thought. Now this compre- 
 hension and knowledge of the original Divine Thought is 
 unattainable by them, except on condition of a second 
 Divine Thought ; this, namely, that they to whom it is 
 given should comprehend the Thought. But those who 
 are conceived of in the Divine world-creative Thought as 
 in part comprehending that original Divine Thought, are 
 therein conceived of as Scholars ; and, on the other hand, 
 Scholars are possible and actually exist, where they do 
 exist, only through the Divine Thought ; and in that Di- 
 vine Thought they are those who in part comprehend 
 God in his original Thought of the world; Scholars, 
 namely, in so far as they have elevated themselves to that 
 
 K a
 
 258 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 Divine Thought by the various means to the attainment 
 of the highest spiritual culture which exist in every age 
 through the Divine Thought itself. 
 
 That Divine Thought of man as a Scholar must now 
 itself take possession of him, and become his innermost 
 soul, the true essential life dwelling in his life. This can, 
 happen in two ways, either directly or indirectly. If it lay 
 hold of the man directly, it will form itself in him, spon- 
 taneously and without outward aid, into such a knowledge 
 of the Divine Plan of the universe as can find a place in 
 that individual ; all his thoughts and impulses will of 
 themselves take the most direct way to this end ; what- 
 ever he does, prompted by this thought, is good and right, 
 and must assuredly prosper, for it is an immediately divine 
 act. This phenomenon we call Genius. In individual 
 cases it can never be determined whether a man is, or is 
 not, the subject of this immediate influence of the Divine 
 Thought. 
 
 Or, the second and generally applicable case is when 
 the Divine Thought of man as a Scholar lays hold of, 
 inspires, and animates him indirectly. He finds himself 
 necessitated to study by his position, which being de- 
 termined without his assistance, he must regard as the 
 purpose of God with him. He enters upon this vocation 
 in consequence of the thought that it is the purpose of 
 God in him and for him, with Integrity ; for so we call 
 the faith that God has a purpose in our being. By thus 
 embracing his vocation not merely because it is his, but 
 because it is made his solely by the Divine Thought and 
 purpose, does his person as well as knowledge, which is his 
 calling, become to him, before all other things, honourable 
 and holy. It was this last-mentioned thought of which 
 we treated particularly in our previous lecture, and which 
 we purpose to follow out to-day. 
 
 This thought of the divinity and holiness of his voca- 
 tion is the soul of his life, the impulse which produces all
 
 HOW INTEGRITY MANIFESTS ITSELF. 259 
 
 that goes forth from him, the aether in which everything 
 around him is bathed. His conduct and doings in the 
 outward world must then harmonize with this thought. 
 He needs no conscious effort of his individual will to bring 
 his actions into harmony with this Divine Thought ; he 
 needs not to exhort, urge, or compel himself to this har- 
 mony, for he cannot possibly act otherwise : were he to 
 endeavour to act in opposition to it, then he would need 
 to persuade, to urge, to compel himself to that course, 
 but without success. 
 
 Keep this steadfastly in view while we now pass from 
 the idea of the true-minded Scholar, to its outward mani- 
 festation. Our Morality, if it be Morality which we^now 
 propound to you, our Morality does not enact laws ; like 
 all philosophy, it confines itself to nature and necessity, 
 and only describes what does and does not flow from these. 
 Could this Morality permit itself an external wish, and 
 hope for its realization, it would be to strike the hard and 
 barren rock which confines the fountain of good, so that 
 its waters might spontaneously gush forth in their original 
 purity to enrich the inward juices of the tree ; but it 
 would never desire with idle art to engraft thereon foreign 
 fruits which cannot grow from such a stock. Hence I 
 shall not even touch upon many things which might seem 
 appropriate in this place ; and upon many others which T 
 do touch, I shall speak with reserve, not as if I did not 
 know that these things have other aspects under which 
 they must be spoken of with greater severity, but because 
 I shall here judge the Actual only by the holiness of the 
 Ideal, which must on no account be dragged down to 
 certain depths of degradation. Let who will be teacher 
 of external Morality, we shall not here come into con- 
 tact with the vulgar who find their motives to action in 
 impulses from without. 
 
 We have already said that the acceptance of his voca- 
 tion by the Student as a Divine Thought, makes his own
 
 260 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 person holy and honourable to him. This view of his 
 person will spontaneously manifest itself in his outward 
 life, without direct thought and will upon his part, as 
 sacred purity and freedom from all constraint ; not ex- 
 pressly recognised as such by himself, but because no 
 other mode of life falls within his range of thought. 
 
 To describe his life in one word : he shuns the contact 
 of the vulgar and ignoble. Where these meet him, he 
 draws back, like the well-known sensitive plant which 
 shrinks from the touch of our finger. Where aught vul- 
 gar or ignoble is present, he is not to be found ; it has 
 forced him away from it, before it came near to him. 
 
 What is vulgar and ignoble ? So asks not he ; his in- 
 ward sense prompts, in every case, an immediate answer. 
 We put the question only that we may describe his higher 
 life and delight ourselves in contemplating the picture. 
 
 Everything is vulgar and ignoble which degrades the 
 fancy and blunts the taste for the Holy. Tell me what 
 direction thy thoughts take, not when with tightened 
 hand thou constrainest them to a purpose, but when in 
 thy hours of recreation thou allowest them freely to rove 
 abroad ; tell me what direction they then take, where they 
 naturally turn as to their most loved home, in what thou 
 thyself in the innermost depths of thy soul findest thy 
 chief enjoyment; and then I will tell thee what are thy 
 tastes. Are they directed towards the Godlike, to those 
 things in nature and art wherein the Godlike most directly 
 reveals itself in imposing majesty ? then is the Godlike 
 not dreadful to thee but friendly ; thy tastes lead thee to it, 
 it is thy most loved enjoyment. Do they,* when released 
 from the constraint with which thou hast directed them 
 towards a serious pursuit, eagerly turn to brood over sen- 
 sual pleasures, and find relaxation in the pursuit of these ? 
 then hast thou a vulgar taste, thou must invite animal- 
 ism into the innermost recesses of thy soul before it can 
 seem well with thee there. Not so the noble Student.
 
 HOW INTEGRITY MANIFESTS ITSELF. 261 
 
 His thoughts, when exhausted by exertion and toil, return 
 in moments of relaxation to the Holy, the Great, the 
 Sublime, there to find repose, refreshment, and new 
 energy for yet higher efforts. In nature as well as in the 
 Arts, in Poetry and in Music, he seeks for the Sublime, 
 and that in its great and imposing style. In Poetry for 
 example, and in Oratory, he delights in the lofty voices of 
 the ancient world ; and, among the moderns, in that only 
 which is produced and interpenetrated by the spirit of 
 the ancients. Amusements in which the form of art is 
 thrown around unmeaning emptiness, or even productions 
 which appeal to the senses alone, and seek to please man 
 by awakening and exciting his animal nature, these 
 have no charms for him. It is not necessary for him to 
 consider beforehand how hurtful they might prove to 
 him ; they do not please him, he can acquire no liking 
 for them. 
 
 The man of mature age may indeed turn his thoughts to 
 such perversions, that he may discover in themselves the 
 evidence of their perversion, and so laugh at them : he is 
 secure from their contagion. Not so the inexperienced 
 youth ; a secret voice calls him back from them alto- 
 gether. The man of ripe years, who is no longer occupied 
 in forming his Ideal, but now seeks to impress it on the 
 actual world, he has to deal with perversion, and must 
 pursue it through all its doublings and turnings, into its 
 most secret haunts ; and he cannot do this without con- 
 templating it. Our hatred of the vulgar becomes weakened 
 and blunted by time, by the experience that the foolish- 
 ness of the world suffers no abatement, and that almost 
 the only certain advantage which can be gained from it is 
 a laugh at its expense. But the youth cannot thus con- 
 template life, he must not thus contemplate it. Every 
 period of life has its peculiar calling. Good-natured 
 laughter at vulgarity belongs to ripened age ; the attitude 
 of youth towards it ought to be that of stern aversion ;
 
 262 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 and no one will be able in after years to look on it, and to 
 laugh at it, and yet remain truly free and pure from its 
 taint, who does not begin in youth by avoiding and hating 
 it. Jesting is not suited for youth, they know little of 
 man who think so ; where youth is wasted in sport, it 
 will never attain to earnestness and true existence. The 
 portion of youth in life is the Earnest and the Sublime ; 
 only after such a youth does maturity attain to the 
 Beautiful, and with it to sportful enjoyment of the Vulgar. 
 Further, everything is vulgar and ignoble which weakens 
 spiritual power. I shall instance idleness ; to mention 
 drunkenness or sensuality would be below the dignity of 
 our subject. To live without active occupation, to cast 
 a dull and unmeaning gaze around us, will soon make 
 our minds dull and unmeaning. This propensity to non- 
 existence, to spiritual torpor, becomes a habit, a second 
 nature ; it surprises us in our studies or while listening to 
 our teacher, creates a chasm in what would otherwise be 
 a strictly connected whole, interposes itself here and there 
 between ideas which we should connect together, so that 
 we cannot comprehend even those which are most easy 
 and intelligible. How this propensity should seize upon 
 youth, may remain unaccountable even to men of the 
 deepest penetration and judgment; in most cases it would 
 be no delusion to s,eek its cause in some secret infirmity 
 or vice. Youth is the age of newly-developed power; 
 everywhere there are still impulses and principles des- 
 tined to burst forth into new creations; the peculiar 
 character of youth is restless and uninterrupted activity ; 
 left to itself, it can never be without occupation. To see 
 it slothful is the sight of winter in the time of spring, the 
 blight and withering of a newly-opened flower. Were it 
 naturally possible that this idleness should attempt to 
 gain dominion over the true-minded and virtuous Student, 
 he would never for a moment endure it. In the Eternal 
 Thought of God his spiritual power has its source ; it is
 
 HOW INTEGRITY MANIFESTS ITSELF. 263 
 
 thus his most precious treasure, and he will not suffer it 
 to fall into impotent rigidity before it has fulfilled its task. 
 He watches unceasingly over himself, and never allows 
 himself to rest in slothful inaction. It is only for a short 
 period that this exertion of the will is needful ; afterwards, 
 its result continues of itself, for it is happily as easy, or 
 even more easy because it is more natural, for man to 
 accustom himself to industry than to idleness, and after 
 a time passed in sustained activity it even becomes im- 
 possible for him to live without employment. 
 
 Lastly, everything is vulgar and ignoble which robs 
 man of respect for himself, of faith in himself, and of the 
 power of reckoning with confidence upon himself and his 
 purposes. Nothing is more destructive of character than 
 for man to lose all faith in his own resolutions, because 
 he has so often determined, and again determined, to do 
 that which nevertheless he has never done. Then he feels 
 it necessary to flee from himself; he can no longer turn 
 inward to his own thoughts, lest he be covered with shame 
 before them ; he shuns no society so much as his own, and 
 deliberately gives himself up to dissipation and self-aban- 
 donment. Not so the upright Student : he abides by his 
 purpose; whatever he has resolved to do, that he does, 
 were it only because he has resolved to do it. For the 
 same reason, that he must be guided by his own pur- 
 pose and his own insight, he will not become a slave to 
 the opinion of others, or even to common opinion. It is 
 doubtless of all things most ignoble, when man, out of 
 too great complacency, which at bottom is cowardice and 
 want of spirit, or out of indolence, which prevents him 
 from thinking for himself and drawing the principles of 
 his conduct from his own mind, gives himself up to 
 others, and relies upon them rather than upon himself. 
 Such an one has indeed no self within him, and believes 
 in no self within him, but goes as a suppliant to others, 
 and entreats of them, one after another, to lend him their
 
 264 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 personality. How can such an one regard himself as 
 honourable and holy, when he neither knows nor ac- 
 knowledges his own being ? 
 
 I have said that the true-minded Student will not make 
 himself a slave to common opinion ; nevertheless he will 
 accommodate himself to established customs where these 
 are in themselves indifferent, simply because he honours 
 himself. The educated youth grows up amid these cus- 
 toms ; were he to cast them off, he must of necessity 
 deliberately resolve to do so, and attract notice and at- 
 tention to himself by his singularities and his offences 
 against decorum. How should he whose time is occupied 
 with weightier matters find leisure to ponder such a sub- 
 ject ? Is the matter so important, and is there no other 
 way in which he can distinguish himself, that he must 
 take refuge in a petty peculiarity ? " No ! " answers 
 the noble-minded Student; "I am here to comprehend 
 weightier things than outward manners, and I will not 
 have it appear that I am too awkward to understand 
 these. I will not by such littleness cause myself and my 
 class to be despised and hated by the uncharitable, or 
 good-naturedly laughed at by those of better disposition ; 
 my fellow-citizens of other classes, or of my own, my 
 teachers, my superiors, shall have it in their power to 
 honour and respect me as a man in every relation of 
 human life." 
 
 And thus in all its relations does the life of the studious 
 youth, who respects himself, flow on blameless and lovely.
 
 ( 265 ) 
 
 LECTUKE VI. 
 
 OF ACADEMICAL FREEDOM. 
 
 THE point which we had attained at the close of last lec- 
 ture in our portraiture of the Student to whom his own 
 person had become holy through the view of his vocation 
 as a Divine Thought was the consideration of his outward 
 manners. With this subject is connected an idea, fre- 
 quently broached but seldom duly weighed, the idea of 
 the Academical Freedom of the Student. Much, indeed, 
 of what has been said regarding this subject lies below the 
 dignity of these lectures ; and only in the sequel will we 
 be able to find a way of elevating it to our own standard. 
 Hence I not only cheerfully admit that the discussion of 
 this idea, which I hope to accomplish to-day, is a mere 
 episode in my general plan ; I must even entreat you so 
 to consider it. But to pass over altogether a subject to 
 which one is led, almost unconsciously, in a review of the 
 moral behaviour of the Student, I hold to be only less 
 permissible because it is commonly avoided; and quite 
 properly avoided, since it may so easily degenerate into 
 polemics or satire from both of which we are secured by 
 the tone of these lectures. 
 
 What is Academic freedom? The answer to this question 
 is our task for to-day. As every object may be looked 
 upon from a double point of view, partly historical, 
 
 L a
 
 266 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 partly philosophical, so may the subject of our present 
 inquiry. Let us in the first place survey it from the 
 historical point of view, i. e. let us try to discover what 
 they meant by it who first allowed and introduced Aca- 
 demic Freedom. 
 
 Academies have always been considered as higher 
 schools, in contrast with the lower preparatory schools, or 
 schools properly so called ; hence the student at the aca- 
 demy as distinguished from the pupil at the school. The 
 freedom of the former could thus only be understood to 
 be emancipation from some constraint to which the latter 
 was subject. The pupil, for example, was compelled to 
 appear at his class in a particular kind of clothing, which 
 in those days indicated the dignity of the future Scholar ; 
 he dared not neglect his fixed hours of study ; and he had 
 many other duties imposed upon him, which were then 
 regarded as a sort of sacred service preparatory to the 
 future spiritual office to which the Student was usually 
 destined, as for instance, choir-singing. In all these 
 respects he was subject to strict and constant inspection ; 
 the transgressor was often ignominiously punished ; and 
 indeed the teacher himself was both overseer and judge. 
 Meanwhile Universities arose ; and the outward, unlearned 
 world would naturally be inclined to place them under 
 regulations similar to those adopted in the only educational 
 institutions with which it was familiar, i. e. such as it 
 saw in the schools. But this did not ensue, and it was 
 impossible that it should ensue. The founders of the first 
 Universities were Scholars of distinguished talent and 
 energy; they had fought their way through the sur- 
 rounding darkness of their age to whatever insight they 
 possessed; they were wholly devoted to their scientific 
 pursuits and lived in them alone ; they were encompassed 
 by a brilliant reputation ; in the circles of the great they 
 were esteemed, honoured, consulted as oracles. They 
 could never condescend to assume the position of over-
 
 OF ACADEMICAL FREEDOM. 267 
 
 seers and pedagogues towards their hearers. Hence it 
 was that, to a great extent, they held in contempt the 
 teachers of the lower schools, from whose level they had 
 raised themselves by their own ability ; and for that 
 reason they would neither practise, nor allow themselves 
 to be distinguished by, those things which characterized 
 the former. Their call assembled around them hundreds 
 and thousands from all countries of Europe ; the number 
 of their hearers increased both their importance and their 
 wealth ; and it was not to be expected that they should 
 expose to annoyance those who brought such benefits to 
 them. Besides, how was it possible that young men, with 
 whom they had but a passing acquaintance among hun- 
 dreds of their fellows, who in a few months, a year, or 
 at most a few years, would return to distant homes, 
 should interest them closely, or engage their affections ? 
 Neither the moral demeanour nor the scientific progress 
 of their hearers was of any consequence to them ; and in 
 these days a well-known Latin adage which speaks of 
 " taking gold and sending home " very naturally arose. 
 Academic Freedom had arisen, as emancipation from the 
 constraints of school, and from all supervision on the part 
 of the teacher over the morality, industry, or scientific 
 progress of the Student, who was to him a hearer and 
 nothing more. 
 
 This is one side of the picture. It may easily be ima- 
 gined, and, where no very high standard of morality 
 existed, it might very naturally occur, that these founders 
 of the early universities did so think of this matter, and 
 that a portion of this mode of thought has come down to 
 us through past centuries. Let us now look at the other 
 side. 
 
 What, then, would be the natural and reasonable effect 
 of this idea of Academical Freedom on the minds of the 
 Students ? Could they have thought themselves highly 
 honoured by this indifference on the part of their teacher
 
 268 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 to their moral dignity and scientific improvement ? 
 could they have demanded this indifference as a sacred 
 right ? I cannot believe it, for such indifference amounts 
 to disregard and contempt of the Student, and it is surely 
 most offensive to tell him to his face by such conduct 
 " It is nothing to me what becomes of you." Or would 
 it have been natural for them to conclude from the care- 
 lessness of others about their moral demeanour and regular 
 application to study that therefore they themselves were 
 entitled to neglect these things if they chose ? would 
 they have acted reasonably had they regarded their Aca- 
 demic Freedom as only a right to be immoral and indolent ? 
 I cannot believe it. Much more reasonable would it have 
 been, had they determined, because of this want of foreign 
 superintendence, to exercise a stricter surveillance over 
 themselves ; if out of this freedom from outward constraint 
 had arisen a clearer perception of their duty to urge them- 
 selves onward so much the more powerfully, to watch 
 over themselves so much the more incessantly, and to 
 look upon their Academic Freedom as liberty to do all 
 that is right and becoming by their own free determination. 
 In short, the Academic Freedom of the Student, taken 
 historically, according to its actual introduction into the 
 world, exhibits in its origin, in its progress, and in what 
 of it still exists, an unjust and indecent contempt for the 
 whole Student-Class ; and the Student who considers him- 
 self honoured by this Freedom, and lays claim to it as a 
 right, has fallen into a most extraordinary delusion ; he 
 is certainly ill informed, and has never seriously reflected 
 on the subject. It may indeed become the well-disposed 
 man of riper years, who is always a lover of life and youth, 
 to turn aside from the awkwardness, the rudeness, and 
 the many errors into which unbridled energy is apt to 
 fall, goodnaturedly to laugh at these, and to think that 
 wisdom will come with years ; but the youth who feels 
 himself honoured by this judgment, and even demands it
 
 OF ACADEMICAL FREEDOM. 269 
 
 as his due, cannot be supposed to possess a very delicate 
 sense of honour. 
 
 Let us now consider this subject the Academic Free- 
 dom of the Student in its philosophical sense ; i. e. as it 
 ought to be ; as, under certain conditions, it may be ; and, 
 what follows from that, how the actually existing Aca- 
 demic Freedom will be accepted by the Student who 
 understands and honours his vocation. We shall open a 
 way to the attainment of insight into this matter through 
 the following principles : 
 
 1. The external freedom of the Citizen is limited, in 
 every direction and on all possible sides, by Law; and 
 the more perfect the Law the greater is the limitation, 
 and so it ought to be : this is the proper office of Law. 
 Hence, there is no sphere remaining in which the inward 
 freedom and morality of the Citizen can be outwardly 
 exhibited and demonstrated, and there ought to be 
 no such sphere. All that is to be done is commanded, 
 under penalties ; all that is not to be done is forbidden, 
 likewise under penalties. Every inward temptation to 
 neglect what is commanded, or to do what is forbidden, is 
 counterbalanced in the conscience of the Citizen by the 
 certainty that should he give way to the temptation he 
 must in consequence suffer such and such an amount of 
 evil. Let it not be said, " There is no existing legisla- 
 tion so all-comprehensive, nor is the sagacity and vigilance 
 of any tribunal so infallible, that every offence is sure to 
 meet its punishment." I know this ; but as I said before, 
 it ought to be thus, and this is what we should regularly 
 and constantly approximate to. Legislation cannot calcu- 
 late on the morality of men ; for its object the freedom 
 and security of all within their respective spheres cannot 
 be left to depend on anything so uncertain. For the just 
 man there is indeed no law under any possible legislation ; 
 he will commit no evil even although it were not forbid- 
 den, and whatsoever is good and right, that he will do
 
 270 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 without reference to the command of authority; he is 
 never tempted to crime, and therefore the idea of its 
 attendant punishment never enters his mind. He is con- 
 scious of his virtue, and in this consciousness he has his 
 reward within himself. But externally there is no dis- 
 tinction between him and the unjust man who is withheld 
 from the commission of wrong and impelled to the per- 
 formance of duty only by the threatenings of the law : 
 the former cannot do anything more or leave undone 
 anything more than the latter, but only does or leaves 
 undone the same things from a different motive which is 
 not outwardly apparent. 
 
 2. Under this legislation, the Scholar and the unlearned 
 person stand, and ought to stand, on common ground, 
 as Citizens. Both can raise themselves above the law in 
 the same way, by integrity of purpose ; but this is not 
 calculated upon in either of them, and in neither can this 
 integrity become apparent in the sphere of external legis- 
 lation. And since the Scholar is further a member of a 
 certain class in the State, and practises in it a certain 
 calling, he lies also under the compulsory obligations be- 
 longing to that class and calling ; and here once more it 
 cannot be apparent whether he fulfils his duties in this 
 sphere from integrity of purpose or from fear of punish- 
 ment ; nor does it in any way concern the community by 
 what motive he is actuated so that his duties are fulfilled. 
 Lastly, in those regions which have either not yet been 
 reached by an imperfect legislation, or whch cannot be 
 reached at all by an external legislation, he is still ac- 
 companied by the fear of disgrace ; and here again it 
 cannot be seen whether he does his duty in consequence 
 of this fear or from inward integrity of purpose. 
 
 3. But, besides these, there are yet other relations of 
 the Scholar, with which external legislation cannot inter- 
 fere, and in which it cannot watch over the fulfilment of 
 his duty, where the Scholar must be a law to himself
 
 OF ACADEMICAL FREEDOM. 271 
 
 and hold himself to its fulfilment. In the Divine Idea he 
 carries in himself the form of the future Age which one 
 day must clothe itself with reality ; and he must show aii 
 example and lay down a law to coming generations, for 
 which he will seek in vain either in present or in past 
 times. In every age that Idea clothes itself in a new 
 form, and seeks to shape the surrounding world in its 
 image ; and thus do continually arise new relations of the 
 world to the Idea, and a new mode of opposition of the 
 former to the latter. It is the business of the Scholar so 
 to interpose in this strife as to reconcile the activity with 
 the purity of his Idea, its influence with its dignity. His 
 Idea must not lie concealed within him ; it must go forth 
 and lay hold upon the world, and he is urged to this 
 activity by the deepest impulses of his nature. But the 
 \vorld is incapable of receiving this Idea in its purity ; 
 on the contrary, it strives to drag down the Idea to the 
 level of its own vulgar thought. Could he forego aught 
 of this purity, his task would be an easy one ; but he is 
 filled with reverence for the Idea, and he can give up no 
 part of its perfection. Hence he has before him the 
 difficult task of reconciling these conditions. No law, 
 but why do I speak of laws ? no example of the fore- world 
 or of his own time can reveal to him the means of this 
 reconciliation, for so surely as the Idea has assumed a 
 new form in him has his case never before occurred. Even 
 reflection, of itself, cannot give him the required point of 
 union ; for although, by reflection, the Idea itself in all 
 its purity is revealed as the first point of the union, yet 
 much more is needed before the second point the mental 
 condition of the surrounding world, and what may safely 
 be expected from it can be clearly and fully compre- 
 hended in the same thought. Well may those who have 
 wrought most mightily upon their age have closed their 
 career with the inward confession that their reliance on 
 the spirit of their time had proved fallacious, that they
 
 272 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 never supposed it to be so perverse and imbecile as they 
 had found it, and that while they accurately estimated 
 one of its aberrations and avoided it, another, hitherto 
 unperceived, revealed itself. To succeed at all at any 
 time, there is needed, in addition to reflection, a certain 
 tact, which can only be acquired by early exercise and 
 habit. 
 
 Farther, it is clear that in this matter in doing every- 
 thing possible to reconcile the opposition between the 
 inward purity of the Idea and its external activity the 
 Scholar can be guided only by his own determination, can 
 have no other judge but himself, and no motive external 
 to himself. In this no stranger can judge him in this 
 no stranger can even wholly understand him, nor divine 
 the deep purpose of his actions. In this region, so far is 
 respect for the judgment of others from aiding his inten- 
 tion, that on the contrary he must here cast aside foreign 
 opinion altogether, and look upon it as if it were not. 
 He must be guided and upheld by his own purpose alone ; 
 and truly he needs a mighty and immovable purpose to 
 keep his ground against the temptations which arise even 
 from his noblest inclinations. What is more noble than 
 the impulse to action, to sway the minds of men, and to 
 compel their thoughts to the Holy and Divine ? and yet 
 this impulse may become a temptation to represent the 
 Holy in a common and familiar garb for the sake of popu- 
 larity, and so to desecrate it. What is more noble than 
 the deepest reverence for the Holy, and disdain and ab- 
 negation of everything vulgar and opposed to it ? and 
 and yet this very reverence might tempt some one to re- 
 ject his age altogether, to cast it from him and avoid 
 intercourse with it. A mighty and good will is needed to 
 resist the first of these temptations, and the mightiest of 
 all to overcome the second. 
 
 It is evident from these considerations, that, for his 
 peculiar vocation, the Scholar needs shrewd practical
 
 OF ACADEMICAL FREEDOM. 273 
 
 wisdom, a profound morality, strict watchfulness over bim- 
 self, and a fine delicacy of feeling. It follows, that at an 
 early age he ought to be placed in a position where it is 
 possible and necessary for him to acquire this practical 
 wisdom and delicacy of feeling, and that this cultivation 
 of mind and character should be a peculiar element in the 
 education of the future Scholar. Every Citizen, without 
 exception, may cultivate these qualities, and must have it 
 in his power to do so ; legislation must leave this possi- 
 bility open to him, it is compelled to do so by its very 
 nature. But it does not concern the legislature or the 
 commonwealth whether the Citizen does or does not 
 elevate himself to this vocation, because his calling will 
 still remain within the range of external jurisdiction. 
 But as for the Scholar, it is of importance to the Com- 
 monwealth, and to the whole Human Race, that he should 
 both raise himself to the purest morality and acquire 
 sound practical wisdom, since he is destined one day to 
 enter a sphere where he absolutely leaves behind him all 
 external judgment. The legislation far him, therefore, 
 should not merely allow him the possibility of moral 
 cultivation like every other Citizen, but, so far as in it 
 lies, it should place him under the outward necessity of 
 acquiring this cultivation. 
 
 And how can it do this ? Evidently only by leaving 
 him to his own judgment as to what is becoming, seemly, 
 and appropriate, and to his own superintendence of him- 
 self. Is he to create for himself an independent sense of 
 what is proper and becoming ? How can he do so if the 
 law accompanies him everywhere, and everywhere declares 
 what he is to do and what not to do ? Let the law pro- 
 hibit those whom she can retain under her yoke from 
 indulgence in everything which she wishes them to re- 
 nounce ; but, as for him who must one day leave her 
 jurisdiction, let her trust him betimes as a noble and free 
 man. The man of refined morality does not wait until 
 
 M a
 
 274 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 the law discovers a thing to be unseemly and directs its 
 prohibition against it, it would be ignominy for him to 
 need such direction ; he anticipates the decree, and re- 
 linquishes that in which the vulgar around him indulge 
 without scruple, simply because it is unbecoming his 
 higher nature. Give the Student room to place himself 
 in this class of noble and free men by his own effort alone. 
 Is he to unfold in himself a profound and powerful 
 morality, a tender delicacy of sentiment, a deep sense 
 of honour ? How can he do this surrounded by threats 
 of punishment ? Let the law rather speak to him thus : 
 " So far as I am concerned, thou mayest leave the path 
 of right and follow after evil ; no other harm shall over- 
 take thee but to be despised and scorned, despised even 
 by thyself when thou turnest thine eye inwards. If thou 
 wilt venture on this peril, venture on it without fear." 
 Is the Human Race one day to confide to him its most 
 important interests, and in his dealings with those in- 
 terests is he to have confidence in himself? How can 
 men trust him when they have never proved him ? how 
 can he trust himself when he has never proved his own 
 strength ? He who has not yet been faithful in small 
 things cannot be entrusted with great things ; and he 
 who has not been able to stand a trial before' himself 
 cannot without the basest dishonour accept an important 
 trust. On these grounds we rest the claims of Academic 
 Freedom, of an extensive yet well-considered Academic 
 Freedom. 
 
 In a Perfect State, the outward constitution of Univer- 
 sities would, in my opinion, be the following : In the 
 first place, the Students would be separated from other 
 classes of the community pursuing other vocations, so that 
 these classes might not be harassed or injured by the 
 possible abuse of Academic Freedom, tempted to similar 
 license or misled into hatred of the law while living 
 under its rule by daily contact with a class free from its
 
 OF ACADEMICAL FREEDOM. 275 
 
 restraints. The Students at these Universities would enjoy 
 a high degree of freedom ; instructions on Morality and 
 Duty, and impressive pictures of a True Life, would indeed 
 be laid before them ; they would be surrounded by good 
 examples, and their teachers would not only be profound 
 Scholars, but the ilite of the best men in the nation ; of 
 compulsory laws, however, there would be very few. Let 
 them freely choose either good or evil : the time of study 
 is but the time of trial ; the time for the decision of 
 their fate comes afterwards ; and our arrangement would 
 have this advantage, that unworthiness, where it existed, 
 would be clearly recognised as such, and could no longer 
 be concealed. 
 
 The present actual constitution of Universities is indeed 
 by no means of this kind. It is doubtful whether Aca- 
 demic Freedom was every looked upon from the point 
 of view from which we have described it, particularly 
 whether it was ever so looked upon by those who gave the 
 Universities their constitution. Academic Freedom has 
 actually arisen in the way described in a former part of 
 this lecture, i. e. from disrespect towards the Student- 
 class : and we may leave it undetermined by what influ- 
 ence the remnants of this system are now maintained ; 
 for even were it admitted that the same disrespect for the 
 class, which still exists although in a less degree, and 
 perhaps want of opportunity to get rid of these relics of 
 another age, were its only supports, yet this is of no mo- 
 ment to the true-minded Student, who judges of things 
 not by their outward form but by their inward spirit. 
 Whatever others may think of Academic Freedom, he, for 
 his part, takes it in its true sense : as a means by which 
 he may learn to direct himself when outward precept 
 leaves him, watch over himself when no one else watches 
 over him, urge himself forward where there is no longer 
 any outward impulse, and thus train and strengthen 
 himself for his future high vocation.
 
 ( 277 ) 
 
 LECTURE VII. 
 
 OF THE FINISHED SCHOLAR IN GENEKAL. 
 
 THE true-minded Scholar looks upon his vocation to be- 
 come a partaker of the Divine thought of the universe 
 as the purpose of God in him ; and therefore both his 
 person and his calling become to him, before all other 
 things, honourable and holy ; and this holiness shows it- 
 self in all his outward manifestations. Such is the point 
 at which we have now arrived. 
 
 We have hitherto spoken of the Progressive Scholar 
 the Student ; and we have seen how the sense of the 
 dignity conferred upon his person by this exalted vocation 
 expresses itself in his life. How his conviction of the holi- 
 ness of Knowledge pervades and influences his studies we 
 have already noticed in one of the earlier lectures, and it 
 is not necessary to add anything to what we have said 
 upon this point. 
 
 And it is the less necessary since this reverence for 
 Knowledge which is felt by the Student manifests itself 
 chiefly in the appropriate estimation and consecration of 
 his person and is therein exhausted ; while it is quite 
 otherwise in the Finished Scholar. In the Progressive 
 Scholar, that which he strives after the Idea has yet 
 to acquire a form and an independent life : these it does
 
 278 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 not yet possess. As yet the Student does neither im- 
 mediately possess, nor is he thoroughly penetrated by, the 
 Idea ; he reverences it only at a distance, and can compre- 
 hend it only by means of his personality, as the standard 
 to which he ought to raise himself, the spirit by which he 
 ought to be swayed. He can as yet do nothing directly 
 in its service ; he can only live for it indirectly, by con- 
 secrating and devoting his person to its use as its appointed 
 instrument ; preserving himself pure in sense and spirit 
 because all impurity would mar and disqualify him for 
 that function ; by giving himself up entirely to its influ- 
 ence and pursuing and executing with unwearied industry 
 everything which may become a means or opportunity of 
 the Idea unfolding itself within him. It is otherwise 
 with the Finished Scholar. As surely as he is such, the 
 Idea has already commenced its proper and independent 
 life within him ; his personal life has now actually passed 
 into the Life of the Idea, and is therein absorbed ; an 
 absorption of self in the Idea which was only striven 
 after by the Student. As surely as he is a perfect Scholar, 
 so surely is there now no longer in him any thought of 
 self, but his whole thought is henceforth absorbed in the 
 thought of the Idea. And thus the distinction which 
 we originally made between the holiness of his person 
 and the holiness of his vocation now becomes a point of 
 transition from the contemplation of the Progressive to 
 that of the Finished Scholar, the portraiture of whom 
 it is now my purpose to place beside that of the Pro- 
 gressive Scholar. 
 
 Hitherto we have considered the Progressive Scholar 
 chiefly in the character of a Student at a University ; 
 and these two ideas have been almost constantly associa- 
 ted together in our previous lectures. Now, for the first 
 time, when we have to accompany the Student from the 
 Academy into Life, we must call to mind that the studies
 
 OF THE FINISHED SCHOLAR. 279 
 
 and character of the Progressive Scholar are not neces- 
 sarily completed with his residence at the University; 
 nay, farther on, we shall even perceive a ground upon 
 which we may say that, properly speaking, his studies 
 have their true beginning only after his academic course 
 has closed. This much, however, remains true, as the 
 sure result of what has been already said, that the youth 
 who during his residence at the University is not at least 
 inspired with respect for the holiness of Knowledge, and 
 does not at least learn to honour his own person to such 
 an extent as not to render it unworthy of that high voca- 
 tion, will never afterwards attain to any true sense of 
 the dignity of Knowledge ; and whatever part he may be 
 called on to play in life, he will take to it as a common 
 handicraft and with the sentiment of an hireling who has 
 no other motive to his labour than the pay he is to receive 
 for it. To say anything more of such an one lies beyond 
 the boundaries of our present subject. 
 
 But the Student who is penetrated with the conviction 
 that the essential purpose of his studies will be defeated 
 unless the Idea acquire an intrinsic form and indepen- 
 dent life within him, and that in the highest perfection, 
 he will by no means lay aside his studies and scientific 
 labours when he leaves the University. Even if he be 
 compelled by outward necessity to enter upon a secular 
 employment, he will devote to Knowledge all the time 
 and energy he can spare from that employment, and will 
 neglect no opportunity which presents itself of attaining 
 a higher culture. The discipline of his faculties in the 
 pursuit of learning will be profitable to him even in the 
 transaction of his ordinary business. Amid the brilliant 
 distinctions of office, and even in mature age, he will 
 restlessly strive and labour to master the Idea, never 
 resigning the hope of becoming greater than he now is, 
 so long as strength permits him to indulge it. Without 
 this untiring effort, much true Genius would be whol]y
 
 280 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 lost, for scientific talent usually unfolds itself more slowly 
 the higher and purer its essential nature, and its clear 
 development waits for mature years and manly strength. 
 
 The Student who is penetrated with deep respect for 
 the holiness of the Scholar's vocation, will be guided by 
 that respect in his choice of a civil profession ; and, par- 
 ticularly, in the province of learning, if he do not feel a 
 profound conviction of his ability to fulfil its highest 
 duties, he will choose a subordinate occupation, restrained 
 from assumption by his reverence for the dignity of 
 Knowledge. But a subordinate Scholar-occupation is one 
 in which the ends to be attained have been prescribed by 
 some other intellect possessed with a knowledge of the 
 Idea, and in which the capacities which have been acquired 
 through study pursued for the attainment of the Idea, 
 are employed only as means to fulfil those purposes which 
 have thus been prescribed from without. His person is 
 thus not degraded into a passive instrument ; he is for 
 ever secured against that by the general view he takes of 
 human life and its significance ; he serves God alone in 
 spirit and in sense ; and, under the guidance of his supe- 
 riors, whom he leaves to answer for the direction which 
 they give to his actions and their results, he promotes 
 God's purposes with men, which must embrace all forms 
 of human activity. Thus does he proceed in his choice of 
 a secular employment as surely as he has been inspired 
 in his youth with respect for the dignity of the peculiar 
 vocation of the Scholar. To undertake such an employment 
 without the consciousness of possessing the needful power 
 and cultivation is to profane it, and manifests a want both 
 of delicacy and of principle. And it is impossible that 
 he should fall into error on this point ; for if he has passed 
 through his academic course in a creditable manner, then 
 he has certainly acquired, in some degree, a perception of 
 what is worthy, and has obtained a standard by which 
 he can take his own intellectual dimensions. If a con-
 
 OF THE FINISHED SCHOLAR. 281 
 
 scientious course of study at a University secured no other 
 advantage than that of presenting to youth a picture of 
 the dignified calling of the Scholar as a model for life, and 
 of repelling from this sphere those who are not endowed 
 with the requisite power, such a course would, on account 
 of this advantage alone, be of the utmost importance to 
 the Student. 
 
 We have thus generally described the nature of a sub- 
 ordinate Scholar-occupation. It does not require in him 
 who pursues it the immediate possession of the Idea, 
 but only that knowledge which is acquired in striving 
 after such possession. It is to be understood that in this 
 again there are higher and lower grades, according as the 
 occupation requires a wider or narrower range of know- 
 ledge, and that, in this respect too, the conscientious 
 man will not undertake anything which exceeds his powers. 
 It is unnecessary to describe these subordinate Scholar- 
 occupations in detail. The higher and peculiar calling of 
 the Scholar may be described so as to exhaust all its 
 particular forms, and it is then easy to draw this conse- 
 quence : " All those pursuits which are usually followed 
 by educated men, but which do not find a place in this 
 all-comprehensive delineation of the higher calling of the 
 Scholar, but are excluded from it, are subordinate Scholar- 
 occupations." We have therefore only now to lay before 
 you this perfect delineation. 
 
 In our first lecture we have already definitely charac- 
 terized the life of him in whom Learned Culture has 
 fulfilled its end : his life is itself the creative and forma- 
 tive life of the Divine Idea in the world. In the same 
 place we have said that this life may manifest itself in 
 two forms ; either in actual external Being and Action, 
 or only in Idea ; which two distinct modes of manifes- 
 tation together constitute the peculiar vocation of the 
 Scholar. The first class comprehends all those who are 
 called to lead on human affairs, through their own strength 
 
 N a
 
 282 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 and according to their own idea, to new and progressive 
 harmony with each succeeding age; who, originally, as 
 the highest free Leaders of men, direct their social rela- 
 tions, and the relation of the whole to passive nature ; 
 not those only who stand in the higher places of the earth, 
 as kings, or the immediate councillors of kings, but all 
 without exception who possess the right and calling, either 
 by themselves or in concert with others, to think, judge, 
 and resolve independently concerning the original disposal 
 of these affairs. The second class embraces the Scholars, 
 properly and pre-eminently so called, whose vocation it is 
 to maintain among men the knowledge of the Divine Idea, 
 to elevate it unceasingly to greater clearness and precision, 
 and thus to transmit it from generation to generation, 
 ever growing brighter in the freshness and glory of re- 
 newed youth. The first class act directly upon the world, 
 they are the immediate point of contact between God 
 and reality ; the second are the mediators between the 
 pure spirituality of thought in the God-head, and the ma- 
 terial energy and influence which that thought acquires 
 through the instrumentality of the first class; they are 
 the trainers of the first class, the enduring pledge to the 
 human race that the first class shall never fail from among 
 men. No one can belong to the first class without having 
 already belonged to the second, without always continu- 
 ing to belong to it. 
 
 The second class of Scholars is again separated into 
 subdivisions according to the manner in which they com- 
 municate to others their conceptions of the Idea. Either 
 their immediate object is, by direct and free personal 
 communication of their ideal conceptions, to cultivate in 
 future Scholars a capacity for the reception of the Idea, 
 so that their pupils may afterwards lay hold of it and 
 comprehend it for themselves : and then they are edu- 
 cators of Scholars, Teachers in the higher or lower schools ; 
 or, they propound their conceptions of the Idea, in a
 
 OF THE FINISHED SCHOLAR. 283 
 
 complete and finished form, to those who have already 
 cultivated the capacity to comprehend it. This is at 
 present done by books, and they are thus Authors. 
 
 The classes which we have now enumerated, whose 
 several occupations are not necessarily portioned out to 
 different individuals, but may readily be united in one 
 and the same person, comprise all true and proper Scholars, 
 and exhaust the whole vocation of those in whom Learned 
 Culture has fulfilled its end. Every other function, what- 
 ever name it may bear, which the Educated Man * (who 
 may be distinguished by this title from the True Scholar) 
 is called upon to fulfil, is a subordinate Scholar-occupa- 
 tion. The Educated Man continues in it, only because 
 he has not by his studies been able to attain to the rank 
 of the True Scholar, but nevertheless finds here a useful 
 purpose to which the capacities and knowledge which he 
 has acquired may be applied. It is by no means the 
 object of Learned Culture to train subalterns, and no one 
 should study with a view to the office of a subaltern ; for 
 then it may happen that he shall not attain even to that 
 rank. Only because it was certain that a majority of 
 Students would fall short of their proposed destination, 
 have subordinate occupations been set apart for them. 
 The subaltern receives the direction of his activity from 
 a foreign intellect; he must exercise judgment in the 
 choice of his means, but in respect of the end only the 
 most punctual obedience. The acknowledged sacredness 
 of the peculiar vocation of the Scholar restrains every 
 honest 'Educated Man' who is not conscious of the pos- 
 session of the Idea, from undertaking it, and constrains 
 him to content himself with a subordinate office : this 
 and nothing more have we to say of him, for his business 
 is no true Scholar-employment. We leave him to the 
 
 *Germ. "Studirte," one who has studied, contrasted with " Studirende," 
 one who studies. We have no single equivalent for "Studirte" in English. 
 TRANSLATOR.
 
 284 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 sure guidance of that general Integrity and faithfulness 
 to Duty which already during his studies have become 
 the innermost principle of his life. 
 
 Such an one, by renunciation of the peculiar calling of 
 the Scholar, shows that he looks upon it as sacred ; he 
 also, who with honesty and a good conscience accepts this 
 calling in any of its forms, shows by his actions and by 
 his whole life that he looks upon it as sacred. How this 
 recognition of the Holy specially manifests itself in each 
 particular department of the Scholar's vocation, as these 
 have now been set forth, of this we shall speak in suc- 
 cession in the subsequent lectures. To-day we shall 
 confine ourselves to showing how it manifests and reveals 
 itself in general i. e. to that form of its manifestation 
 which belongs in common to all departments of the 
 Scholar's vocation. 
 
 The true-minded Scholar will not admit of any life and 
 activity within him except the immediate life and activity 
 of the Divine Idea. This unchangeable principle pervades 
 and determines all his inward thoughts ; it also pervades 
 and determines all his outward actions. With respect to 
 the first, as he suffers no emotion within him that is not 
 the direct emotion and life of the Divine Idea which has 
 taken possession of him, so is his whole life accompanied 
 by the indestructible consciousness that it is at one with 
 the Divine Life, that in him and by him God's work shall 
 be achieved and His Will accomplished ; he therefore 
 reposes on that Will with unspeakable love, and with the 
 immovable conviction that it is right and good. Thus 
 does his thought become holy, enlightened, and religious ; 
 blessedness arises within him, and in it, abiding joy, 
 peace and power, as these may in like manner be acquired 
 and enjoyed by the unlearned, and even the lowliest among 
 men, through true devotion to God and honest perfor- 
 mance of duty viewed as the Will of God. Hence these 
 are no exclusive property of the Scholar, but are noticed
 
 OF THE FINISHED SCHOLAR. 285 
 
 here only with the view that he too may become a partaker 
 in this religious aspect of life, and that by the appointed 
 way. 
 
 This principle pervades the conduct of the True Scholar. 
 He has no other purpose in action but to express his Idea, 
 and embody the truth which he recognises in word or 
 work. No personal regard, either for himself or others, 
 can impel him to do that which is not required by this 
 purpose, no such regard can cause him to neglect any- 
 thing which is demanded by this purpose. His person, 
 and all personality in the world, have long since vanished 
 from before him, and entirely disappeared in his effort 
 after the realization of the Idea. The Idea alone impels 
 him ; where it does not move him, he rests and remains 
 inactive. He does nothing with precipitation, hurried 
 forward by disquietude and restlessness ; these may well 
 be symptoms of unfolding power, but they are never to 
 be found in conjunction with true, developed, mature and 
 manly strength. Uatil the Idea stands before him clear 
 and breathing, finished and perfect even to word or deed, 
 nothing moves him to action ; the Idea rules him entirely, 
 governs all his powers, and employs all his life and effort. 
 To its manifestation he devotes his whole personal being 
 without reserve or intermission, for he looks upon his life 
 as only the instrument of the Idea. 
 
 Would that I could make myself intelligible to you, 
 would that I could persuade you, touching this one point 
 which we now approach on every side ! Whatever man 
 may do, so long as he does it from himself as a finite 
 being, by himself, and through his own counsel, it is 
 vain, and will sink to nothing. Only when a foreign 
 power takes possession of him, and urges him forward, 
 and lives within him in room of his own energy, does true 
 and real existence first enter into his life. This foreign 
 power is ever the power of God. To look up to it for 
 counsel, implicitly to follow its guidance, is the only
 
 286 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 true wisdom in every employment of human life, and 
 therefore most of all in the highest occupation of which 
 man can partake, the vocation of the True Scholar.
 
 (287) 
 
 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS RULER. 
 
 HE in whom Learned Culture has actually accomplished 
 its end, the attainment and possession of the Idea, 
 shows, by the manner in which he regards and practises 
 the calling of the Scholar, that his vocation is to him, 
 before all other things, honourable and holy. The Idea, 
 in its relation to the progressive improvement of the 
 world, may be expressed either, first, in actual life and 
 conduct; or, secondly, in ideas only. It is expressed in 
 the first mode by those who, as the highest free Leaders 
 of men, originally guide and order their affairs : their 
 relations with each other, or the legal condition, and 
 their relation to passive nature, or the dominion of reason 
 over the irrational world; who possess the right and 
 calling, either by themselves or in concert with others, 
 to think, judge, and resolve independently concerning the 
 actual arrangement of these relations. We have to speak 
 to-day of the worthy conception and practice of^this vo- 
 cation. As we have already taken precautions against 
 misunderstanding by a strict definition of our meaning, 
 we shall, for brevity's sake, term those who practise this 
 calling Rulers. 
 
 The business of the Ruler has been described in our 
 early lectures, and so definitely, that no further analysis
 
 288 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 is necessary for our present purpose. We have now only 
 to show what capacities and talents must be possessed by 
 the true Ruler, by what estimate of his calling, and what 
 mode of practising it, he proves that he looks upon it as 
 sacred. 
 
 He who undertakes to guide his Age and order its con- 
 stitution, must be exalted above it, must not merely 
 possess an historical knowledge of it, but must thoroughly 
 understand and comprehend it. The Ruler possesses, in 
 the first place, a living and comprehensive idea of that 
 relation of human life which he undertakes to superintend ; 
 he knows what is its essential nature, meaning, and 
 purpose. Further, he perfectly understands the changing 
 and adventitious forms which it may assume in reality 
 without prejudice to its essential nature. He knows the 
 particular form which it has assumed at the present time, 
 and through what new forms it must be led nearer and 
 nearer to its unattainable Ideal. No part of its present 
 form is, in his view, necessary and unchangeable, but is 
 only an incidental point in a progression by which it is 
 constantly rising towards higher perfection. He knows 
 the Whole of which that form is a part, and of which every 
 improvement of it must still remain a part ; and he never 
 loses sight of this Whole, in contemplating the improve- 
 ment of individual parts. This knowledge gives to his 
 inventive faculty the means of accomplishing the improve- 
 ments he may devise ; the same knowledge secures him 
 from the mistake of disorganizing the Whole by supposed 
 improvements of individual parts. His eye always com- 
 bines the part with the Whole, and the idea of the latter 
 with its actual manifestation in reality. 
 
 He who can not look upon human affairs with this 
 unfettered vision is never a Ruler, whatever station he 
 may occupy, nor can he ever become one. Even his 
 mode of thought, his faith in the unchangeableness of the 
 present, places him in a state of subordination, makes him
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS RULER. 289 
 
 an instrument of him who created that arrangement of 
 things in the permanence of which he believes. This 
 frequently happens ; and thus all times have not actual 
 Rulers. Great spirits of the fore-world often rule over 
 succeeding Ages long after their death, by means of men 
 who in themselves are nothing, but are only continuations 
 and prolongations of other lives. Very often too this is 
 no misfortune ; but those who desire to penetrate human 
 life with deeper insight ought to know that these are not 
 true Rulers, and that under them the Age does not move 
 forward, but rests, perhaps to gain strength for new 
 creations. 
 
 The Ruler, I said, thoroughly comprehends that relation 
 of human life which he undertakes to superintend; he 
 knows the essential character and idea of all its com- 
 ponent parts, and he looks upon it as the absolute will of 
 God with man. It is not to him a means to the attainment 
 of any end whatever, nor in particular to the production 
 of human happiness ; but he looks upon it as in itself an 
 end, as the absolute mode, order, and form in which the 
 human race should live. 
 
 Thus, in the first place, is his occupation ennobled and 
 dignified in accordance with the nobility of his mode of 
 thought. To direct his whole thoughts and efforts, to 
 devote his whole life to the accomplishment of such a 
 purpose as this : that mortal men may fall out as little 
 as possible with each other in the short span of time 
 during which they have to live together, that they may 
 have somewhat to eat and drink, and wherewithal to 
 clothe themselves, until they make way for another 
 generation, which again shall eat, and drink, and clothe 
 itself, this business would appear to a noble mind a 
 vocation most unworthy of its nature. The Ruler, after 
 our idea of him, is secure against this view of his calling. 
 Through the idea of human life by which he is animated, 
 the Race among whom he practises his vocation is like- 
 
 o a
 
 290 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 wise ennobled. He who has constantly to keep in view 
 the infirmities and weaknesses of men, who has to watch 
 their daily course, and who has frequent opportunities of 
 observing their general meanness and corruption, and who 
 sees nothing more than these, cannot be much disposed 
 to honour or to love them ; and indeed those powerful 
 spirits who have filled the most prominent places among 
 men, but have not been penetrated by true religious 
 feeling, have at no time been known to bestow much 
 honour or respect upon their Race. The Ruler, after our 
 idea of him, in his estimate of mankind looks beyond that 
 which they are in the actual world, to that which they are 
 in the Divine Idea to that which therefore they may be, 
 ought to be, and one day assuredly will be ; and he is 
 thus filled with reverence for a Race called to so high a 
 destiny. Love is not required of him ; nay, if you think 
 deeper of it, it is even a kind of arrogance for a Ruler to 
 presume to love the whole Human Race, or even his own 
 nation, to assure it of his love, and, as it were, make it 
 dependent on his kindness. A Ruler such as we have 
 described is free from such presumption : his reverence 
 for humanity, as the image and protected child of God, 
 does more than overpower it. 
 
 He looks upon his vocation as the Divine Will with 
 regard to the Human Race; he looks upon its practice as 
 the Divine Will with regard to himself the present in- 
 dividual; he recognises in himself one of the first and 
 immediate servants of God, one of the material organs 
 through which God enters into communion with reality. 
 Not that this thought excites him to vain self-exaltation ; 
 he who is penetrated by the Idea has in it lost his 
 personality, and he has no longer remaining any feeling 
 of self, except that of employing his personal existence 
 truly and conscientiously in his high vocation. He knows 
 that it is not of himself that he has this intuition of the 
 Idea and the power which accompanies it, but that he
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS RULER. 291 
 
 has received them ; he knows that he can add nothing 
 to what has been given him except its honest and con- 
 scientious use ; he knows that the humblest of men can 
 do this in the same degree as he himself can do it, and that 
 the former has the same value in the sight of God which 
 he himself has in his own station. All outward rank and 
 elevation above other men which have been given, not to 
 his person but to his dignity, and which are but conditions 
 of the possession of this dignity, these will not dazzle 
 him who knows how to value higher and more substantial 
 distinctions. In a word : he looks upon his calling, not 
 as a friendly service which he renders to the world, but 
 as his absolute personal duty and obligation, by the perfor- 
 mance of which alone he obtains, maintains, and justifies 
 his personal existence, and without which he would pass 
 away into nothing. 
 
 This view of his calling as the Divine Will in him, 
 supports and justifies him before himself in an important 
 difficulty, which must very often occur to him who con- 
 scientiously follows this vocation, and makes his step firm, 
 determined, and unwavering. In no circumstances indeed 
 should the individual, considered strictly as an individual, 
 be sacrificed to the Whole ; however unimportant the 
 individual, however great the Whole and the interest of 
 the Whole which is at stake. But the parts of the Whole 
 must often be placed in peril on account of the Whole ; 
 peril by which, and not by the Ruler, its victims are 
 selected from among individual men. How could a Ruler 
 who recognises no other destiny for the Human Race but 
 happiness here below, and looks upon himself only as the 
 kind guardian of that happiness, how could he answer 
 before his conscience for the danger and possible sacrifice 
 of any individual victim, since that individual must have 
 had as good a claim to happiness as any other ? How 
 could such a Ruler, for example, answer before his 
 conscience for determining upon a just war, a war
 
 292 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 undertaken for the support of the national independence 
 threatened either immediately or prospectively ? for the 
 victims who should fall in such a war, and for the mani- 
 fold evils thereby inflicted on humanity ? The Ruler 
 who sees a Divine Purpose in his vocation stands firm 
 and immovable before all these doubts, overtaken by no 
 unmanly weakness. Is the war just ? then it is the will 
 of God that there should be war ; and it is God's will with 
 him that he resolve upon it. Whatever may fall a sacri- 
 fice to it, it is still the Divine Will that chooses the 
 sacrifice. God has the most perfect right over all human 
 life and human happiness, for both have proceeded from 
 him and both return to him ; and in his creation nothing 
 can be lost. So also in the business of legislation. There 
 must be a general law, and this law must be administered 
 absolutely without exception. The universality of the 
 law cannot be given up for the sake of one individual who 
 thinks his case so peculiar that he is aggrieved by the 
 strict enforcement of the law, even although his allegation 
 may have some truth in it. Let him bring the small 
 injustice which is done to himself as an offering to the 
 general support of justice among men. 
 
 The Divine Idea, ruling in the Ruler, and through him 
 moulding the relations of his age and nation, now becomes 
 his sole and peculiar Life ; which indeed is the case with 
 the Idea under any form in which it may enter the soul 
 of man ; he cannot have, nor permit, nor endure, any 
 Life within him except this Life. He comprehends this 
 Life with clear consciousness as the immediate life and 
 energy of God within him, as the fulfilment of the Divine 
 Will in and by his person. It is unnecessary to repeat 
 the proofs which we have already adduced in general, that 
 through this consciousness his thought is sanctified, trans- 
 figured, and bathed in the Divinity. Every man needs 
 Religion, every man may acquire it, and with it every 
 man may obtain Blessedness ; most of all, as we have
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS RULER. 293 
 
 seen above, does the Ruler need it. Unless he clothe his 
 calling in the light of Religion, he can never pursue it 
 with a good conscience. Without this, nothing remains 
 for him but either thoughtlessness and a mere mechanical 
 fulfilment of his vocation, without giving account to 
 himself of its reasonableness or justice ; or if not thought- 
 lessness, then want or principle, obduracy, insensibility, 
 hatred and contempt of the Human Race. 
 
 The Idea, thus moulded on the Divine Life, lives in his 
 life instead of his own personality. It alone moves him, 
 nothing else in its room. His personality has long since 
 disappeared in the Idea, how then can any motive now 
 arise from it ? He lives in honour, transfused in God to 
 work His Eternal Will, how then caxifame, the judgment 
 of mortal and perishable men, have any significance for 
 him ? Devoted to the Idea with his whole being, how 
 can he ever seek to pamper or to spare himself? His 
 person, all personality, has disappeared in the Divine 
 Idea of universal order. That order is his ever-present 
 thought ; only through it does he conceive of individual 
 men : hence neither friend nor foe, neither favourite nor 
 adversary, finds a place before him ; but all alike, and he 
 himself with them, are lost for ever in the thought of the 
 independence and equality of all. 
 
 The Idea alone moves him, and where it does not 
 move him, there he has no life, but remains quiescent and 
 inactive. He will never rouse himself to energy and labour 
 merely that something may come to pass, or that he may 
 gain a reputation for activity ; for his desire is not mere- 
 ly that something may come to pass, but that the will of 
 the Idea may be accomplished. Until it speaks, he too 
 is silent ; he has no voice but for it. He does not re- 
 spect old things because they are old ; but as little does 
 he desire novelty for its own sake. He looks for what is 
 letter and more perfect than the present ; until this rises 
 before him clearly and distinctly, so long as change would
 
 294 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 lead only to difference, not improvement, he remains 
 inactive, and concedes to the old the privilege it derives 
 from ancient possession. 
 
 In this way does the Idea possess and pervade him 
 without intermission or reserve, and there remains nothing 
 either of his person or his life that does not burn a per- 
 petual offering before its altar. And thus is he the most 
 direct manifestation of God in the world. 
 
 That there is a God, is made evident by a very little 
 serious reflection upon the outward world. We must end 
 at last by resting all existence which demands an extrinsic 
 foundation, upon a Being the fountain of whose life is 
 within Himself; by allying the fugitive phenomena which 
 colour the stream of time with ever-changing hues to an 
 eternal and unchanging essence. But in the life of Divine 
 Men the Godhead is manifest in the flesh, reveals itself to 
 immediate vision, and is perceptible even to outward sense. 
 In their life the unchangeableness of God manifests itself 
 in the firmness and intrepidity of human will which no 
 power can force from its destined path. In it the es- 
 sential light of the Divinity manifests itself in human 
 comprehension of all finite things in the One which en- 
 dures for ever. In it the energy of God reveals itself, not 
 in directly surrounding the Human Race with happiness 
 which is not its object but in ordering, elevating, and 
 ennobling it. A Godlike life is the most decisive proof 
 which man can give of the being of a God. 
 
 It is the business of all mankind to see that the convic- 
 tion of the Divine Existence, without which the very 
 essence of their own being passes away into nothing, shall 
 never perish and disappear from among them ; above all, 
 it is the business of the Rulers as the highest disposers of 
 human affairs. It is not their part to bring forward the 
 theoretical proof from human reason, or to regulate the 
 mode in which this proof shall be adduced by the second 
 class of Scholars ; but the practical proof, by their own
 
 295 
 
 lives, and that in the highest degree, devolves peculiarly 
 upon them. If firm and intrepid will, if clear and all- 
 comprehending vision, if a spirit of order and nobility 
 speak to us in their conduct, then in their works do we 
 see God face to face, and need no other proof: GOD IS, 
 we will say, for they are, and He in them.
 
 ( 297 ) 
 
 LECTURE IX. 
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER. 
 
 BESIDES those possessors of the Idea, whose business it is, 
 by guiding and ordering the affairs of men, to introduce 
 the Idea immediately into life, there is yet another class 
 those, namely, who are peculiarly and by preeminence 
 called Scholars, who manifest the Idea directly in spiritual 
 conceptions, and whose calling it is to maintain among 
 men the conviction that there is, in truth, a Divine Idea 
 accessible to human thought, to raise this Idea unceas- 
 ingly to greater clearness and precision, and thus to 
 transmit it from generation to generation fresh and ra- 
 diant in ever-renewed youth. 
 
 This latter Vocation again divides itself into two very 
 different callings, according to the immediate purpose in 
 view, and the mode of its attainment. Either the minds 
 of men are to be trained and cultivated to a capacity for 
 receiving the Idea ; or the Idea itself is to be produced in 
 a definite form for those who are already prepared for its 
 reception. The first calling has particular men for its 
 primary and immediate objects ; in. it the only use which 
 is made of the Idea is as a means of training and culti- 
 vating these men so that they may become capable of 
 comprehending the Idea by their own independent effort. 
 It follows that, in this calling, regard must be had solely 
 
 P a
 
 298 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 to the men who are to be cultivated, the degree of their 
 cultivation, and their capacity of being cultivated ; and 
 that an influence is valuable here only in so far as it may 
 be efficiently applied to those individuals upon whom it is 
 specially directed. The second has for its immediate 
 object the Idea itself, and the fashioning of the Idea into 
 a distinct conception, and has no reference whatever to 
 any subjective disposition or capacity of men ; it has no 
 one specially in view as peculiarly called to or fitted for 
 the reception of the Idea in the form thus given to it ; 
 the work itself settles and determines who shall receive 
 it, and it is addressed only to those who can receive it. 
 The first object will be best and most fitly attained by 
 the verbal discourses of the Teacher ; the second by 
 literary writings. 
 
 Both these callings belong to the vocation of the 
 Scholar in its proper and highest sense, and not to the 
 subordinate Scholar-occupations, which devolve upon a 
 man only because he has not attained the proper end of 
 his studies. He who prosecutes his studies conscientious- 
 ly, and so acquires a conviction of the importance of the 
 vocation of the Scholar, but yet does not feel within him- 
 self a clear consciousness of the capacity to fulfil it, shows 
 that he recognises its sacred character by not undertaking 
 it ; he who does undertake it, manifests the same con- 
 viction by exercising it worthily. In the next lecture we 
 shall speak of the true Author ; to-day we shall discourse 
 of the upright Teacher of future Scholars. 
 
 The Teachers and Educators of those who devote them- 
 selves to the occupation of the Scholar may be divided 
 into two classes : they are Teachers either in the lower 
 Schools of learning, or in the higher or Universities. Not 
 without deliberation do I class the Teachers in the lower 
 Schools among true and not subaltern Scholars, and 
 therefore demand of them that they attain possession of 
 the Idea, and be penetrated by it, if not with perfect
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER. 299 
 
 light, yet with living warmth. He who is destined to 
 study will, even while a boy, surround himself invisibly 
 with the Idea and with its sanctity, and bathe his whole 
 being in its influence. Nothing from which any ideal 
 result may one day unfold itself will be pursued by him 
 as a piece of vulgar handicraft, or used only as a means to 
 the attainment of a partial object. Happily the subjects 
 of study which are peculiar to these Schools are of such a 
 nature as to elevate him who pursues them thoroughly 
 and conscientiously, and through him those who are com- 
 mitted to his care, above vulgar modes of thought ; did 
 but the outward circumstances of the Teacher answer to 
 his dignity, and his independence and station in society 
 correspond with his most honourable calling. The subjects 
 of school-instruction, I said. In a fundamental study of 
 Language, pursued, as it must be, amid old modes of 
 speech, far removed from our habits of thought, a deeper 
 insight into ideas is gained ; and from the works of the 
 Ancients, by means of which this study is pursued, an 
 excellent and ennobling spirit speaks to the youthful 
 mind. For this reason, the Teacher in these lower 
 Schools should be a partaker of the Idea, because it is his 
 task imperceptibly to familiarize the youth with the high 
 and noble before he is able for himself to distinguish 
 these from the vulgar, to accustom him to these, and to 
 estrange him from the low and ignoble. Thus guarded 
 in his early years, and thus prepared for higher progress, 
 the youth enters the University. Here, for the first time, 
 can he be clearly taught, and led to comprehend and ac- 
 knowledge that which I have endeavoured to utter to 
 you in these lectures, that our whole race has its only 
 true existence in the Divine Thought, that its only 
 worth consists in its harmony with this Divine Thought, 
 and that the class of Scholars has therein an existence 
 only to the end that they may comprehend this Divine 
 Thought and imprint it on the world. At the University
 
 300 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 the Student first receives a clear idea of the nature and 
 dignity of that vocation to which his life has been devoted 
 beforehand. He must obtain that clear idea here : the 
 Teacher in the lower Schools may look forward to another 
 education for his pupils, and counts upon that ; but the 
 Academic Teacher has no higher instruction to calculate 
 upon except that which the Progressive Scholar may be- 
 stow upon himself, to the capacity for which, however, 
 the Teacher must train him so that he may have it in his 
 power to become his own instructor ; once released from 
 the lecture-room he is committed to himself and to the 
 world. Herein, therefore, lies the characteristic difference 
 between the lower and the higher Schools, that at the 
 lower School the youth has only a presentiment of his vo- 
 cation, while at the University he clearly comprehends 
 and recognises it ; and from this distinction the specific 
 duties of the Teacher in the respective institutions may 
 easily be deduced. 
 
 The Academic Teacher, of whom chiefly we have to 
 speak, ought to train the Student who has been made 
 acquainted with the nature and dignity of his calling, to 
 the capacity of receiving the Idea, and to the power of 
 developing it anew, and giving it a form peculiar to him- 
 self : he should do all this if he can. But in every case, 
 and unconditionally, he must fill the Student with respect 
 and veneration for the proper calling of the Scholar. The 
 first object of all study, to lay hold of the Idea from a 
 new and peculiar point of view, is by no means to be given 
 up either by the Student himself, or by the Teacher on 
 his behalf; but it is nevertheless possible that it may not 
 be attained, and both must reconcile themselves before- 
 hand to this possibility. Should this first object of study 
 remain unaccomplished, the Student may still become a 
 useful, worthy, upright man. But the second object of 
 study, that he acquire a reverence for the Idea during 
 his efforts to attain it, that on account of this reverence
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER. 301 
 
 he forbear from undertaking anything for which he does 
 not know himself to be qualified, that he consecrate 
 himself to the service of the Idea, at least by permanent- 
 ly cherishing this reverence for what is unattainable by 
 him, and contributing to the extent of his ability to 
 maintain such a reverence among men ; this object is 
 never to be relinquished ; for were it not attained, then 
 even through his wasted study would his dignity as a man 
 be lost, and he would sink the lower in consequence of 
 the height to which he ought to have risen. The attain- 
 ment by the Student of the first object of study is, to the 
 Academic Teacher, a conditional duty, conditioned by the 
 possibility of its fulfilment. The attainment of the second 
 he must ever look upon and acknowledge as his uncondi- 
 tional duty, which he must never deliberately relinquish. 
 It may indeed happen that he cannot accomplish even 
 this, but he must never admit a doubt of its ultimate 
 attainment. 
 
 What, then, can the Academic Teacher do for the 
 attainment of this second object ? I answer, he can do 
 nothing for it exclusively ; he can do nothing else than 
 that which he must do for the first and higher object 
 by itself. In pursuing and attaining the second, he is 
 advancing to the attainment of the first. Would he 
 inculcate upon his pupils reverence for Knowledge ? 
 they will not believe him if he do not himself exhibit in 
 his whole life the profound reverence which he recom- 
 mends to them. Would he thoroughly impress them 
 with this reverence ? let him teach it, not in words only, 
 but in deeds ; let him be himself the living example, the 
 abiding illustration, of the principles which he desires 
 them to accept as the guides of their life. He has de- 
 scribed to them the Nature of the Scholar-vocation as a 
 manifestation of the Divine Idea, he has told them that 
 this Idea entirely pervades the True Scholar, and estab- 
 lishes its peculiar life, in place of his own, within him ;
 
 302 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 perhaps he has even told them by what precise way he 
 himself, for his part, has to fulfil the purposes of Know- 
 ledge, and in what his peculiar calling, as an Academic 
 Teacher, consists. Let him show himself before them in 
 his proper and essential character, as devoted to his 
 vocation, as a perpetual offering before its altar, and 
 they will learn to comprehend that Knowledge is a sacred 
 thing. 
 
 The duties of the Academic Teacher are not indeed 
 changed by this aspect of his vocation ; for, as we have 
 said, he can do nothing for the attainment of the latter 
 object but what he must have done for the former and 
 higher by itself; but his own view of his calling becomes 
 thereby more confirmed and immovable. Although it 
 should not become directly visible and evident to him 
 that he has attained his peculiar object, of leading those 
 who are entrusted to his care from mere passive depen- 
 dence to spontaneous activity, from the dead letter to the 
 living spirit ; yet will he not suppose that he has laboured 
 in vain. To Academic Study must succeed that special 
 study to which the first is but a preparative. He can 
 never know that he has not roused a powerful incentive 
 to this study, that he has not thrown into the soul some 
 sparks of love and devotion to it which, though now un- 
 apparent, will blaze forth at the proper time. Even in 
 the worst possible event, that he has not accomplished 
 even so much as this, his activity has still another object ; 
 and if he has done something for it, his labour has not 
 been utterly lost. If he has, at least, upheld, and in some 
 breasts quickened or renewed, the faith that there is 
 something worthy of the reverence of men ; that by indus- 
 try and faithfulness men may elevate themselves to the 
 contemplation of this object of reverence, and in this 
 contemplation become strong and blessed ; if some have 
 only had their work made holier in their eyes, so that 
 they may approach it with somewhat less levity than
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER. 303 
 
 before ; if he can venture to hope that some have left his 
 hall, if not precisely with more light, yet with more 
 modesty than they entered it ; then he has not laboured 
 wholly in vain. 
 
 We said, that the Academic Teacher becomes an 
 example of reverence for Knowledge, by showing himself 
 to be thoroughly and entirely penetrated by and devoted 
 to his calling, an instrument consecrated to its service. 
 
 What does this calling demand ? Is the Academic 
 Teacher to prepare men for the reception of the Idea ? 
 then he must himself know the Idea, have attained it, 
 and be possessed by it ; otherwise how could he recognise 
 in others the capacity for receiving that to which he 
 himself is a stranger? He must first have cultivated 
 this capacity in himself, and have a distinct and clear 
 consciousness of possessing it ; for it can be recognised 
 only by him who truly possesses it, and the art of acquir- 
 ing it can be understood only by him who has himself 
 acquired it. He can cultivate this capacity in men only 
 by means of the Idea itself, by presenting it to them, and 
 testing it for them, in all its varied forms and applications. 
 In this the Idea differs wholly from all that is merely 
 mechanical in knowledge ; only by its reception can man 
 cultivate the power of receiving it. By the mechanical 
 communication of knowledge man may become versed in 
 such mechanism, but can never be raised to the Idea. It 
 is an obligation from which the Academic Teacher cannot 
 be released, that he shall have comprehended the Idea 
 with perfect clearness as Idea ; that, in the Idea, he shall 
 have also comprehended the particular branch of Know- 
 ledge which he cultivates, and through the Idea have 
 understood the true nature, meaning, and purpose of this 
 branch of Knowledge ; even his particular science is on 
 no account to be taught merely for its own sake, but 
 because it is a form or aspect of the one Idea ; and in 
 order that this form may be be tested by the Student, and
 
 304 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 he be tested by it. If, at the conclusion of his university 
 training it were found that even then the Student could 
 not be made to comprehend the true nature of study, 
 then study would altogether disappear from the world ; 
 there would be study no longer, but the number of handi- 
 crafts would be increased. He who is not conscious of a 
 living and clear comprehension of the Idea, and is at the 
 same time an upright and honourable man, will forbear 
 to assume the vocation of the Academic Teacher. He 
 will thus show his respect for that vocation the nature of 
 which he must have learned in the course of his studies. 
 The vocation of the Academic Teacher requires him to 
 communicate the Idea, not as the Author does, abstract- 
 ly, in the one perfect conception under which it presents 
 itself to his own mind, but he must mould, express, and 
 clothe it in an infinite variety of forms, so that he may 
 bring it home, under some one or other of those adven- 
 titious vestures, to those by whose present state of culture 
 he must be guided in the exercise of his calling. He 
 must thus possess the Idea, not as a mere abstraction, but 
 in great vitality, power, and flexibility. Above all, he 
 must possess that which we have already described as the 
 creative or artist-talent of the Scholar ; namely, a perfect 
 readiness and capacity to recognise, under any circum- 
 stances, the first germ of the Idea as it begins to unfold 
 itself; in each individual case to discover the most 
 suitable means of aiding it to the attainment of perfect 
 life, and in every case to associate it with an appropriate 
 form. The Author may possess only one form for his 
 Idea, if that form be perfect, he has fulfilled his duty ; 
 the Academic Teacher must possess an infinite multiplicitv 
 of forms, it is not his business to discover the most per- 
 fect form, but in each case to find the most suitable form. 
 A good Academic Teacher must be capable of being also 
 an excellent Author if he choose ; but it does not follow 
 that, on the other hand, a good Author should also be
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER. 305 
 
 a good Academic Teacher. Yet this skill and versatility 
 exist in different degrees, and he is not to be entirely 
 excluded from the Academic calling who does not possess 
 them in the highest degree. 
 
 From this skill which is required of the Academic 
 Teacher in the embodiment of the Idea, there arises 
 another demand upon him, this, namely, that his mode 
 of communication shall be always new, and bear upon it 
 the mark of fresh and active life. Only living and present 
 thought can enter other minds and quicken other thought : 
 a dead, worn-out form, let it have been ever so living at 
 a former time, must be called back to life by the power 
 of others as well as its own ; the Author has a right to 
 require this from his readers, but the Academic Teacher, 
 who in this matter is not an Author, has no right to 
 demand it. 
 
 The upright and conscientious man, as surely as he 
 accepts this calling, and so long as he continues to prac- 
 tise it, gives himself up entirely to its fulfilment ; willing, 
 thinking, desiring nothing else than to be that which, 
 according to his own conviction, he ought to be ; and thus 
 he shows openly his reverence for Knowledge. 
 
 For Knowledge, I say, as such, and because it is Know- 
 ledge, for Knowledge in the abstract, as the Divine 
 Idea one and homogeneous through all the different forms 
 and modes in which it is revealed. It is quite possible 
 that a Scholar who has devoted his life to a particular 
 department of knowledge may entertain a prepossession 
 in favour of that department and be apt to esteem it above 
 all others, either because he has accustomed himself to 
 it, or because he thinks that his more distinguished calling 
 may reflect some of its lustre upon himself. Whatever 
 ability such an one may bring to the cultivation of his 
 own department, he will never present to the unpreju- 
 diced spectator the picture of one who reveres Knowledge 
 for its own sake, and will never persuade the acute observer 
 
 Qa
 
 306 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 that he does so while he shows less respect for other de- 
 partments of knowledge which are as essential as his own. 
 It will only thereby become evident that he has never 
 conceived of Knowledge as one perfect whole, that he 
 does not think of his own department as a portion of this 
 whole, hence that he does not love his own department 
 as Knowledge, but only as a handicraft ; which love for a 
 handicraft may indeed be praiseworthy enough elsewhere, 
 but in the domain of Knowledge excludes him entirely 
 from any right to the name of a Scholar. He who, al- 
 though labouring in a limited province, has become a 
 partaker of Knowledge as a whole, and accepts his own 
 calling as but a part thereof, may perhaps have little even 
 historical acquaintance with other provinces, but he has a 
 general conception of the nature of all others, and will 
 constantly exhibit an equal reverence for all. 
 
 Let this love of his vocation and of Knowledge be the 
 sole guide of his life, visible to all men ; let him be 
 moved by nothing else, regarding no personal interest 
 either of himself or of others. Here, as elsewhere, I shall 
 say nothing of the common and vulgar desires which may 
 not enter within the circle of him who has approached and 
 handled the sacred things of Knowledge. I shall not 
 suppose it possible, for instance, that a Priest of Know- 
 ledge, who seeks to consecrate other Priests to her service, 
 should refrain from saying to them something which they 
 do not hear willingly, in order that they may continue to 
 hear him willingly. Yet I may perhaps be permitted to 
 mention one error not quite so ignoble and vulgar, and to 
 hold up its opposite to your view. In every word uttered 
 by the Academic Teacher in the exercise of his calling, 
 let it be Knowledge that speaks, let it be his longings 
 to extend her dominion, let it be his deep love for his 
 hearers, not as his hearers, but as the future ministers of 
 Knowledge : Knowledge, and these living desires to ex- 
 tend her dominion, let these speak, not the Teacher. An
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER. 307 
 
 effort to speak for the mere sake of speaking, to speak 
 finely for the sake of fine speaking, and that others may 
 know of it, the disease of word-making, sounding 
 words, in which nevertheless no idea is audible, is con- 
 sistent with no man's dignity, and least of all with that of 
 the Academic Teacher, who represents the dignity of 
 Knowledge to future generations. 
 
 Let him give himself up entirely to this love of his 
 vocation and of Knowledge. The peculiar nature of his 
 calling consists in this, that Knowledge, and especially 
 that side of Knowledge from which he conceives of the 
 whole, shall continually burst forth from him in new and 
 fairer forms. Let this fresh spiritual youth never grow 
 old within him ; let no form become fixed and rigid ; let 
 each sunrise bring him new love for his vocation, new joy 
 in its exercise, and wider views of its significance. The 
 Divine Idea is absolutely fixed and determined, all its 
 individual parts are likewise determined. The particular 
 form of its expression for a particular Age may also be 
 determined ; but the living movement of its communica- 
 tion is infinite as the growth of the Human Race. Let 
 no one continue in this calling in whom the mode of this 
 communication, although it may have been the most per- 
 fect of his Age, begins to grow old and formal, none in 
 whom the fountain of youth does not still flow on with 
 unimpaired vigour. Let him faithfully trust himself 
 to its current so long as it will bear him forward : when 
 it leaves him, then let him be content to retire from 
 this ever-shifting scene of onward movement; let him 
 separate the dead from the living. 
 
 It was a necessary part of the plan which I marked out 
 to you, to treat of the dignity of the Academic Teacher. 
 I hope that in doing so I have shown the same strictness 
 with which I have spoken of the other subjects which 
 have fallen under our notice, without allowing myself to 
 be seduced into any lenity towards it by the consideration
 
 308 THE NATUBE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 that I myself practise the calling of which I have spoken, 
 and that I have practised it even in speaking of it. 
 Whence I have derived this firmness, on what feeling it 
 rests, you may inquire at another time ; it is sufficient 
 for you now to understand clearly, that Truth, in every 
 possible application of it, still remaiDS true.
 
 ( 309 ) 
 
 LECTUKE X. 
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR. 
 
 To complete and close our survey of the vocation of 
 the Scholar, we have to-day to speak of the Scholar as 
 Author. 
 
 I have hitherto contented myself with clearly setting 
 forth the true Idea of the special subjects of our inquiry, 
 without turning aside to glance at the actual state of 
 things in the present age. It is almost impossible to pro- 
 ceed in this way with the subject which I am to discuss 
 to-day. The Idea of the Author is almost unknown in 
 our age, and something most unworthy usurps its name. 
 This is the peculiar disgrace of the age, the true source 
 of all its other scientific evils. The inglorious has become 
 glorious, and is encouraged, honoured, and rewarded. 
 
 According to the almost universally received opinion, 
 it is a merit and an honour for a man to have printed 
 something, merely because he has printed it, and without 
 any regard to what it is which he has printed, and what 
 may be its result. They, too, lay claim to the highest 
 rank in the republic of letters who undertake to announce 
 the fact that somebody has printed something and what 
 that something is ; or, as the phrase goes, who " review " 
 the works of others. It is almost inexplicable how such
 
 310 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 an absurd opinion could have arisen and taken root, when 
 we consider the subject in its true light. 
 
 Thus stands the matter : In the latter half of the past 
 century Reading took the place of some other amusements 
 which had gone out of fashion. This new luxury de- 
 manded, from time to time, new fancy goods ; for it is of 
 course quite impossible that one should read over again 
 what one has read already, or those things which our 
 forefathers have read before us; just as it would be alto- 
 gether unbecoming to appear frequently in fashionable 
 society in the same costume, or to dress according to the 
 notions of one's grandfather. The new want gave birth 
 to a new trade, striving to nourish and enrich itself by 
 purveying the wares now in demand, namely, Bookselling. 
 The success of those who first undertook this trade en- 
 couraged others to engage in it, until, in our own days, it 
 has come to this, that this mode of obtaining a livelihood 
 is greatly overstocked and the quantity of the goods pro- 
 duced is much too large in proportion to the consumers. 
 The book-merchant, like the dealer in any other com- 
 modity, orders his goods from the manufacturer, solely with 
 the view of bringing them to the market ; at times also 
 he buys uncommissioned goods which have been manu- 
 factured only on speculation ; and the Author who writes 
 for the sake of writing is this manufacturer. It is impos- 
 sible to conceive why the book-manufacturer should take 
 precedence of any other manufacturer; he ought rather 
 to feel that he is far inferior to any other manufacturer, 
 inasmuch as the luxury to which he ministers is more 
 pernicious than any other. That he find a merchant for 
 his wares may indeed be useful and profitable to him, but 
 how it should be an honour is not readily discoverable. 
 Of course, on the judgment of the publisher, which is 
 only a judgment on the saleableness or unsaleableness of 
 the goods, no value can be set. 
 
 Amid this bustle and pressure of the literary trade, a
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR. 311 
 
 happy thought struck some one ; this, namely, out of all 
 the books which were printed, to make one periodical 
 book ; so that the reader of this book might be spared the 
 trouble of reading any other. It was fortunate that this 
 last purpose was not completely successful, and that every- 
 body did not take to reading this book exclusively, since 
 then no others would have been purchased, and conse- 
 quently no others printed ; so that this book too, being 
 constantly dependent upon other books for the possibility 
 of its own existence, must likewise have remained un- 
 printed. 
 
 He who undertook such a work, which is commonly 
 called a Literary Journal, Literary Gazette, &c. &c., had 
 the advantage of seeing his work increase by the chari- 
 table contributions of many anonymous individuals, and of 
 thus earning honour and profit by the labour of others. 
 To veil his own poverty of ideas, he pretended to pass 
 judgment on the authors whom he quoted, a shallow 
 pretence to the thinker who looks below the surface. For 
 either the book is as most books are at present a bad 
 book, printed only that there might be one more book in 
 the world ; and in this case it ought never to have been 
 written, and is a nullity, and consequently the judgment 
 upon it is a jnullity also ; or, the book is a true Literary 
 Work, such as we shall presently describe ; and then it is 
 the result of a whole capable life devoted to Art or Science, 
 and so would require another whole life as capable as the 
 first to be employed in its judgment. On such a work it 
 is not altogether possible to pass a final judgment in 
 a couple of sheets, within three or six months after its 
 appearance. How can there be any honour in contributing 
 to such collections ? True genius, on the contrary, will 
 rather employ itself on a connected work, originated and 
 planned out by itself, than allow the current of its thoughts 
 to be interrupted by every accident of the day until that 
 interruption is again broken by some new occurrence.
 
 312 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 The disposition continually to watch the thoughts of 
 others, and on these thoughts, please God, to hang our 
 own attempts at thinking, is a certain sign of immaturity, 
 and of a weak and dependent mind. Or does the honour 
 consist in this, that the conductors of such works should 
 consider us capable of filling the office of judge and actu- 
 ally make it over to us ? In reality their opinion goes no 
 deeper than that of a common unlettered printer, of the 
 saleableness or unsaleableness of the goods, and of the 
 outward reputation which may thereby accrue to their 
 critical establishment. 
 
 I am aware that what I have now said may seem very 
 paradoxical. All of us who are connected in any way 
 with Knowledge, which in this connexion may be termed 
 Literature, grow up in the notion that literary industry is 
 a blessing, an advantage, an honourable distinction of 
 our cultivated and philosophical age ; and but few have 
 power to see through this prepossession and recognise its 
 emptiness. The only apparent reason which can be ad- 
 duced in defence of such perverted industry is, in my 
 opinion, this : that thereby an extensive literary public 
 is kept alive, roused to attention, and, as it were, held 
 together ; so that, should anything of real value and im- 
 portance be brought before it, this public shall be found 
 already existing, and not have to be first called together. 
 But I answer, that, in the first place, the means appear 
 much too extensive for the end contemplated, it seems 
 too great a sacrifice that many generations should spend 
 their time upon nothing, in order that some future gene- 
 ration may be enabled to occupy itself with something ; 
 and further, it is by no means true that a public is only 
 kept alive by this misdirected activity ; it is at the same 
 time perverted, vitiated, and ruined for the appreciation 
 of anything truly valuable. Much that is excellent has 
 made its appearance in our age, I shall instance only 
 the Kantian Philosophy, but this very activity of the
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR. 313 
 
 literary market has destroyed, perverted, and degraded it, 
 BO that its spirit has fled, and now only a ghost of it stalks 
 about, which no one can venerate. 
 
 The Literary History of our own day shows the real 
 thinker how writing for writing's sake may be honoured 
 and applauded. A few Authors only excepted, our Literary 
 Men have in their own writings borne worse testimony 
 against themselves than any one else could have given 
 against them ; and no even moderately well-disposed per- 
 son would be -inclined to consider the writers of our 
 day so shallow, perverse, and spiritless, as the majority 
 show themselves in their works. The only way to retain 
 any respect for the age, any desire to influence it, is this, 
 to assume that those who proclaim their opinions aloud 
 are inferior men, and that only among those who keep 
 silence some may be found who are capable of teaching 
 better things. 
 
 Thus, when I speak of the Literary Vocation, it is not 
 the Literary Trade of the age which I mean, but some- 
 thing quite other than that. 
 
 I have already set forth the Idea of the Author when 
 distinguishing it from that of the oral Teacher of progres- 
 sive Scholars. Both have to express and communicate 
 the Idea in language : the latter, for particular individuals 
 by whose capacity for receiving it he must be guided ; 
 the former, without regard to any individual and in the 
 most perfect form which can be given to it in his age. 
 
 The Author must embody the Idea, he must therefore 
 be a partaker of the Idea. All Literary Works are either 
 works of Art or of Science. Whatever may be the subject 
 of a work of the first class, it is evident that since it does 
 not directly express any special conception, and thus teaches 
 the reader nothing, it can only awaken the Idea itself 
 within him and furnish it with a fitting embodiment ; 
 otherwise it would be but an empty play of words and 
 have no real meaning. Whatever may be the subject of 
 
 R a
 
 314 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 a scientific work, the Author of such a work must not 
 conceive of Knowledge in a mere historical fashion, and 
 only as received from others ; he must for himself have 
 spiritually penetrated to the Idea of Knowledge on some 
 one of its sides, and produce it in a self-creative, new, and 
 hitherto unknown form. If he be but a link in the chain 
 of historical tradition, and can do no more than hand 
 down to others the knowledge which he himself has re- 
 ceived, and only in the form in which it already exists in 
 some work whence he has obtained it, then let him leave 
 others in peace to draw from this fountain whence he 
 also has drawn. What need is there of his officious inter- 
 meddling ? To do over again that which has been done 
 already, is to do nothing; and no man who possesses 
 common honesty and conscientiousness will allow himself 
 to indulge in such idleness. Can his Age, then, furnish 
 him with no occupation which is suited to his powers, that 
 he must thus employ himself in doing what he need not 
 do ? It is not necessary that he should write an entirely 
 new work in any branch of Knowledge, but only a better 
 work than any hitherto existing. He who cannot do this 
 should absolutely not write; it is a crime a want of 
 honesty to do so, which at the most can only be excused 
 by his thoughtlessness and utter want of any true con- 
 ception of the business he has undertaken. 
 
 He must express the Idea in language, in an intelligible 
 manner, in a perfect form. The Idea must therefore 
 have become in him so clear, living, and independent, 
 that it already clothes itself to him in words ; and, pene- 
 trating to the innermost spirit of his language, frames 
 thence a vesture for itself by its own inherent power. 
 The Idea itself must speak, not the Author. His will, 
 his individuality, his peculiar method and art, must 
 disappear from his page, so that only the method and art 
 of his Idea may live the highest life which it can attain 
 in his language and in his time. As he is free from
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR. 315 
 
 the obligation under which the Oral Teacher lies, to ac- 
 commodate himself to the capacities of others, so he 
 has not this apology to plead before himself. He has 
 no specific reader in view, he himself must mould his 
 reader and lay down to him the law which he must obey. 
 There may be printed productions addressed only to a 
 certain age and a certain circle, we shall see afterwards 
 under what conditions such writings may be necessary ; 
 but these do not belong to the class of essentially Literary 
 Works of which we now speak, but are printed discourses, 
 printed because the circle to which they are addressed 
 cannot be brought together. 
 
 In order that in this way the Idea may in his person 
 become master of his language, it is necessary that he 
 shall first have acquired a mastery over that language. 
 The Idea does not rule the language directly, but only 
 through him as possessor of the language. This indis- 
 pensable mastery of the Author over his language is only 
 acquired by preparatory exercises, long continued and 
 persevered in, which are studies for future works but have 
 no essential value in themselves, which the conscientious 
 Scholar writes indeed, but will never allow to be printed. 
 It requires, I say, long and persevering exercise ; but, 
 happily, these conditions mutually promote each other; 
 as the Idea becomes more vivid, language spontaneously 
 appears, and as facility of expression is increased, the Idea 
 flows forth in greater clearness. 
 
 These are the first and most necessary conditions of all 
 true Authorship. The Idea itself, and that of expressing 
 the Idea in true and appropriate language, is that which 
 lives, and alone lives in him within whom the presenti- 
 ment has arisen that he may one day send forth a Literary 
 Work ; it is this which animates him in his preparations 
 and studies for that work, as well as in the future com- 
 pletion of his design. 
 
 By this Idea he is inspired with a dignified and sacred
 
 SI 6 THE NATURE OF TIIE SCHOLAR. 
 
 conception of the Literary calling. The work of the Oral 
 Teacher is, in its immediate application, only a work for 
 the time, modified by the degree of culture possessed by 
 those who are entrusted to his care. Only in so far as he 
 can venture to suppose that he is moulding future 
 Teachers worthy of their calling, who, in their turn, will 
 train others for the same task, and so on without end, can 
 he regard himself as working for Eternity. But the work 
 of the Author is in itself a work for Eternity. Even 
 should future ages transcend the knowledge expressed in 
 his work, still in that work he has not recorded his know- 
 ledge alone, but also the fixed and settled character of his 
 age in its relation to that knowledge ; and this will pre- 
 serve its interest so long as the human race endures. 
 Independent of all vicissitude and change, his pages 
 speak in every age to all men who are able to realize his 
 thought ; and thus continue their inspiring, elevating, and 
 ennobling work, even to the end of time. 
 
 Tbe Idea, in this its acknowledged sacredness, moves 
 him, and it alone moves him. He does not believe that 
 he has attained anything until he has attained all, until 
 his work stands before him in the purity and perfectness 
 which he has striven to attain. Devoid of love for his 
 own person, faithfully devoted to the Idea by which he is 
 constantly guided, he recognises with certain glance, and 
 in its true character, every trace of his former nature 
 which remains in his expression of the Idea, and unceas- 
 ingly strives to free himself from it. So long as he is not 
 conscious of this absolute freedom and purity, he has not 
 attained his end, but still works on. In such an age as 
 we have already described, in which the communication of 
 knowledge has greatly increased, and has even fallen into 
 the hands of some who are better fitted for any other oc- 
 cupation than for this, it may be necessary for him to give 
 some preliminary account of his labours ; other modes of 
 communication, too, that of the Oral Teacher for instance,
 
 OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR. 317 
 
 may require such a preliminary account from him ; but he 
 will never put forth such necessary .writings for anything else 
 than what they are, preliminary announcements adapted 
 to a certain age and certain circumstances ; he will never 
 regard them as finished works destined for immortality. 
 
 The Idea alone urges him forward ; nothing else. All 
 personal regards have disappeared from his view. I do 
 not speak of his own person, of his having entirely for- 
 gotten himself in his vocation ; this has been already 
 sufficiently set forth. The personality of others has no 
 more weight with him than his own when opposed to the 
 truth and the Idea. I do not mention that he will not 
 encroach upon the rights of other Scholars or Authors in 
 their civic or personal relations : that is altogether below 
 his dignity who has to do only with realities; it is also 
 below the dignity of these discourses to make mention 
 of that. But this I will remark, that he will not allow 
 himself to be restrained, by forbearance towards any per- 
 son whatever, from demolishing error and establishing 
 truth in its place. The worst insult that can be offered, 
 even to a half-educated man, is to suppose that he can be 
 offended by the exposure of an error he has entertained, 
 or the proclamation of a truth which has escaped his 
 notice. From this bold and open profession of truth as 
 he perceives it, without regard to any man, he will suffer 
 nothing to lead him astray, not even the politely expressed 
 contempt of the so-called fashionable world, which can 
 conceive of the literary calling only by analogy with its 
 own social circles, and would impose the etiquette of the 
 court upon the conduct of the Scholar. 
 
 Here I close these Lectures. If a thought of mine have 
 entered into any now present, and shall abide there as a 
 guide to higher truth, perhaps it may sometimes awaken 
 the memory of these lectures and of me, and only in this 
 way do I desire to live in your recollection.
 
 THE VOCATION OF MAN
 
 (321 ) 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 WHATEVER in the New Philosophy is useful beyond the limits 
 of the schools will form the contents of this work, set forth in 
 that order in which it would naturally present itself to unscien- 
 tific thought. The more profound arguments by which the 
 subtle objections and extravagances of over-refined minds are to 
 be met, whatever is but the foundation of other Positive Science, 
 lastly, whatever belongs to Pedagogy in its widest sense, that 
 is, to the deliberate and arbitrary Education of the Human 
 Race, shall remain beyond the limits of our task. These ob- 
 jections are not made by the natural understanding; Positive 
 Science it leaves to Scholars by profession ; and the Education 
 of the Human Race, in so far as that depends upon human effort, 
 to its appointed Teachers and Statesmen. 
 
 This book is therefore not intended for philosophers by pro- 
 fession, who will find nothing in it that has not been already set 
 forth in other writings of the same author. It ought to be 
 intelligible to all readers who are able to understand a book at 
 all. To those who wish only to repeat, in somewhat varied 
 order, certain phrases which they have already learned by rote, 
 and who mistake this business of the memory for understanding, 
 it will doubtless be found unintelligible. 
 
 s a
 
 322 PREFACE. 
 
 It ought to attract and animate the reader, and to elevate 
 him from the world of sense into a region of supersensuous 
 thought ; at least the author is conscious that he has not en- 
 tered upon his task without such inspiration. Often, indeed, the 
 fire with which we commence an undertaking disappears during 
 the toil of execution ; and thus, at the conclusion of a work, we 
 are in danger of doing ourselves injustice upon this point. In 
 short, whether the author has succeeded in attaining his object 
 or not, can be determined only by the effect which the work shall 
 produce on the readers to whom it is addressed, and in this the 
 author has no voice. 
 
 I must, however, remind my reader that the "I" who speaks 
 in this book is not the author himself ; but it is his earnest wish 
 that the reader should himself assume this character, and that 
 he should not rest contented with a mere historical apprehension 
 of what is here said, but that during reading he should really 
 and truly hold converse with himself, deliberate, draw conclu- 
 sions and form resolutions, like his imaginary representative, and 
 thus, by his own labour and reflection, develope and build up 
 within himself that mode of thought the mere picture of which 
 is presented to him in the book.
 
 ( 323 ) 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 DOUBT, 
 
 I BELIEVE that I am now acquainted with no inconsider- 
 able part of the world that surrounds me, and I have 
 certainly employed sufficient labour and care in the ac- 
 quisition of this knowledge. I have put faith only in the 
 concurrent testimony of my senses, only in repeated and 
 unvarying experience ; what I have beheld, I have 
 touched what I have touched, I have analyzed ; I have 
 repeated my observations again and again; I have com- 
 pared the various phenomena with each other; and only 
 when I could understand their exact connexion, when I 
 could explain and deduce the one from the other, when I 
 could calculate the result beforehand, and the observation 
 of the result had proved the accuracy of my calculations, 
 have I been satisfied. Therefore I am now as well assured 
 of the accuracy of this part of, my knowledge as of my 
 own existence ; I walk with a firm step in these under- 
 stood spheres of my world, and do actually every moment 
 venture welfare and life itself on the certainty of my 
 convictions. 
 
 But what am I myself, and what is my vocation ? 
 
 Superfluous question ! It is long since I have been 
 completely instructed upon these points, and it would
 
 324) THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 take much time to repeat all that I have heard, learned, 
 and believed concerning them. 
 
 And in what way then have I attained this knowledge, 
 which I have this dim remembrance of acquiring ? Have 
 I, impelled by an earnest desire of knowledge, toiled on 
 through uncertainty, doubt and contradiction ? have I, 
 when any belief was presented to me, withheld my assent 
 until I have examined and reexamined, sifted and com- 
 pared it, until an inward voice proclaimed to me, irresis- 
 tibly and without the possibility of doubt, " Thus it is 
 thus only as surely as thou livest and art ! " No ! I 
 remember no such state of mind. Those instructions 
 were bestowed on me before I sought them, the answers 
 were given before I had put the questions. I heard, for 
 I could not avoid doing so, and what was taught me 
 remained in my memory just as chance had disposed it ; 
 without examination and without conviction I allowed 
 everything to take its place in my mind. 
 
 How then could I persuade myself that I possessed any 
 real knowledge upon these matters ? If I know that only 
 of which I am convinced, which I have myself discovered, 
 myself experienced, then I cannot truly say that I possess 
 even the slightest knowledge of my vocation; I know 
 only what others assert they know about it, and all that 
 I am really sure of is, that I have heard this or that said 
 upon the subject. 
 
 Thus, while I have inquired for myself, and with the 
 most anxious care, into comparatively trivial matters, I 
 have relied wholly on the care and fidelity of others in 
 things of the weightiest importance. I have attributed 
 to others an interest in the highest affairs of humanity, 
 an earnestness and an exactitude, which I have by no 
 means discovered in myself. I have esteemed them inde- 
 scribably higher than myself.
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 325 
 
 Whatever truth they really possess, whence can they 
 have obtained it but through their own reflection ? And 
 why may not I, by means of the same reflection, discover 
 the like truth for myself, since I too have a being as well 
 as they ? How much have I hitherto undervalued and 
 slighted myself! 
 
 It shall be no longer thus. From this moment I will 
 enter on my rights and assume the dignity that belongs 
 to me. Let all foreign aids be cast aside ! I will examine 
 for myself. If any secret wishes concerning the result of 
 my inquiries, any partial leaning towards certain conclu- 
 sions, stir within me, I forget and renounce them ; and I 
 will accord them no influence over the direction of my 
 thoughts. I will perform my task with firmness and 
 assiduity ; I will honestly accept the result whatever it 
 may be. What I find to be truth, let it sound as it may, 
 shall be welcome to me. I will know. With the same 
 certainty with which I am assured that this ground will 
 support me when I tread on it, that this fire will burn me 
 if I approach too near it, will I know what I am, and 
 what I shall be. And should it prove impossible for me 
 to know this, then I will know this much at least, that I 
 cannot know it. Even to this conclusion of my inquiry 
 will I submit, should it approve itself to me as the truth. 
 I hasten to the fulfilment of my task.
 
 326 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 I seize on Nature in her rapid and unresting 
 flight, detain her for an instant, hold the present moment 
 steadily in view, and reflect upon this Nature by means 
 of which my thinking powers have hitherto been de- 
 veloped and trained to those researches that belong to her 
 domain. 
 
 I am surrounded by objects which I am compelled to 
 regard as separate, independent, self-subsisting wholes. I 
 behold plants, trees, animals. I ascribe to each individual 
 certain properties and attributes by which I distinguish it 
 from others ; to this plant, such a form ; to another, 
 another ; to this tree, leaves of such a shape ; to another, 
 others differing from them. 
 
 Every object has its appointed number of attributes, 
 neither more nor less. To every question, whether it is 
 this or that, there is, for any one who is thoroughly ac- 
 quainted with it, a decisive Yes possible, or a decisive No, 
 so that there is an end of all doubt or 'hesitation on the 
 subject. Everything that exists is something, or it is not 
 this something ; is coloured, or is not coloured ; has a 
 certain colour, or has it not ; may be tasted, or may not ; 
 is tangible, or is not ; and so on, ad infinitum. 
 
 Every object posseses each of these attributes in a defi- 
 nite degree. Let a measure be given for any particular 
 attribute which is capable of being applied to the object;
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT 327 
 
 then we may discover the exact extent of that attribute, 
 which it neither exceeds nor falls short of. I measure the 
 height of this tree ; it is defined, and it is not a single 
 line higher or lower than it is. I consider the green of 
 its leaves ; it is a definite green, not the smallest shade 
 darker or lighter, fresher or more faded than it is; al- 
 though I may have neither measure nor expression for 
 these qualities. I turn my eye to this plant ; it is at a 
 definite stage of growth between its budding and its ma- 
 turity, not in the smallest degree nearer or more remote 
 from either than it is. Everything that exists is determined 
 throughout ; it is what it is, and nothing else. 
 
 Not that I am unable to conceive of an object as float- 
 ing between opposite determinations. I do certainly 
 conceive of indefinite objects ; for more than half of my 
 thoughts consist of such conceptions. I think of a tree 
 in general. Has this tree fruit or not, leaves or not ; if 
 it has, what is their number ? to what order of trees does 
 it belong ? how large is it ? and so on. All these ques- 
 tions remain unanswered, and my thought is undetermined 
 in these respects ; for I did not propose to myself the 
 thought of any particular tree, but of a tree generally. 
 But I deny actual existence to such a tree in thus leaving 
 it undefined. Everything that actually exists has its 
 determinate number of all the possible attributes of actual 
 existence, and each of these in a determinate measure, 
 as surely as it actually exists, although I may admit 
 my inability thoroughly to exhaust all the properties of 
 any one object, or to apply to them any standard of 
 measurement 
 
 But Nature pursues her course of ceaseless change, and 
 while I yet speak of the moment which I sought to detain 
 before me it is gone, and all is changed ; and in like man- 
 ner, before I had fixed my observation upon it, all was
 
 328 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 otherwise. It had not always been as it was when I ob- 
 served it : it had become so. 
 
 Why then, and from what cause, had it become so ? 
 Why had Nature, amid the infinite variety of possible 
 forms, assumed in this moment precisely these and no 
 others ? 
 
 For this reason, that they were preceded by those pre- 
 cisely which did precede them, and by no others; and 
 because the present could arise out of those and out of no 
 other possible conditions. Had anything in the preceding 
 moment been in the smallest degree different from what 
 it was, then in the present moment something would 
 have been different from what it is. And from what cause 
 were all things in that preceding moment precisely such 
 as they were ? For this reason, that in the moment pre- 
 ceding that, they were such as they were then. And 
 this moment again was dependent on its predecessor, 
 and that on another, and so backwards without limit. 
 In like manner will Nature in the next succeeding mo- 
 ment be necessarily determined to the particular forms 
 which it will then assume for this reason, that in the 
 present moment it is determined exactly as it is; and 
 were anything in the present moment in the smallest 
 degree different from what it is, then in the succeeding 
 moment something would necessarily be different from 
 what it will be. And in the moment following that, all 
 things will be precisely as they will be, because in the 
 immediately previous moment they will be as they will 
 be ; and so will its successor proceed forth from it, and 
 another from that, and so onwards for ever. 
 
 Nature proceeds throughout the whole infinite series 
 of her possible determinations without outward incentive ; 
 and the succession of these changes is not arbitrary, but 
 follows strict and unalterable laws. Whatever exists in 
 Nature necessarily exists as it does exist, and it is abso- 
 lutely impossible that it should be otherwise. I enter
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 329 
 
 within an unbroken chain of phenomena, in which every 
 link is determined by that which has preceded it, and in 
 its turn determines the next ; so that, were I able to trace 
 backward the causes through which alone any given mo- 
 ment could have come into actual existence, and to follow 
 out the consequences which must necessarily flow from it, 
 I should then be able, at that moment, and by means of 
 thought alone, to discover all possible conditions of the 
 universe, both past and future ; past, by interpreting the 
 given moment ; future, by forecasting its results. Every 
 part contains the whole, for only through the whole is 
 each part what it is, but through the whole it is neces- 
 sarily what it is. 
 
 What is it then that I have thus arrived at ? If I 
 review my positions as a whole, I find their substance to 
 be this : that in every stage of progress an antecedent 
 is necessarily supposed, from which and through which 
 alone the present has arisen ; in every condition a pre- 
 vious condition, in every existence another existence ; and 
 that from nothing, nothing whatever can proceed. 
 
 Let me pause here a little, and develope whatever is 
 contained in this principle, until it become perfectly clear 
 to me. For it may be that on my clear insight into this 
 point may depend the success of my whole future inquiry. 
 
 Why, and from what cause, I had asked, are the deter- 
 minate forms of objects precisely such as they are at this 
 moment. I assumed without further proof, and without 
 the slightest inquiry, as an absolute, immediate, certain 
 and unalterable truth, (as indeed it is, as I now find it 
 to be, and shall ever find it to be) I assumed, Ijsay, 
 that they had a cause ; that not through themselves, but 
 through something which lay beyond them, they had 
 attained existence and reality. I found their existence 
 insufficient to account for itself, and I was compelled to 
 
 T a
 
 330 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 assume another existence beyond them, as a necessary 
 condition of theirs. But why did I find the existence 
 of these qualities and determinate forms insufficient for 
 itself? Why did I find it to be an incomplete existence ? 
 What was there in it which betrayed to me its insuf- 
 ficiency ? This, without doubt : that, in the first place, , 
 these qualities do not exist in and for themselves, they J 
 are qualities of something else, attributes of a substance, 
 forms of something formed ; and the supposition of such a 
 substance, of a something to support these attributes, of a 
 substratum for them, to use the phraseology of the Schools, 
 is a necessary condition of the conceivableness of suchA*/,-- a 
 qualities. Further, before I can attribute a definite qua- ~ 
 lity to such a substratum, I must suppose for it a condition 
 of repose, and of cessation from change, a pause in its 
 existence. Were I to regard it as in a state of transition, 
 then there could be no definite determination, but merely 
 an indefinite series of changes from one state to another 
 and different state. The state of determination in a thing 
 is thus a state and expression of mere passivity ; and a 
 state of mere passivity is in itself an incomplete exis- 
 tence. Such passivity itself demands an activity to which 
 it may be referred, by which it can be explained, and 
 through which it first becomes conceivable ; or, as it is 
 usually expressed, which contains within it the ground of 
 this passivity. 
 
 What I found myself compelled to suppose was thus 
 by no means that the various and successive determina- 
 tions of Nature themselves produce each other, that the 
 present determination annihilates itself, and, in the next 
 moment, when it no longer exists, produces another, which 
 is different from itself and not contained in it, to fill its 
 place : this is wholly inconceivable. The mere deter- 
 mination produces neither itself nor anything else. 
 
 What I found myself compelled to assume, in order to 
 account for the gradual origin and the changes of those
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 331 
 
 determinations, wasjm active power, peculiar to th 
 and constituting its essential-nature. 
 
 And how, then, do I conceive of this power ? what is 
 its nature, and the modes of its manifestation ? This 
 only, that under these definite conditions it produces, 
 by its own spontaneous energy, this definite effect and no 
 other ; and that it produces this certainly and infallibly. 
 
 This principle of activity, of independent and spon- 
 taneous development, dwells in itself alone, and in nothing 
 beyond itself, as surely as it is power ; power which is 
 not impelled or set in motion, but which sets itself in 
 motion. The cause of its having developed itself pre- 
 cisely in this manner and no other, lies partly in itself 
 because it is this particular power and no other ; and 
 partly in the circumstances under which it developes itself. ^ 
 Both these, the_ inward determination of a power by 
 itself, and its outward determination by circumstances, 
 must be united in order to produce a change. The latter, 
 the circumstances, the passive condition of things, can 
 of itself produce no change, for it has within it the oppo- 
 site of all change, inert existence. The former, the power, 
 is essentially determined, for only on this condition is 
 it conceivable ; but its determination is completed only 
 through the circumstances under which it is developed. 
 I can conceive of a power, it can have an existence for 
 me, only in so far as I can perceive an effect proceeding 
 from it ; an inactive power, which should yet be a power 
 and not an inert thing, is wholly inconceivable. Every 
 effect, however, is determined ; and since the effect is 
 but the expression, but another mode of the activity 
 itself, the active power is determined in its activity; 
 and the ground of this determination lies partly in itself, 
 because it cannot otherwise be conceived of as a particular 
 and definite power ; partly out of itself, because its own 
 determination can be conceived of only as conditioned by 
 something else.
 
 332 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 A flower has sprung out of the earth, and I infer from 
 thence a formative power in Nature. Such a formative 
 power exists for me only so far as this flower and others, 
 plants generally, and animals exist for me : I can describe 
 this power only through its effects, and it is to me no 
 more than the producing cause of such effects, the 
 generative principle of flowers, plants, animals, and or- 
 ganic forms in general. I will go further, and maintain 
 that a flower, and this particular flower, could arise in 
 this place only in so far as all other circumstances united 
 to make it possible. But by the union of all these cir- 
 cumstances for its possibility, the actual existence of the 
 flower is by no means explained ; and for this I am still 
 compelled to assume a special, spontaneous, and original 
 power in Nature, and indeed a flower -producing power ; 
 for another power of Nature might, under the same cir- 
 cumstances, have produced something entirely different. 
 I have thus attained to the following view of the 
 Universe. 
 
 When I contemplate all things as one whole, one Na- 
 ture, there is but one power; when I regard them as 
 separate existences, there are many powers, which develope 
 themselves according to their inward laws, and pass 
 through all the possible forms of which they are capable ; 
 and all objects in Nature are but those powers under 
 certain determinate forms. The manifestations of each 
 individual power of Nature are determined, become what 
 they are, partly by its own essential character, partly 
 through its own previous manifestations, and partly 
 through the manifestations of all the other powers of 
 Nature with which it is connected. But it is connected 
 with them all for Nature is one connected whole and 
 it is therefore necessarily determined by them all. While 
 its essential character remains what it is, and while it 
 continues to manifest itself under these particular circum- 
 stances, its manifestations must -necessarily be what they
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 333 
 
 are ; and it is absolutely impossible that they should be 
 in the smallest degree different from whaf they are. 
 
 In every moment of her duration Nature is one con- 
 nected whole ; in every moment each individual part must 
 be what it is, because all the others are what they are ; 
 and you could not remove a single grain of sand from its 
 place, without thereby, although perhaps imperceptibly 
 to you, changing something throughout all parts of the 
 immeasurable whole. But every moment of this duration 
 is determined by all past moments, and will determine 
 all future moments; and you cannot conceive even the 
 position of a grain of sand other than it is in the Present, 
 without being compelled to conceive the whole indefinite 
 Past to have been other than what it has been, and the 
 whole indefinite Future other than what it will be. Make 
 the experiment, for instance, with this grain of quick- 
 sand. Suppose it to lie some few paces further inland 
 than it does : then must the storm-wind that drove it 
 in from the sea have been stronger than it actually was ; 
 then must the preceding state of the weather, by which 
 this wind was occasioned and its degree of strength deter- 
 mined, have been different from what it actually was ; as 
 well as the previous state by which this particular weather 
 was determined, and so on; and thus you have, without 
 stay or limit, a wholly different temperature of the air 
 from that which really existed, and a different constitution 
 of the bodies which possess an influence over this tempera- 
 ture, and over which, on the other hand, it exercises such 
 an influence. On the fruitfulness or unfruitfulness of 
 countries, and through that, or even directly, on the du- 
 ration of human life, this temperature exercises a most 
 decided influence. How can you know, since it is not 
 permitted us to penetrate the arcana of Nature, and it 
 is therefore allowable to speak of possibilities, how 
 can you know, that in such a state of weather as may 
 bave been necessary to carry this grain of sand a few paces
 
 S34f THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 further inland, some one of your forefathers might not 
 have perished from hunger, or cold, or heat, before beget- 
 ting that son from whom you are descended ; and that 
 thus you might never have been at all, and all that you 
 have ever done, and all that you ever hope to do in this 
 world, might never have been, that so a grain of sand 
 might lie in a different place ? 
 
 I myself, with all that I call mine, am a link in this 
 chain of the rigid necessity of Nature. There was a time 
 so others tell me who were then alive, and I am com- 
 pelled by reasoning to admit such a time of which I have 
 no immediate consciousness, there was a time in which 
 I was not, and a moment in which I began to be. I then 
 only existed for others, not yet for myself. Since then, 
 my self, my self-consciousness, has gradually unfolded 
 itself, and I have discovered in myself certain capacities 
 and faculties, wants and natural desires. I am a definite 
 creature, that came into being at a certain time. 
 
 I have not come into being by my own power. It would 
 be the highest absurdity to suppose that I was before I 
 came into existence in order to bring myself into existence. 
 I have, then, been called into being by a power beyond 
 myself. And by what power but the universal power of 
 Nature, since I too am a part of Nature ? The time at 
 which my existence began, and the attributes with which 
 I came into being, were determined by this universal 
 power of Nature; and all the forms under which these 
 inborn attributes have since manifested themselves, and 
 will manifest themselves as long as I have a being, are 
 determined by the same power. It was impossible that, 
 instead of me, another should have come into existence ; 
 it is impossible that this being, once here, should at 
 any moment of its existence be other than what it is and 
 will be.
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 335 
 
 That my successive states of being have been accom- 
 panied by consciousness, and that some of them, such as 
 thoughts, resolutions, and the like, appear to be nothing 
 but varied modes of consciousness, need not perplex my 
 reasonings. It is the natural constitution of the plant to 
 develope itself, of the animal to move, of man to think, 
 all after fixed laws. Why should I hesitate to acknowledge 
 the last as the manifestation of an original power of Na- 
 ture, as well as the first and second ? Nothing could 
 hinder me from doing so but mere amazement ; thought 
 being assuredly a far higher and more subtle operation of 
 Nature than the formation of a plant or the proper motion 
 of an animal. But how can I accord to such a feeling any 
 influence whatever upon the calm conclusions of reason ? 
 I cannot indeed explain how the power of Nature can 
 produce thought ; but can I better explain its operation 
 in the formation of a plant or in the motion of an animal ? 
 To attempt to deduce thought from any mere combination 
 of matter is a perversity into which I shall not fall ; but 
 can I explain from it even the formation of the simplest 
 moss ? Those original powers of Nature cannot be ex- 
 plained, for it is only by them that we can explain every- 
 thing which is susceptible of explanation. Thought exists, 
 its existence is absolute and independent ; just as the 
 formative power of Nature exists absolutely and indepen- 
 dently. It is in Nature ; for the thinking being comes 
 into existence and developes himself according to the 
 laws of Nature ; therefore thought exists through Nature. 
 There is in Nature an original thinking-power, as there 
 is an original formative-power. 
 
 This original thinking-power of the Universe goes forth 
 and developes itself in all possible modes of which it is 
 capable, as the other original forces of Nature go forth 
 and assume all forms possible to them. I, like the plant, 
 am a particular mode or manifestation of the formative- 
 power ; like the animal, a particular mode or manifesta-
 
 336 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 tion of the power of motion ; and besides these I am also 
 a particular mode or manifestation of the thinking-power ; 
 and the union of these three original powers into one, 
 into one harmonious development, is the distinguishing 
 characteristic of my species, as it is the distinguishing 
 characteristic of the plant species to be merely a mode or 
 manifestation of the formative-power. 
 
 Figure, motion, thought, in me, are not dependent on 
 each other and consequent on each other so that I should 
 think and conceive of the forms and motions that surround 
 me in such or such a manner because they are so, or on 
 the other hand, that they are so because I so conceive of 
 them, but they are all simultaneous and harmonious 
 developments of one and the same power, the manifesta- 
 tion of which necessarily assumes the form of a complete 
 creature of my species, and which may thus be called the 
 man-forming power. A thought arises within me abso- 
 lutely, without dependence on anything else; the cor- 
 responding form likewise arises absolutely, and also the 
 emotion which corresponds to both. I am not what I am, 
 because I think so, or will so ; nor do I think and will it, 
 because I am so ; but I am, and I think, both absolutely ; 
 both harmonize with each other by virtue of a higher 
 power. 
 
 As surely as those original powers of Nature exist for 
 themselves, and have their own internal laws and pur- 
 poses, so surely must their outward manifestations, if they 
 are left to themselves and not suppressed by any foreign 
 force, endure for a certain period of time, and describe a 
 certain circle of change. That which disappears even at 
 the moment of its production is assuredly not the mani- 
 festation of one primordial power, but only a consequence 
 of the combined operation of various powers. The plant, 
 a particular mode or manifestation of the formative-power 
 of N ature, when left to itself, proceeds from the first ger- 
 mination to the ripening of the seed. Man, a particular
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 337 
 
 mode or manifestation of all the powers of Nature in their 
 union, when left to himself, proceeds from birth to death 
 in old age. Hence the duration of the life of plants and 
 of men, and the varied modes of this life. 
 
 This form, this proper motion, this thought, in harmony 
 with each other, this duration of all these essential qua- 
 lities, amidst many non-essential changes, belong to me 
 in so far as I am a being of my species. But the man- 
 forming power of Nature had already displayed itself 
 before I existed, under a multitude of outward conditions 
 and circumstances. Such outward circumstances have 
 determined the particular manner of its present activity, 
 which has resulted in the production of precisely such 
 an individual of my species as I am. The same circum- 
 stances can never return unless the whole course of Na- 
 ture should repeat itself, and two Natures arise instead of 
 one ; hence the same individuals, who have once existed, 
 can never again come into actual being. Further, the 
 man-forming power of Nature manifests itself, during the 
 same time in which I exist, under all the conditions and 
 circumstances possible in that time. But no combination 
 of such circumstances can perfectly resemble those through 
 which I came into existence, unless the universe could 
 divide itself into two perfectly similar but independent 
 worlds. It is impossible that two perfectly similar indi- 
 viduals can come into actual existence at the same time. 
 It is thus determined what I, this definite person, must 
 be ; and the general law by which I am what I am is 
 discovered. I am that which the man-forming power of 
 Nature having been what it was, being what it is, and 
 standing in this particular relation to the other opposing 
 powers of Nature could become; and, there being no 
 ground of limitation within itself, since it could become, 
 necessarily must become. I am that which I am, because 
 in this particular position of the great system of Nature, 
 only such a person, and absolutely no other, was possible ; 
 
 U a
 
 338 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 and a spirit who could look through the innermost 
 secrets of Nature, would, from knowing one single man, 
 be able distinctly to declare what men had formerly exis- 
 ted, and what men would exist at any future moment ; 
 in one individual he would discern all actual and possible 
 individuals. It is this my inter-connexion with the whole 
 system of Nature which determines what I have been, 
 what I am, and what I shall be ; and the same spirit 
 would be able, from any possible moment of my existence, 
 to discover infallibly what I had previously been, and 
 what I was afterwards to become. All that, at any time, 
 I am and shall be, I am and shall be of absolute necessity ; 
 and it is impossible that I should be anything else. 
 
 I am, indeed, conscious of myself as an independent, 
 and, in many phases of my life, a free being; but this 
 consciousness may easily be explained on the principles 
 already laid down, and may be thoroughly reconciled with 
 the conclusions which have been drawn. My immediate 
 consciousness, my proper perception, cannot go beyond 
 myself and the modes of my own being; I have imme- 
 diate knowledge of myself alone : whatever I may know 
 more than this, I know only by inference, in the same 
 way in which I have inferred the existence of original 
 powers of Nature, which yet do not lie within the circle 
 of my perceptions. I myself however, that which I call 
 me my personality, am not the man-forming power of 
 Nature, but only one of its manifestations ; and it is only 
 of this manifestation that I am conscious, as myself, not 
 of that power whose existence I only infer from the ne- 
 cessity of explaining my own. This manifestation, how- 
 ever, in its true nature, is really the product of an original 
 and independent power, and must appear as such in con- 
 sciousness. On this account I recognise myself generally 
 as an independent being. For this reason I appear to
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 339 
 
 myself as free in certain phases of my life, when these are 
 the manifestations of the independent power which falls 
 to my share as an individual ; as restrained and limited, 
 when, by any combination of outward circumstances, which 
 may arise in time, but do not lie within the original limi- 
 tations of my personality, I cannot do what my individual 
 power would naturally, if unobstructed, be capable of 
 doing; as compelled, when this individual power, by the 
 superiority of antagonistic powers, is constrained to mani- 
 fest itself even in opposition to the laws of its own nature. / 
 
 Bestow consciousness on a tree, and let it grow, spread 
 out its branches, and bring forth leaves and buds, blossoms 
 and fruits, after its kind, without hindrance or obstruction : 
 it will perceive no limitation to its existence in being 
 only a tree, a tree of this particular species, and this particu- 
 lar individual of the species ; it will feel itself perfectly free, 
 because, in all those manifestations, it will do nothing but 
 what its nature requires ; and it will desire to do nothing 
 else, because it can only desire what that nature requires. 
 But let its growth be hindered by unfavourable weather, 
 want of nourishment, or other causes, and it will feel itself 
 limited and restrained, because an impulse which actually 
 belongs to its nature is not satisfied. Bind its free waving 
 boughs to a wall, force foreign branches on it by ingrafting, 
 and it will feel itself compelled to one course of action ; its 
 branches will grow, but not in the direction they would 
 have taken if left to themselves ; it will produce fruits, 
 but not those which belong to its original nature. JJL 
 immediate consciousness, I appear to myself as free ; by 
 reflection on the whole of Nature, I discover that freedom 
 is absolutely impossible ; the former must be subordinate 
 to the latter, for it can be explained only by means of it. 
 
 What high satisfaction this system affords to my un- 
 derstanding! What order, what firm connexion, what
 
 340 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 comprehensive supervision does it introduce into the whole 
 fabric of my knowledge ! Consciousness is here no longer 
 a stranger in Nature, whose connexion with existence is 
 so incomprehensible ; it is native to it, and indeed one 
 of its necessary manifestations. Nature herself ascends 
 gradually in the determinate series of her creations. In 
 rude matter she is a simple existence ; in organized matter 
 she returns within herself to internal activity, in the 
 plant to produce form, in the animal motion ; in man, as 
 her highest masterpiece, she turns inward that she may 
 perceive and contemplate herself, in him she, as it were, 
 doubles herself, and, from being mere existence, becomes 
 existence and consciousness in one. 
 
 How I am and must be conscious of my own being and 
 of its determinations, is, in this connexion, easily under- 
 stood. My being and my knowledge have one common 
 foundation, my own nature. The being within me, even 
 because it is my being, is conscious of itself. Quite as con- 
 ceivable is my consciousness of corporeal objects existing 
 beyond myself. The powers in whose manifestation my 
 personality consists, the formative the self-moving 
 the thinking powers are not these same powers as they 
 exist in Nature at large, but only a certain definite por- 
 tion of them ; and that they are but such a portion, is 
 because there are so many other existences beyond me. 
 From the former, I can infer the latter; from the limita- 
 tion, that which limits. Because I myself am not this 
 or that which yet belongs to the connected system of 
 existence, it must exist beyond me ; thus reasons the 
 thinking principle within me. Of my own limitation I 
 am immediately conscious, because it is a part of myself, 
 and only by reason of it do I possess an actual existence ; 
 my consciousness of the source of this limitation, of that 
 which I myself am not, is produced by the former, and 
 arises out of it. 
 
 Away, then, with those pretended influences and opera-
 
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 341 
 
 tions of outward things upon me, by means of which they 
 are supposed to pour in upon me a knowledge which is 
 not in themselves and cannot flow forth from them. The 
 ground upon which I assume the existence of something 
 beyond myself, does not lie out of myself, but within me, 
 in the limitation of my own personality. By means of 
 this limitation, the thinking principle of Nature within 
 me proceeds out of itself, and is able to survey itself as a 
 whole, although, in each individual, from a different point 
 of view. 
 
 In the same way there arises within me the idea of 
 other thinking beings like myself. I, or the thinking 
 power of Nature within me, am conscious of some thoughts 
 which seem to have arisen spontaneously within me as an 
 individual form of Nature ; and of others, which seem not 
 to have arisen in the same spontaneous manner. And so 
 it is in reality. The former are my own, peculiar, indi- 
 vidual contributions to the general circle of thought in 
 Nature ; the latter are deduced from them, as what must 
 surely have a place in that circle; but being only in- 
 ferences so far as I am concerned, must find that place, 
 not in me, but in other thinking beings : hence I con- 
 clude that there are other thinking beings besides myself. 
 In short, Nature becomes in me conscious of herself as a 
 whole, but only by beginning with my own individual 
 consciousness, and proceeding from thence to the con- 
 sciousness of universal being by inference founded on the 
 principle of causality ; that is, she is conscious of the 
 conditions under which alone such a form, such a motion, 
 such a thought as that in which my personality consists, is 
 possible. The principle of causality is the point of tran- 
 sition from the particular within myself to the universal 
 which lies beyond myself; and the distinguishing charac- 
 teristic of those two kinds of knowledge is this, that the 
 one is immediate perception, while the other is inference. 
 
 In each individual, Nature beholds herself from a par-
 
 342 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 ticular point of view. I call myself /, and thee thou ; 
 thou callest thyself /, and me thou ; I lie beyond thee, 
 as thou beyond me. Of what is without me, I compre- 
 hend first those things which touch me most nearly ; thou, 
 those which touch thee most nearly ; from these points 
 we each proceed onwards to the next proximate ; but we 
 describe very different paths, which may here and there 
 intersect each other but never run parallel. There is an 
 infinite variety of possible individuals, and hence also an 
 infinite variety of possible points of outlook of conscious- 
 ness. This consciousness of all individuals taken together, 
 constitutes the complete consciousness of the universe; 
 and there is no other, for only in the individual is there 
 definite completeness and reality. 
 
 The testimony of consciousness in each individual is 
 altogether sure and trustworthy, if it be indeed the con- 
 sciousness here described ; for this consciousness arises 
 out of the whole prescribed course of Nature, and Nature 
 cannot contradict herself. Wherever there is a conception, 
 there must be a corresponding existence, for conceptions 
 are only produced simultaneously with the production of 
 the corresponding realities. To each individual his own 
 particular consciousness is wholly determined, for it pro- 
 ceeds from his own nature : no one can have other 
 conceptions, or a greater or less degree of vitality in these 
 conceptions, than he actualty has. The substance of his 
 conceptions is determined by the position which he as- 
 sumes in the universe ; their clearness and vitality, by 
 the higher or lower degree of efficiency manifested by the 
 power of humanity in his person. Give to Nature the 
 determination of one single element of a person, let it 
 seem to be ever so trivial, the course of a muscle, the 
 turn of a hair, and, had she a universal consciousness 
 and were able to reply to thee, she could tell thee all the 
 thoughts which could belong to this person during the 
 whole period of his conscious existence.
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 343 
 
 In this system also, the phenomenon of our conscious- 
 ness which we call Will, becomes thoroughly intelligible. 
 A volition is the immediate consciousness of the activity 
 of any of the powers of Nature within us. The immedi- 
 ate consciousness of an effort of these powers which has 
 not yet become a reality because it is hemmed in by 
 opposing powers, is, in consciousness, inclination or desire ; 
 the struggle of contending powers is irresolution ; the 
 victory of one is the determination of the Will. If the 
 power which strives after activity be only that which we 
 have in common with the plant or the animal, there 
 arises a division and degradation of our inward being ; the 
 desire is unworthy of our rank in the order of things, and, 
 according to a common use of language, may be called a 
 low one. If Jjiis striving pavster ..be. the wliole undivided 
 force of humanity, then is the desire worthy of our na- 
 ture, and it may be called a high one. The latter effort, 
 considered absolutely, may be called a moral law. The 
 activity of this latter effort is a virtuous Will, and the 
 course of action resulting from it is virtue. The triumph 
 of the former not in harmony with the latter is vice ; such a 
 triumph over the latter, and despite its opposition, is crime. 
 
 The power which, on each occasion, proves triumphant, 
 triumphs of necessity ; its superiority is determined by the 
 whole connexion of the universe ; and hence by the same 
 connexion is the virtue, vice or crime of each individual 
 irrevocably determined. Give to Nature, once more, the 
 course of a muscle, the turn of a hair, in any particular 
 individual, and, had she the power of universal thought 
 and could answer thee, she would be able to declare all 
 the good and evil deeds of his life from the beginning to 
 the end of it. But still virtue does not cease to be virtue, 
 nor vice to be vice. The virtuous man is a noble product 
 of Nature ; the vicious, an ignoble and contemptible one : 
 although both are necessary results of the connected 
 system of the universe.
 
 344) THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 Repentance is the consciousness of the continued effort 
 of humanity within me, even after it has heen overcome, 
 associated with the disagreeable sense of having been 
 subdued ; a disquieting but still precious pledge of our 
 nobler nature. From this consciousness of the funda- 
 mental impulse of our nature, arises the sense which has 
 been called ' conscience,' and its greater or less degree of 
 strictness and susceptibility, down to the absolute want 
 of it in many individuals. The ignoble man is incapable of 
 repentance, for in him humanity has at no time sufficient 
 strength to contend with the lower impulses. Reward 
 and punishment are the natural consequences of virtue and 
 vice for the production of new virtue and new vice. By 
 frequent and important victories, our special power is ex- 
 tended and strengthened ; by inaction or frequent defeat, 
 it becomes ever weaker and weaker. The ideas of. guilt 
 and accountability have no meaning but in external 
 legislation. He only has incurred guilt, and must render 
 an account of his crime, who compels society to employ 
 artificial external force in order to restrain in him the 
 activity of those impulses which are injurious to the gene- 
 ral welfare. 
 
 My inquiry is closed, and my desire of knowledge satis- 
 fied. I know what I am, and wherein the nature of my 
 species consists. I am a manifestation, determined by 
 the whole connected system of the universe, of a power 
 of Nature which is determined by itself. To understand 
 thoroughly my particular personal being in its deepest 
 sources is impossible, for I cannot penetrate into the 
 innermost recesses of Nature. But I am immediately 
 conscious of this my personal existence. I know right 
 well what I am at the present moment; I can for the 
 most part remember what I have been formerly ; and I 
 shall learn what I shall be when what is now future shall 
 become present experience.
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 345 
 
 I cannot indeed make use of this discovery in the regu- 
 lation of my actions, for I do not truly act at all, but 
 Nature acts in me ; and to make myself anything else 
 than that for which Nature has intended me, is what I 
 cannot even propose to myself, for I am not the author of 
 my own being, but Nature has made me myself, and all 
 that I become. I may repent, and rejoice, and form good 
 resolutions ; although, strictly speaking, I cannot even 
 do this, for all these things come to me of themselves, 
 when it is appointed for them to come ; but most cer- 
 tainly I cannot, by all my repentance, and by all my 
 resolutions, produce the smallest change in that which I 
 must once for all inevitably become. I stand under the 
 inexorable power of rigid Necessity : should she have 
 destined me to become a fool and a profligate, a fool and 
 a profligate without doubt I shall become ; should she 
 have destined me to be wise and good, wise and good I 
 shall doubtless be. There is neither blame nor merit to 
 her nor to me. She stands under her own laws, I under 
 hers. I see this, and feel that my tranquillity would be 
 best ensured by subjecting my wishes also to that Neces- 
 sity to which my very being is wholly subject. 
 
 But, oh these opposing wishes ! For why should I 
 any longer hide from myself the sadness, the horror, the 
 amazement with which I was penetrated when I saw how 
 my inquiry must end ? I had solemnly promised myself 
 that my inclinations should have no influence in the 
 direction of my thoughts ; and I have not knowingly 
 allowed them any such influence. But may I not at last 
 confess that Ih is result contradicts the profoundest aspira- 
 tions, wishes, and wants of my being. And, despite of 
 the accuracy and the decisive strictness of the proofs by 
 which it seems to be supported, how can I truly believe 
 in a theory of my being which strikes at the very root of 
 
 X a
 
 346 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 that being, which so distinctly contradicts all the purposes 
 for which alone I live, and without which I should loathe 
 my existence ? 
 
 Why must my heart mourn at, and be lacerated by, 
 that which so perfectly satisfies my understanding ? While 
 nothing in Nature contradicts itself, is man alone a con- 
 tradiction ? Or perhaps not man in general, but only me 
 and those who resemble me ? Had I but been content to 
 remain amid the pleasant delusions that surrounded me, 
 satisfied with the immediate consciousness of my existence, 
 and never raised those questions concerning its foundation, 
 the answer to which has caused me this misery ! But if 
 this answer be true, then / must of necessity have raised 
 these questions : I indeed raised them not, the thinking 
 nature within me raised them. I was destined to this 
 misery, and I weep in vain the lost innocence of soul 
 which can never return to me again. 
 
 But courage ! Let all else be lost, so that this at least 
 remains ! Merely for the sake of my wishes, did they lie 
 ever so deep or seem ever so sacred, I cannot renounce 
 what rests on incontrovertible evidence. But perhaps I 
 may have erred in my investigation ; perhaps I may 
 have only partially comprehended and imperfectly con- 
 sidered the grounds upon which I had to proceed. I 
 ought to retrace the inquiry again from the opposite end, 
 in order that I may at least have a correct starting-point. 
 What is it, then, that I find so repugnant, so painful, in 
 the decision to which I have come ? What is it, which I 
 desired to find in its place ? Let me before all things 
 make quite clear to myself what are these inclinations to 
 which I appeal. 
 
 That I should be destined to be wise and good, or foolish 
 and profligate, without power to change this 4estiny in 
 aught, in the former case having no merit, atjd in the
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT 347 
 
 latter incurring no guilt, this it was that filled me with 
 amazement and horror. The reference of my being, and 
 of all the determinations of my being, to a cause lying out 
 of myself, the manifestations of which were again deter- 
 mined by other causes out of itself, this it was from which 
 I so violently recoiled. That freedom which was not my 
 own, but that of a foreign power without me, and even 
 that only a limited half-freedom, this it was which did 
 not satisfy me. I myself, that of which I am conscious 
 as my own being and person, but which in this system 
 appears as only the manifestation of a higher power, 
 this " I " would be independent, would be something, 
 not by another or through another, but of myself, and, 
 as such, would be the final root of all my own determina- 
 tions. The rank which in this system is assumed by an 
 original power of Nature I would myself assume ; with 
 this difference, that the modes of my manifestations shall 
 not be determined by any foreign power. I desire to 
 possess an iriward and peculiar power of manifestation, 
 infinitely manifold like those powers of Nature ; and this 
 power shall manifest itself in the way in which it does 
 manifest itself, for no other reason than because it does so 
 manifest itself; not, like these powers of Nature, because 
 it is placed under such or such outward conditions. 
 
 "What then, according to my wish, shall be the especial 
 seat and centre of this peculiar inward power ? Evidently 
 not my body, for that I willingly allow to pass for a 
 manifestation of the powers of Nature, at least so far as 
 its constitution is concerned, if not with regard to its 
 farther determinations ; not my sensuous inclinations, for 
 these I regard as a relation of those powers to my con- 
 sciousness. Hence it. must be my thought and will. I 
 would exercise my voluntary power freely, lor the accom- 
 plishment of aims which I shall have freely adopted ; and 
 this._will, as its own ultimate ground, determinate by no- 
 thing higher, shall move and mould, first my own body,
 
 348 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 and through it the surrounding world. My active powers 
 shall be under the control of my will alone, and shall be 
 set in motion by nothing else than by it. Thus it shall 
 be. There shall be a Supreme Good in the spiritual 
 world ; I shall have the power to seek this with freedom 
 until I find it, to acknowledge it as such when found, and 
 it shall be my fault if I do not find it. This Supreme 
 Good I shall be able to desire, merely because I desire it ; 
 and if I desire anything else instead of it, the fault shall 
 be mine. My actions shall be the results of this will, and 
 without it there shall absolutely no action of mine ensue, 
 since there shall be no other power over my actions but 
 this will. Then shall my powers, determined by, and sub- 
 ject to the dominion of, my will, invade the external world. 
 I will be the lord of Nature, and she shall be my servant. 
 I will influence her according to the measure of my ca- 
 pacity, but she shall have no influence over me. 
 
 This, then, is the substance of my wishes and aspirations. 
 But the system, which has satisfied my understanding, 
 has wholly repudiated these. According to the one I am 
 wholly independent of Nature and of any law which I do 
 not impose upon myself; according to the other, I am 
 but a strictly determined link in the chain of Nature. 
 Whether such a freedom as I have desired be at all con- 
 ceivable, and, if so, whether, on complete and thorough 
 investigation, there may not be found grounds which 
 may compel me to accept it as a reality and ascribe it to 
 myself, and whereby the result of my former conclusions 
 might be refuted ; this is now the question. 
 
 To be free, in the sense stated, means that I myself will 
 make myself whatever I am to be. I must then, and 
 this is what is most surprising, and, at first sight, absurd 
 in the idea, I must already be, in a certain sense, that
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 349 
 
 which I shall become, in order to be able to become so ; I 
 must possess a two-fold being, of which the first shall 
 contain the fundamental determining principle of the 
 second. If I interrogate my immediate self-consciousness 
 on this matter, I find the following. I have the know- 
 ledge of various possible courses of action, from amongst 
 which, as it appears to me, I may choose which I please. 
 I run through the whole circle, enlarge it, examine the 
 various courses, compare one with another, and consider. 
 I at length decide upon one, determine my will in accord- 
 ance with it, and this resolution of my will is followed by 
 a corresponding action. Here then, certainly, I am be- 
 forehand, in the mere conception of a purpose, what sub- 
 sequently, by means of this conception, I am in will and 
 in action. I am beforehand as a thinking, what I am 
 afterwards as an active, being. I create myself: my 
 being by my thought, my thought by thought itself. One 
 can conceive the determinate state of a manifestation of 
 a mere power of Nature, of a plant for instance, as pre- 
 ceded by an indeterminate state, in which, if left to itself, 
 it might have assumed any one of an infinite variety of 
 possible determinations. These manifold possibilities are 
 certainly possibilities within it, contained in its original 
 constitution, but they are not possibilities for it, because 
 it is incapable of such an idea, and cannot choose or of 
 itself put an end to this state of indecision : there must 
 be external grounds by which it may be determined to 
 some one of those various possibilities, to which it is 
 unable to determine itself. This determination can have 
 no previous existence within it, for it is capable of but 
 one mode of determination, that which it has actually 
 assumed. Hence it was, that I previously felt myself 
 compelled to maintain that the manifestation of every 
 power must receive its final determination from without. 
 Doubtless I then thought only of such powers as are in- 
 capable of consciousness, and manifest themselves merely
 
 350 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 in the outward world. To them that assertion may be 
 applied without the slightest limitation ; but to intelli- 
 gences the grounds of it are not applicable, and it was, 
 therefore, rash to extend it to them. 
 
 Freedom, such as I have laid claim to, is conceivable 
 only of intelligences; but to them, undoubtedly, it be- 
 longs. Under this supposition, man, as well as Nature, 
 is perfectly comprehensible. My body, and my capacity 
 of operating in the world of sense, are, as in the former 
 system, manifestations of certain limited powers of Nature ; 
 and my natural inclinations are the relations of these ma- 
 nifestations to my consciousness. The mere knowledge of 
 what exists independently of me arises under this suppo- 
 sition of freedom, precisely as in the former system ; and 
 up to this point, both agree. But according to the former, 
 and here begins the opposition between these systems, 
 according to the former, my capacity of physical activity 
 remains under the dominion of Nature, and is constantly 
 set in motion by the same power which produced it, thought 
 having here nothing whatever to do but to look on ; ac- 
 cording to the latter, this capacity, once brought into 
 existence, falls under the dominion of a power superior to 
 Nature and wholly independent of her laws, the power 
 of determinate purpose and of will. Thought is no longer 
 the mere faculty of observation ; it is the source of action 
 itself. In the one case, my state of indecision is put an 
 end to by forces, external and invisible to me, which limit 
 my activity, as well as my immediate consciousness of it 
 that is, my will to one point, just as the activity of the 
 plant (undetermined by itself) is limited ; in the other, it 
 is I myself, independent, and free from the influence of 
 all outward forces, who put an end to my state of inde- 
 cision, and determine my own course, according to the 
 knowledge I have freely attained of what is best.
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 351 
 
 Which of these two opinions shall I adopt ? Am I free 
 and independent ? or am I nothing in myself, and merely 
 the manifestation of a foreign power ? It is clear to me 
 that neither of the two doctrines is sufficiently supported. 
 For the first, there is no other recommendation than its 
 mere conceivableness ; for the latter, I extend a principle, 
 which is perfectly true in its own place, beyond its proper 
 and natural application. If intelligence is merely the 
 manifestation of a power of Nature, then I do quite right 
 to extend this principle to it ; but, whether it is so or not, 
 is the very question at issue, and this question I must 
 solve by deduction from other premises, not by a one- 
 Bided answer assumed at the very commencement of the 
 inquiry, from which I again deduce that only which I 
 myself have previously placed in it. In short, it would 
 seem that neither of the two opinions can be established 
 by argument. 
 
 As little can this matter be determined by immediate 
 consciousness. I can never become conscious either of 
 the external powers by which, in the system of universal 
 necessity, I am determined; nor of my own power, by 
 which, on the system of freedom, I determine myself. 
 Thus whichsoever of the two opinions I may accept, I 
 still accept it, not upon evidence, but merely by arbitrary 
 choice. 
 
 The system of freedom satisfies my heart ; the opposite 
 system destroys and annihilates it. To stand, cold and 
 unmoved, amid the current of events, a passive mirror of 
 fugitive and passing phenomena, this existence is insup- 
 portable to me ; I scorn and detest it. I will love ; I 
 will lose myself in sympathy ; I will know the joy and 
 the grief of life. For myself, I myself am the highest ob- 
 ject of such sympathy ; and the only mode in which I can 
 satisfy its requirements is by my actions. I will do all 
 for the best ; I will rejoice when I have done right, I 
 will grieve when I have done wrong ; and even this sor-
 
 352 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 row shall be sweet to me, for it is a chord of sympathy, 
 a pledge of future amendment. In love only there is 
 life ; without it is death and annihilation. 
 
 But coldly and insolently does the opposite system 
 advance, and turn this love into a mockery. If I listen 
 to it, I am not, and I cannot act. The object of my most 
 intimate attachment is a phantom of the brain, a gross 
 and palpable delusion. Not I, but a foreign, and to me 
 wholly unknown, power acts in me ; and it is a matter of 
 indifference to me how this power unfolds itself. I stand 
 abashed, with my warm affections and my virtuous will ; 
 and blush, as for a ridiculous folly, for what I know to be 
 best and purest in my nature, for the sake of which alone 
 I would exist. What is holiest in me is given over as a 
 prey to scorn. 
 
 Doubtless it was the love of this love, an interest in 
 this interest, that impelled me, unconsciously, before I 
 entered upon the inquiry which has thus perplexed and 
 distracted me, to regard myself, without farther question, 
 as free and independent ; doubtless it was this interest 
 which has led me to carry out, even to conviction, an 
 opinion which has nothing in its favour but its intelligi- 
 bility, and the impossibility of proving its opposite ; it was 
 this interest which has hitherto restrained me from seek- 
 ing any farther explanation of myself and my capacities. 
 
 The opposite system, barren and heartless indeed, but 
 exhaustless in its explanations, will explain even this 
 desire for freedom, and this aversion to the contrary doc- 
 trine. It explains everything which I can cite from my 
 own consciousness against it, and as often as I say 'thus 
 and thus is the case/ it replies with the same cool com- 
 placency, "I say so too; and I tell you besides why it 
 must necessarily be so." " When thou speakest of thy 
 heart, thy love, thy interest in this and that," (thus will 
 it answer all my complaints,) "thou standest merely at 
 the point of immediate self-consciousness, and this thou
 
 BOOK I. DOUBT. 353 
 
 Last confessed already in asserting that thou thyself art 
 the object of thy highest interest. Now we already 
 know, and have proved it above, that this thou for whom 
 thou art so keenly interested, in so far as it is not the 
 activity of thy individual inward nature, is at least an 
 impulse of it ; every such impulse, as surely as it exists, 
 returns on itself and impels itself to activity ; and we 
 can thus understand how this impulse must necessarily 
 manifest itself in consciousness, as love for, and interest 
 in, free individual activity. Couldst thou exchange this 
 narrow point of view in self-consciousness for the higher 
 position in which thou mayest grasp the universe, which 
 indeed thou hast promised thyself to take, then it would 
 become clear to thee that what thou hast named thy love 
 is not thy love, but a foreign love, the interest which the 
 original power of Nature manifesting itself in thee takes 
 in maintaining its own peculiar existence. Do not then 
 appeal again to thy love ; for even if that could prove any- 
 thing beyond itself, its supposition here is wholly irregu- 
 lar and unjustifiable. ZViou lovest not thyself, for, strictly 
 speaking, thou art not / it is Nature in thee which concerns 
 herself for her own preservation. Thou hast admitted 
 without dispute, that although in the plant there exists a 
 peculiar impulse to grow and develope itself, the specific 
 activity of this impulse yet depends upon forces lying 
 beyond itself. Bestow consciousness upon the plant, and 
 it will regard this instinct of growth with interest and 
 love. Convince it by reasoning that this instinct is un- 
 able of itself to accomplish anything whatever, but that 
 the measure of its manifestation is always determined by 
 something out of itself, and it will speak precisely as 
 thou hast spoken ; it will behave in a manner that may 
 be pardoned in a plant, but which by no means beseems 
 thee, who art a higher product of Nature, and capable of 
 comprehending the universe." 
 
 What can I answer to this representation ? Should I 
 
 Y a
 
 354; THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 venture to place myself at this point of view, upon this 
 boasted position from whence I may embrace the universe 
 in my comprehension, doubtless I must blush and be silent. 
 This, therefore, "is the question, whether I shall assume 
 this position or confine myself to the range of immediate 
 self-consciousness ; whether love shall be made subject to 
 knowledge, or knowledge to love. The latter alternative 
 stands in bad esteem among intelligent people ; the for- 
 mer renders me indescribably miserable, by extinguishing 
 my own personal being within me. I cannot do the latter 
 without appearing inconsiderate and foolish in my own 
 estimation ; I cannot do the former without deliberately 
 annihilating my own existence. 
 
 I cannot remain in this state of indecision; on the 
 solution] of this question depends my whole peace and 
 dignity. Impossible as it is to decide for myself, I have 
 absolutely no ground of decision in favour of the one 
 opinion or the other. 
 
 Intolerable state of uncertainty and irresolution ! By 
 the best and most courageous resolution of my life, I have 
 been reduced to this ! What power can deliver me from 
 it ? what power can deliver me from myself ?
 
 ( 355 ) 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 CHAGRIN and anguish stung me to the heart. I cursed 
 the returning day which called me back to an existence 
 whose truth and significance were now involved in doubt. 
 I awoke in the night from unquiet dreams. I sought 
 anxiously for a ray of light that might lead me out of 
 these mazes of uncertainty. I sought, but became only 
 more deeply entangled in the labyrinth. 
 
 Once, at the hour of midnight, a wondrous shape ap- 
 peared before me, and addressed me : 
 
 " Poor mortal," I heard it say, " thou heapest error 
 upon error, and fanciest thyself wise. Thou tremblest 
 before the phantoms which thou hast thyself toiled to 
 create. Dare to become truly wise. I bring thee no new 
 revelation. What I can teach thee thou already knowest, 
 and thou hast but to recall it to thy remembrance. I 
 cannot deceive thee ; for in every step thou thyself wilt 
 acknowledge me to be in the right ; and shouldst thou 
 still be deceived, thou wilt be deceived by thyself. Take 
 courage ; listen to me, and answer my questions." 
 
 I took courage. " He appeals to my own understand- 
 ing. I will make the venture. He cannot think his 
 own thoughts into my mind ; the conclusion to which I 
 shall come must be thought out by myself; the convic- 
 tion which I shall accept must be of my own creating.
 
 356 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 Speak, wonderful Spirit ! " I exclaimed, " whatever thou 
 art ! Speak, and I will listen. Question me, and I will 
 answer." 
 
 The Spirit. Thou believest that these objects here, 
 and those there, are actually present before thee and out 
 of thyself ? 
 
 /. Certainly I do. 
 
 Spirit. And how dost thou know that they are actually 
 present ? 
 
 /. I see them ; I would feel them were I to stretch 
 forth my hand ; I can hear the sounds they produce ; they 
 reveal themselves to me through all my senses. 
 
 Spirit. Indeed ! Thon wilt perhaps by and by take 
 back the assertion that thou seest, feelest, and nearest 
 these objects. For the present I will speak as thou dost, 
 as if thou didst really, by means of thy sight, touch, and 
 hearing, perceive the real existence of objects, But ob- 
 serve, it is only by means of thy sight, touch, and other 
 external senses. Or is it not so ? Dost thou perceive 
 otherwise than through thy senses ? and has an object 
 any existence for thee, otherwise than as thou seest it, 
 nearest it, &c. ? 
 
 /. By no means. 
 
 Spirit. Sensible objects, therefore, exist for thee, only 
 in consequence of a particular determination of thy exter- 
 nal senses : thy knowledge of them is but a result of thy 
 knowledge of this determination of thy sight, touch, &c. 
 Thy declaration ' there are objects out of myself,' depends 
 upon this other ' I see, hear, feel, and so forth ? ' 
 
 I. That is my meaning. 
 
 Spirit. And how dost thou know then that thou seest, 
 nearest, feelest ? 
 
 1. I do not understand thee. Thy questions appear 
 strange to me. 
 
 Spirit. I will make them more intelligible. Dost thou 
 see thy sight, and feel thy touch, or hast thou yet a higher
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 357 
 
 sense, through which thou perceivest thy external senses 
 and their determinations ? 
 
 I. By no means. I know immediately that I see and 
 feel, and what I see and feel ; I know this while it is, and 
 simply because it is, without the intervention of any other 
 sense. Hence it was that thy question seemed strange to 
 me, because it appeared to throw doubt on this immediate 
 consciousness. 
 
 Spirit. That was not my intention : I desired only to 
 induce thee to make this immediate consciousness clear 
 to thyself. So thou hast an immediate consciousness of 
 thy sight and touch ? 
 
 I. Yes. 
 
 Spirit. Of thy sight and touch, I said. Thou art, 
 therefore, the subject seeing, feeling, &c. ; and when thou 
 art conscious of the seeing, feeling, &c., thou art conscious 
 of a particular determination or modification of thyself. 
 
 I. Unquestionably. 
 
 Spirit. Thou hast a consciousness of thy seeing, feeling, 
 &c., and thereby thou perceivest the object. Couldst thou 
 not perceive it without this consciousness ? Canst thou 
 not recognise an object by sight or hearing, without 
 knowing that thou seest or hearest ? 
 
 1. By no means. 
 
 Spirit. The immediate consciousness of thyself, and of 
 thy own determinations, is therefore the imperative con- 
 dition of all other consciousness ; and thou knowest a 
 thing, only in so far as thou knowest that thou knowest 
 it : no element can enter into the latter cognition which 
 is not contained in the former. Thou canst not know 
 anything without knowing that thou knowest it ? 
 
 I. I think not. 
 
 Spirit. Therefore thou knowest of the existence of ob- 
 jects only by means of seeing, feeling them, &c. ; and thou 
 knowest that thou seest and feelest, only by means of an 
 immediate consciousness of this knowledge. What thou
 
 358 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 dost not perceive immediately, thou dost not perceive at all. 
 
 Z I see that it is so. 
 
 Spirit. In all perception, thou perceivest in the first 
 place only thyself and thine own condition ; whatever is 
 not contained in this perception, is not perceived at all ? 
 
 /. Thou repeatest what I have already admitted. 
 
 Spirit. I would not weary of repeating it in all its ap- 
 plications, if I thought that thou hadst not thoroughly 
 comprehended it, and indelibly impressed it on thy mind. 
 Canst thou say, I am conscious of external objects ? 
 
 I. By no means, if I speak accurately ; for the sight 
 and touch by which I grasp these objects are not con- 
 sciousness itself, but only that of which I am first and 
 most immediately conscious. Strictly speaking, I can 
 only say, that I am conscious of my seeing and touching 
 of these objects. 
 
 Spirit. Do not forget, then, what thou hast now clearly 
 understood. In all perception thou perceivest only thine 
 own condition. 
 
 I shall, however, continue to speak thy language, since 
 it is most familiar to thee. Thou hast said that thou 
 canst see, hear, and feel objects. How then, that is, 
 with what properties or attributes, dost thou see or feel 
 them ? 
 
 I. I see that object red, this blue ; when I touch them, 
 I find this smooth, that rough this cold, that warm. 
 
 Spirit. Thou knowest then what red, blue, smooth, 
 rough, cold, and warm, really signify ? 
 
 I. Undoubtedly I do. 
 
 Spirit. Wilt thou not describe it to me then ? 
 
 1. It cannot be described. Look ! Turn thine eye 
 towards that object : what thou becomest conscious of 
 through thy sight, I call red. Touch the surface of this 
 other object : what thou feelest, I call smooth. In this
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 359 
 
 way I have arrived at this knowledge, and there is no 
 other way by which it can be acquired. 
 
 Spirit. But can we not, at least from some of these 
 qualities known by immediate sensation, deduce a know- 
 ledge of others differing from them ? If, for instance, any 
 one had seen red, green, yellow, but never a blue colour ; 
 had tasted sour, sweet, salt, but never bitter, would he 
 not, by mere reflection and comparison, be able to discover 
 what is meant by blue or bitter, without having ever seen 
 or tasted anything of the kind ? 
 
 I. Certainly not. What is matter of sensation can 
 only be felt, it is not discoverable by thought ; it is no 
 deduction, but a direct and immediate perception. 
 
 Spirit. Strange ! Thou boastest of a knowledge re- 
 specting which thou art unable to tell how thou hast 
 attained it. For see, thou maintainest that thou canst 
 see one quality in an object, feel another, hear a third ; 
 thou must, therefore, be able to distinguish sight from 
 touch, and both from hearing ? 
 
 Z Without doubt. 
 
 Spirit. Thou maintainest further, that thou seest this 
 object red, that blue ; and feelest this smooth, that rough. 
 Thou must therefore be able to distinguish red from blue, 
 smooth from rough ? 
 
 I. Without doubt. 
 
 Spirit. And thou maintainest that thou hast not dis- 
 covered this difference by means of reflection and com- 
 parison of these sensations in thyself. But perhaps thou 
 hast learnt, by comparing the red or blue colours, the 
 smooth or rough surfaces of objects out of thyself, what 
 thou shouldst feel in thyself as red or blue, smooth or 
 rough ? 
 
 I. This is impossible ; for my perception of objects 
 proceeds from my perception of my own internal condition, 
 and is determined by it, not the reverse. I first distin- 
 guish objects by distinguishing my own states of being.
 
 S60 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 I can learn that this particular sensation is indicated by 
 the arbitrary sign, red ; and those by the signs, blue, 
 smooth, rough ; but I cannot learn that the sensations 
 themselves are distinguished, nor how they are distin- 
 guished. That they are different, I know only by being 
 conscious of my own feelings, and that I feel differently 
 regarding them. How they differ, I cannot describe ; but 
 I know that they must differ just as my feeling regarding 
 them differs ; and this difference of feeling is an immediate, 
 and by no means an acquired or inferred distinction. 
 
 Spirit. Which thou canst make independently of all 
 knowledge of the objects themselves ? 
 
 I. Which I must make independently of such know- 
 ledge, for this knowledge is itself dependent on that 
 distinction. 
 
 Spirit. Which is then given to thee immediately through 
 mere self-consciousness ? 
 
 I. In no other way. 
 
 Spirit. But then thou shouldst content thyself with 
 saying, " I feel myself affected in the manner that I call 
 red, blue, smooth, rough." Thou shouldst refer these 
 sensations to thyself alone, and not transfer them to an 
 object lying entirely out of thyself, and declare these mo- 
 difications of thyself to be properties of that object. 
 
 Or, tell me, when thou believest that thou seest an 
 object red, or feelest it smooth, dost thou really perceive 
 anything more than that thou art affected in a certain 
 manner ? 
 
 /. From what has gone before, I clearly see that I do 
 not, in fact, perceive more than what thou sayest ; and 
 this transference of what is in me to something out of 
 myself, from which nevertheless I cannot refrain, now 
 appears very strange to me. 
 
 My sensations are in myself, not in the object, for I am 
 myself and not the object ; I am conscious only of myself 
 and of my own state, not of the state of the object. If
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 361 
 
 there is a consciousness of the object, that consciousness 
 is, certainly, neither sensation nor perception : so much 
 is clear. 
 
 Spirit. Thou formest thy conclusions somewhat pre- 
 cipitately. Let us consider this matter on all sides, so that 
 I may be assured that thou wilt not again retract what 
 thou hast now freely admitted. 
 
 Is there then in the object, as thou usually conceivest 
 of it, anything more than its red colour, its smooth surface, 
 and so on ; in short, anything besides those characteristic 
 marks which thou obtainest through immediate sensation ? 
 
 /. I believe that there is : besides these attributes 
 there is yet the thing itself to which they belong; the 
 substratum which supports these attributes. 
 
 Spirit. But through what sense dost thou perceive 
 this substratum of these attributes ? Dost thou see it, 
 feel it, hear it ; or is there perhaps a special sense for its 
 perception ? 
 
 /. No. I think that I see and feel it. 
 
 Spirit. Indeed ! Let us examine this more closely. 
 Art thou then ever conscious of thy sight in itself, or at 
 all times only of determinate acts of sight ? 
 
 /. I have always a determinate sensation of sight. 
 
 Spirit. And what is this determinate sensation of sight 
 with respect to that object there ? 
 
 I. That of red colour. 
 
 Spirit. And this red is something positive, a simple 
 sensation, a specific state of thyself ? 
 
 /. This I have understood. 
 
 Spirit. Thou shouldst therefore see the red in itself as 
 simple, as a mathematical point, and thou dost see it only 
 as such. In t hee at least, as an affection of thyself, it is 
 obviously a simple, determinate state, without connexion 
 with anything else, which we can only describe as 
 
 z a
 
 362 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 a mathematical point. Or dost thou find it otherwise ? 
 
 7. I must admit that such is the case. 
 
 Spirit. But now thou spreadest this simple red over 
 a broad surface, which thou assuredly dost not see, since 
 thou seest only a simple red. How dost thou obtain this 
 surface ? 
 
 I. It is certainly strange. Yet, I believe that I have 
 found the explanation. I do not indeed see the surface, 
 but \feel it when I pass my hand over it. My sensation 
 of sight remains the same during this process of feeling, 
 and hence I extend the red colour over the whole surface 
 which I feel while I continue to see the same red. 
 
 Spirit. This might be so, didst thou really feel such a 
 surface. But let us see whether that be possible. Thou 
 dost not feel absolutely ; thou feelest only thy feelings, 
 and art only conscious of these ? 
 
 I. By no means. Each sensation is a determinate 
 something. I never merely see, or hear, or feel, in general, 
 but my sensations are always definite ; red, green, blue 
 colours, cold, warmth, smoothness, roughness, the sound 
 of the violin, the voice of man, and the like, are seen, 
 felt, or heard. Let that be settled between us. 
 
 Spirit. Willingly. Thus, when thou saidst that thou 
 didst feel a surface, thou hadst only an immediate con- 
 sciousness of feeling smooth, rough, or the like ? 
 
 Z Certainly. 
 
 Spirit. This smooth or rough is, like the red colour, a 
 simple sensation, a point in thee, the subject in which it 
 abides ? And with the same right with which I formerly 
 asked why thou didst spread a simple sensation of sight 
 over an imaginary surface, do I now ask why thou shouldst 
 do the same with a simple sensation of touch ? 
 
 I. This smooth surface is perhaps not equally smooth 
 in all points, but has in each a different degree of smooth- 
 ness, although I want the capacity of strictly distinguishing 
 these degrees from each other, and language whereby to
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 363 
 
 retain and express their differences. Yet I do distinguish 
 them, unconsciously, and place them side by side ; and thus 
 I form the conception of a surface. 
 
 Spirit. But canst thou, in the same undivided moment 
 of time, have sensations of opposite kinds, or be affected 
 at the same time in different ways ? 
 
 /. By no means. 
 
 Spirit. Those different degrees of smoothness, which 
 thou wouldst assume in order to explain what thou canst 
 not explain, are therefore, in so far as they are different 
 from each other, mere opposite sensations which succeed 
 each other in thee ? 
 
 /. I cannot deny this. 
 
 Spirit. Thou shouldst therefore describe them as thou 
 really findest them, as successive changes of the same 
 mathematical point, such as thou perceivest in other cases ; 
 and not as adjacent and simultaneous qualities of several 
 points in one surface. 
 
 I. I see this, and I find that nothing is explained by 
 my assumption. But my hand, with which I touch the 
 object and cover it, is itself a surface ; and by it I perceive 
 the object to be a surface, and a greater one than my 
 hand, since I can extend my hand several times upon it. 
 
 Spirit. Thy hand a surface ? How dost thou know 
 that ? How dost thou attain a consciousness of thy hand 
 at all ? Is there any other way than either that thou 
 by means of it feelest something else, in which case it is 
 an instrument; or that thou feelest itself by means of 
 some other part of thy body, in which case it is an 
 object ? 
 
 I. No, there is no other. With my hand I feel some 
 other definite object, or I feel my hand itself by means of 
 Borne other part of my body. I have no immediate, ab- 
 solute consciousness of my hand, any more than of my 
 sight or touch. 
 
 Spirit. Let us, at present, consider only the case in
 
 364 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 which thy hand is an instrument, for this will determine 
 the second case also. In this case there can be nothing 
 more in the immediate perception than what belongs to 
 sensation, that whereby thou thyself, (and here in par- 
 ticular thy hand,) is conceived of as the subject tasting in 
 the act of taste, feeling in the act of touch. Now, either 
 thy sensation is single ; in which case I cannot see why 
 thou shouldst extend this single sensation over a sentient 
 surface, and not content thyself with a single sentient 
 point ; or thy sensation is varied ; and in this case, since 
 the differences must succeed each other, I again do not 
 see why thou shouldst not conceive of these feelings as suc- 
 ceeding each other in one and the same point. That thy 
 hand should appear to thee as a surface, is just as in- 
 explicable as thy notion of an external surface in general. 
 Do not make use of the first in order to explain the 
 second, until thou hast explained the first itself. The 
 second case, in which thy hand, or whatever other mem- 
 ber of thy body thou wilt, is itself the object of a sensation, 
 may easily be explained by means of the first. Thou per- 
 ceivest this member by means of another, which is then 
 the sentient one. I ask the same questions concerning 
 this latter member that I asked concerning thy hand, and 
 thou art as little able to answer them as before. 
 
 So it is with the surface of thy eyes, and with every 
 other surface of thy body. It may very well be that the 
 consciousness of an extension out of thyself, proceeds from 
 the consciousness of thine own extension as a material 
 body, and is conditioned by it. But then thou must, in 
 the first place, explain this extension of thy material 
 body. 
 
 7. It is enough. I now perceive clearly that I neither 
 see nor feel the superficial extension of the properties of 
 bodies, nor apprehend it by any other sense. I see that 
 it is my habitual practice to extend over a surface what 
 nevertheless in sensation is but one point, to represent as
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 365 
 
 adjacent and simultaneous what I ought to represent as 
 only successive, since in mere sensation there is nothing 
 simultaneous but all is successive. I discover that I 
 proceed in fact exactly as the geometer does in the con- 
 struction of his figures, extending points to lines and lines 
 to surfaces. I am astonished how I should have done this. 
 
 Spirit. Thou dost more than this, and what is yet 
 more wonderful. This surface which thou attributest to 
 bodies, thou canst indeed neither see nor feel, nor perceive 
 by any organ ; but it may be said, in a certain sense, that 
 thou canst see the red colour, or feel the smoothness, upon 
 it. But thou addest something more even to this surface : 
 thou extendest it to a solid mathematical figure ; as by 
 thy previous admission thou hast extended the line to a 
 surface. Thou assumest a substantial interior existence 
 of the body behind its surface. Tell me, canst thou then 
 see, feel, or recognise by any sense, the actual presence of 
 anything behind this surface ? 
 
 7. By no means : the space behind the surface is im- 
 penetrable to my sight, touch, or any of my senses. 
 
 Spirit. And yet thou dost assume the existence of such 
 an interior substance, which, nevertheless, thou canst not 
 perceive ? 
 
 I. I confess it, and my astonishment increases. 
 
 Spirit. What then is this something which thou ima- 
 ginest to be behind the surface ? 
 
 /. Well I suppose something similar to the surface, 
 something tangible. 
 
 Spirit. We must ascertain this more distinctly. Canst 
 thou divide the mass of which thou imaginest the body 
 to consist ? 
 
 /. I can divide it to infinity ; I do not mean with 
 instruments, but in thought. No possible part is the 
 smallest so that it cannot be again divided. 
 
 Spirit. And in this division dost thou ever arrive at 
 a portion of which thou canst suppose that it is no longer
 
 S66 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 perceptible in itself to sight, touch, &c. ; in itself I say, 
 besides being imperceptible to thy own particular organs 
 of sense ? 
 
 /. By no means. 
 
 Spirit. Visible, perceptible absolutely? or with certain 
 properties of colour, smoothness, roughness, and the like ? 
 
 I. In the latter way. Nothing is visible or perceptible 
 absolutely, because there is no absolute sense of sight or 
 touch. 
 
 Spirit Then thou dost but spread through the whole 
 mass thy own sensibility, that which is already familiar to 
 thee, visibility as coloured, tangibility as rough, smooth, 
 or the like ; and after all it is this sensibility itself of 
 which alone thou art sensible ? Or dost thou find it 
 otherwise ? 
 
 7 By no means : what thou sayest follows from what 
 I have already understood and admitted. 
 
 Spirit. And yet thou dost perceive nothing behind 
 the surface, and hast perceived nothing there ? 
 
 7 Were I to break through it, I should perceive some- 
 thing. 
 
 Spirit. So much therefore thou knowest beforehand. 
 And this infinite divisibility, in which, as thou maintainest, 
 thou canst never arrive at anything absolutely imper- 
 ceptible, thou hast never carried it out, nor canst thou 
 do so ? 
 
 7 I cannot carry it out. 
 
 Spirit. To a sensation, therefore, which thou hast really 
 had, thou addest in imagination another which thou hast 
 not had ? 
 
 7. I am sensible only of that which I attribute to the 
 surface ; I am not sensible of what lies behind it, and yet 
 I assume the existence of something there which might 
 be perceived. Yes, I must admit what thou sayest. 
 
 Spirit. And the actual sensation is in part found to 
 correspond with what thou hast thus pre-supposed ?
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 367 
 
 /. When I break through the surface of a body, I do 
 indeed find beneath it something perceptible, as I pre- 
 supposed. Yes, I must admit this also. 
 
 Spirit. Partly, however, thou hast maintained that 
 there is something beyond sensation, which cannot become 
 apparent to any actual perception. 
 
 I. I maintain, that were I to divide a corporeal mass 
 to infinity, I could never come to any part which is in 
 itself imperceptible ; although I admit that I can never 
 make the experiment, can never practically carry out 
 the division of a corporeal mass to infinity. Yes, I must 
 agree with thee in this also. 
 
 Spirit. Thus there is nothing remaining of the object 
 but what is perceptible, what is a property or attribute ; 
 this perceptibility thou extendest through a continuous 
 space which is divisible to infinity ; and the true substra- 
 tum or supporter of the attributes of things which thou 
 hast sought, is, therefore, only the space which is thus filled ? 
 
 7. Although I cannot be satisfied with this, but feel 
 that I must still suppose in the object something more 
 than this perceptibility and the space which it fills, yet I 
 cannot point out this something, and I must therefore 
 confess that I have hitherto been unable to discover any 
 substratum but space itself. 
 
 Spirit. Always confess whatever thou perceivest to be 
 true. The present obscurities will gradually become clear, 
 and the unknown will be made known. Space itself, 
 however, is not perceived ; and thou canst not understand 
 how thou hast obtained this conception, or why thou ex- 
 tendest throughout it this property of perceptibility ? 
 
 7. It is so. 
 
 Spirit. As little dost thou understand how thou hast 
 obtained even this conception of a perceptibility out of 
 thyself, since thou really perceivest only thine own sen- 
 sation in thyself, not as the property of an external thing, 
 but as an affection of thine own being.
 
 368 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 /. So it is. I see clearly that I really perceive only 
 my own state, and not the object ; that I neither see, feel, 
 nor hear this object ; but that, on the contrary, precisely 
 there where the object should be, all seeing, feeling, and 
 so forth, comes to an end. 
 
 But I have a presentiment. Sensations, as affections 
 of myself, have no extension whatever, but are simple 
 states : in their differences they are not contiguous to 
 each other in space, but successive to each other in time 
 Nevertheless, I do extend them in space. May it not be 
 by means of this extension, and simultaneously with it, 
 that what is properly only my own feeling or sensation 
 becomes changed for me into a perceptible something out 
 of myself ; and may not this be the precise point at which 
 there arises within me a consciousness of the external 
 object ? 
 
 Spirit. This conjecture may be confirmed. But could 
 we raise it immediately to a conviction, we should there- 
 by attain to no complete insight, for this higher question 
 would still remain to be answered, How dost thou first 
 come to extend sensation through space ? Let us then 
 proceed at once to this question ; and let us propound it 
 more generally I have my reasons for doing so in the 
 folloAving manner : How is it, that, with thy conscious- 
 ness, which is bnt an immediate consciousness of thyself, 
 thou proceedest out of thyself ; and to the sensation which 
 thou dost perceive, superaddest an object perceived and 
 perceptible which yet thou dost not perceive ? 
 f 
 
 I. Sweet or bitter, fragrant or ill-scented, rough or 
 smooth, cold or warm, these qualities, when applied to 
 things, signify whatever excites in me this or that taste, 
 smell, or other sensation. It is the same with respect to 
 sounds. A relation to myself is always indicated, and it
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 369 
 
 never occurs to me that the sweet or bitter taste, the 
 pleasant or unpleasant smell, lies in the thing itself, it 
 lies in me, and it appears only to be excited by the object. 
 It seems indeed to be otherwise with the sensations of 
 sight, with colours, for example, which may not be pure 
 sensations but a sort of intermediate affections ; yet, 
 when we consider it strictly, red and the others mean no- 
 thing more than what produce in me certain sensations 
 of sight. This leads me to understand how it is that I 
 attain to a knowledge of things out of myself. I am 
 affected in a particular manner this I know absolutely ; 
 this affection must have a foundation ; this foundation 
 is not in myself, and therefore must be out of myself ; 
 thus I reason rapidly and unconsciously, and forthwith 
 assume the existence of such a foundation, namely, the 
 object. This foundation must be one by which the 
 particular affection in question may be explained ; I 
 am affected in the manner which I call a sweet taste, 
 the object must therefore be of a kind to excite a sweet 
 taste, or more briefly, must itself be sweet. In this way I 
 determine the character of the object. 
 
 Spirit. There may be some truth in what thou sayest, 
 although it is not the whole truth which might be said 
 upon the subject. How this stands we shall undoubtedly 
 discover in due time. Since, however, it cannot be de- 
 nied that in other cases thou dost discover some truth by 
 means of this principle of causality, so I term the doc- 
 trine which thou hast just asserted, that everything (in 
 this case thy affection) must have a foundation or cause 
 since this, I say, cannot be denied, it may not be su- 
 perfluous to learn strictly to understand this procedure, 
 and to make it perfectly clear to ourselves what it is thou 
 really dost when thou adoptest it. Let us suppose, in the 
 meantime, that thy statement is perfectly correct, that it 
 is by an unconscious act of reasoning, from the effect to 
 the cause, that thou first comest to assume the existence 
 
 Ab
 
 370 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 of an outward object; what then was it which thou 
 wert here conscious of perceiving ? 
 
 /. That I was affected in a certain manner. 
 
 Spirit. But of an object, affecting thee in a certain 
 manner, thou wert not conscious, at least not as a percep- 
 tion ? 
 
 I. By no means. I have already admitted this. 
 
 Spirit. Then, by this principle of causality thou addest 
 to a knowledge which thou hast another which thou hast 
 not? 
 
 I. Thy words are strange. 
 
 Spirit. Perhaps I may succeed in removing this strange- 
 ness. But let my words appear to thee as they may. They 
 ought only to lead thee to produce in thine own mind the 
 same thought that I have produced in mine; not serve thee 
 as a text-book which thou hast only to repeat. When thou 
 hast the thought itself firmly and clearly in thy grasp, 
 then express it as thou wilt, and with as much variety 
 as thou wilt, and be sure that thou wilt always express it 
 well. 
 
 How, and by what means, knowest thou of this affec- 
 tion of thyself ? 
 
 /. It would be difficult to answer thee in words : 
 Because my consciousness, as a subjective attribute, as the 
 determination of my being in so far as I am an intelli- 
 gence, proceeds directly upon the existence of this affection 
 as its object, as that of which I am conscious, and is in- 
 separable from it ; because I am possessed of conscious- 
 ness at all only in so far as I am cognisant of such an 
 affection cognisant of it absolutely, just as I am a cog- 
 nisant of my own existence. 
 
 Spirit. Thou hast therefore an organ, consciousness it- 
 self, whereby thou perceivest such an affection of thyself ? 
 
 /. Yes. 
 
 Spirit. But an organ whereby thou perceivest the 
 object itself thou hast not ?
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 371 
 
 I. Since thou hast convinced me that I neither see nor 
 feel the object itself, nor apprehend it by any external 
 sense, I find myself compelled to confess that I have no 
 such organ. 
 
 Spirit. Bethink thee well of this. It may be turned 
 against thee that thou hast made me this admission. 
 What then is thy external sense at all, and how canst 
 thou call it external, if it have no reference to any exter- 
 nal object, and be not the organ whereby thou hast any 
 knowledge of such ? 
 
 /. I desire truth, and trouble myself little about what 
 may be turned against me. I distinguish absolutely be- 
 cause I do distinguish them, green, sweet, red, smooth, 
 bitter, fragrant, rough, ill-scented, the sound of a violin 
 and of a trumpet. Among these sensations I place some 
 in a certain relation of likeness to each other, although 
 in other respects I distinguish them from each other; 
 thus I find green and red, sweet and bitter, rough and 
 smooth, &c., to have a certain relation of similarity to 
 each other, and this similarity I feel to be respectively 
 one of sight, taste, touch, &c. Sight, taste, and so forth, 
 are not indeed in themselves actual sensations, for I never 
 see or feel absolutely, as thou hast previously remarked, 
 but always see red or green, taste sweet or bitter, &c. 
 Sight, taste, and the like, are only more comprehensive 
 definitions of actual sensations ; they are classes to which 
 I refer these latter, not by arbitrary arrangement, but 
 guided by the immediate sensation itself. I see in them 
 therefore not external senses, but only particular defini- 
 tions of the objects of the inward sense, of my own states 
 or affections. How they become external senses-, or, more 
 strictly speaking, how I come to regard them as such, 
 and so to name them, is now the question. I do not take 
 back my admission that I have no organ for the object 
 itself. 
 
 Spirit. Yet thou speakest of objects as if thou didst
 
 372 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 really know of their existence, and hadst an organ for such 
 knowledge ? 
 
 /. Yes. 
 
 Spirit. And this thou dost, according to thy previous 
 assumption, in consequence of the knowledge which thou 
 dost really possess, and for which thou hast an organ, and 
 on account of this knowledge ? 
 
 /. It is so. 
 
 Spirit. Thy real knowledge, that of thy sensations or 
 affections, is to thee like an imperfect knowledge, which, 
 as thou sayest, requires to be completed by another. This 
 other new knowledge thou conceivest and describest to 
 thyself, not as something which thou hast, for thou hast 
 it not but as something which thou shouldst have, over 
 and above thy actual knowledge, if thou hadst an organ 
 wherewith to apprehend it. " I know nothing indeed," thou 
 seemest to say, " of things in themselves, but such things 
 there must be ; they are to be found, if I could but find 
 them." Thou supposest another organ, which indeed is not 
 thine, and this thou employest upon them, and thereby 
 apprehendest them, of course in thought only. Strictly 
 speaking, thou hast no consciousness of things, but only 
 a consciousness (produced by a passage out of thy actual 
 consciousness by means of the principle of causality) of a 
 consciousness of things (such as ought to be, such as of ne- 
 cessity must be, although not accessible to thee) ; and now 
 thou wilt perceive that, in the supposition thou hast made, 
 thou hast added to a knowledge which thou hast another 
 which thou hast not. 
 
 /. I must admit this. 
 
 Spirit. Henceforward let us call this second know- 
 ledge, obtained by means of another, mediate, and the first 
 immediate knowledge. A certain school has called this 
 procedure which we have to some extent described above, 
 a synthesis ; by which we are, here at least, to understand 
 not a con-nexion established between two elements pre-
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 373 
 
 viously existing, but an an-nexion, and an addition of a 
 wholly new element arising through this an-nexion to 
 another element previously existing independently of such 
 addition. 
 
 Thus the first consciousness appears as soon as thou 
 discoverest thy own existence, and the latter is not dis- 
 covered without the former ; the second consciousness is 
 produced in thee by means of the first. 
 
 I. But not successive to it in time ; for I am conscious 
 of external things at the very same undivided moment in 
 which I become conscious of myself. 
 
 Spirit. I did not speak of such a succession in time at 
 all ; but I think that when thou reflectest upon that un- 
 divided consciousness of thyself and of the external object, 
 distinguishest between them, and inquirest into their con- 
 nexion, thou wilt find that the latter can be conceived of 
 only as conditioned by the former, and as only possible on 
 the supposition of its existence ; but not vice versa. 
 
 I. So I find it to be ; and if that be all thou wouldst 
 say, I admit thy assertion and have already admitted it. 
 
 Spirit. Thou Greatest, I say, this second consciousness ; 
 producest it by a real act of thy mind. Or dost thou find 
 it otherwise ? 
 
 I. I have virtually admitted this already. I add to 
 the consciousness which is simultaneous with that of my 
 existence, another which I do not find in myself; I thus 
 complete and double my actual consciousness, and this is 
 certainly an act. But I am tempted to take back either 
 my admission, or else the whole supposition. I am per- 
 fectly conscious of the act of my mind when I form a 
 general conception, or when in cases of doubt I choose one 
 of the many possible modes of action which lie before me ; 
 but of the act through which, according to thy assertion, 
 I must produce the presentation of an object out of myself, 
 I am not conscious at all.
 
 374 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 Spirit. Do not be deceived. Of an act of thy mind 
 thou canst become conscious only in so far as thou dost 
 pass through a state of indetermination and indecision, of 
 which thou weft likewise conscious, and to which this act 
 puts an end. There is no such state of indecision in the 
 case we have supposed ; the mind has no need to deliberate 
 what object it shall superadd to its particular sensations, 
 it is done at once. We even find this distinction in phi- 
 losophical phraseology. An act of the mind of which we 
 are conscious as such is called freedom. An act without 
 consciousness of action is called spontaneity. Remember 
 that I by no means attribute to thee an immediate con- 
 sciousness of the act as such, but only that on subsequent 
 reflection thou shouldst discover that there must have 
 been an act. The higher question, what it is that pre- 
 vents any such state of indecision, or any consciousness of 
 our act, will undoubtedly be afterwards solved. 
 
 This act of the mind is called thought ; a word which I 
 have hitherto employed with thy concurrence; and it is said 
 that thought takes place with spontaneity, in opposition 
 to sensation which is mere receptivity. How is it then, 
 that, in thy previous supposition, thou addest in thought 
 to the sensation which thou certainly hast, an object of 
 which thou knowest nothing ? 
 
 I. I assume that my sensation must have a cause, and 
 then proceed further, 
 
 Spirit. Wilt thou not, in the first place, explain to me 
 what is a cause ? 
 
 /. I find a thing determined this way or that. I can- 
 not rest satisfied with knowing that so it is ; I assume 
 that it has become so, and that not by itself, but by means of 
 a foreign power. This foreign power, that made it what it 
 is, contains the cause ; and the manifestation of that power, 
 which did actually make it so, is the cause of this particu- 
 lar determination of the thing. That my sensation must 
 have a cause, means that it is produced within me by a 
 foreign power.
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 375 
 
 Spirit. This foreign power thou now addest in thought 
 to the sensation of which thou art immediately conscious, 
 and thus there arises in thee the presentation of an object ? 
 Well, let it be so. 
 
 Now observe : If sensation must have a cause, then I 
 admit the correctness of thy inference; and I see with 
 what perfect right thou assumest the existence of objects 
 out of thyself, notwithstanding that thou neither knowest 
 nor canst know aught of them. But how then dost thou 
 know, and how dost thou propose to prove, that sensation 
 must have a cause ? Or, in the general manner in which 
 thou hast stated the proposition, why canst thou not rest 
 satisfied to know that something is ? why must thou Jas- 
 sume that it has become so, or that it has become so by 
 means of a foreign power ? I note that thou hast always 
 only assumed this. 
 
 I. I confess it. But I cannot do otherwise than think 
 so. It seems as if I knew it immediately. 
 
 Spirit. What this answer, " I know it immediately," 
 may signify, we shall see should we be brought back to it 
 as the only possible one. We will however first try all 
 other possible methods of ascertaining the grounds of the 
 assertion that everything must have a cause. 
 
 Dost thou know this by immediate perception ? 
 
 /. How could I ? since perception only declares that 
 in me something is, according as I am determined this 
 way or that, but never that it has become so ; still less 
 that it has become so by means of a foreign power lying 
 beyond all perception. 
 
 Spirit. Or dost thou obtain this principle by gene- 
 ralisation of thy observation of external things, the cause 
 of which thou hast always discovered out of themselves ; 
 an observation which thou now appliest to thyself and to 
 thine own condition ? 
 
 /. Do not treat me like a child, and ascribe to me 
 palpable absurdities. By the principle of causality I first
 
 376 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 arrive at a knowledge of things out of myself ; how then 
 can I again, by observation of these things, arrive at this 
 principle itself. Shall the earth rest on the great ele- 
 phant, and the great elephant again upon the earth ? 
 
 Spirit. Or is this principle a deduction from some 
 other general truth ? 
 
 I. Which again could be founded neither on imme- 
 diate perception, nor on the observation of external things, 
 and concerning the origin of which thou wouldst still raise 
 other questions ! I could only possess this previous funda- 
 mental truth by immediate knowledge. Better to say 
 this at once of the principle of causality and so put thy 
 conjectures aside. 
 
 Spirit. Let it be so ; we then obtain, besides the first 
 immediate knowledge of our own states through sensible 
 perception, a second immediate knowledge concerning a 
 general truth ? 
 
 1. So it appears. 
 
 Spirit. The particular knowledge now in question, 
 namely, that thy affections or states must have a cause, is 
 entirely independent of the knowledge of things ? 
 
 /. Certainly, for the latter is obtained only by means 
 of it. 
 
 Spirit. And thou hast it absolutely in thyself? 
 
 1. Absolutely, for only by means of it do I first pro- 
 ceed out of myself. 
 
 Spirit. Out of thyself therefore, and through thyself, 
 and through thine own immediate knowledge, thou pre- 
 scribest laws to being and its relations ? 
 
 /. Rightly considered, I prescribe laws only to my 
 own presentations of being and its relations, and it will 
 be more correct to make use of this expression. 
 
 Spirit. Be it so. Art thou then conscious of these 
 laws in any other way than by acting in accordance with 
 them ? 
 
 7. My consciousness begins with the perception of my
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 377 
 
 own state ; I connect directly therewith the presentation 
 of an object according to the principle of causality ; both 
 of these, the consciousness of my own state, and the pre- 
 sentation of an object, are inseparably united, there is no 
 intervening consciousness between them, and this one 
 undivided consciousness is preceded by no other. No, it 
 is impossible that I should be conscious of this law before 
 acting in accordance with it, or in any other way than by 
 so acting. 
 
 Spirit. Thou actest upon this law therefore without 
 being conscious of it; thou actest upon it immediately 
 and absolutely. Yet thou didst but now declare thyself 
 conscious of it, and expressed it as a general proposition. 
 How hast thou arrived at this latter consciousness ? 
 
 I. Doubtless thus. I observe myself subsequently, and 
 perceive that I have thus acted, and turn this common 
 experience into a general law. 
 
 Spirit. Thou canst therefore become conscious of this 
 experience ? 
 
 /. Unquestionably, I guess the object of these ques- 
 tions. This is the above-mentioned second kind of im- 
 mediate consciousness, that of my activity ; as the first is 
 sensation, or the consciousness of my passivity. 
 
 Spirit. Right. Thou mayest subsequently become con- 
 scious of thine own acts, by free observation of thyself 
 and by reflection ; but it is not necessary that thou shouldst 
 become so ; thou art not immediately conscious of them 
 at the moment of thy internal act. 
 
 /. Yet I must be originally conscious of them, for I am 
 immediately conscious of my presentation of the object at 
 the same moment that I am conscious of the sensation. 
 I have found the solution ; I am immediately conscious 
 of my act, only not as such ; but it moves before me as 
 on objective reality. This .consciousness is a consciousness 
 of the object. Subsequently by free reflection I may also 
 become conscious of it as an act of my own mind. 
 
 Bb
 
 378 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 My immediate consciousness is composed of two ele- 
 ments : the consciousness of my passivity, i. e. sensation ; 
 and that of my activity, in the creation of an object 
 according to the law of causality ; the latter conscious- 
 ness connecting itself immediately with the former. My 
 consciousness of the object is only a yet unrecognised 
 consciousness of my creation of a presentation of an object. 
 I am cognisant of this creation only because I myself am 
 the creator. And thus all consciousness is immediate, is 
 but a consciousness of myself, and therefore perfectly com- 
 prehensible. Am I right ? 
 
 Spirit. Perfectly so; but whence then the necessity 
 and universality thou hast ascribed to thy principles ; in 
 this case to the principle of causality ? 
 
 /. From the immediate feeling that I cannot act other- 
 wise so surely as I have reason ; and that no other reason- 
 able being can act otherwise so surely as it is a reasonable 
 being. That every thing fortuitous, such as in this case 
 my sensation, must have a cause, means : " / have at all 
 times pre-supposed a cause, and every one who thinks will 
 likewise be constrained to pre-suppose a cause." 
 
 Spirit. Thou perceivest then that all knowledge is 
 merely a knowledge of thyself; that thy consciousness 
 never goes beyond thyself ; and that what thou assumest 
 to be a consciousness of the object is nothing but a con- 
 sciousness of thine own supposition of an object, which, 
 according to an inward law of thy thought, thou dost 
 necessarily make simultaneously with the sensation itself. 
 
 /. Proceed boldly with thy inferences ; I have not 
 interrupted thee, I have even helped thee in the develop- 
 ment of these conclusions. But now, seriously, I retract 
 my whole previous position, that by means of the principle 
 of causality I arrive at the knowledge of external things ;
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 379 
 
 and I did indeed inwardly retract it as soon as it led us 
 into serious error. 
 
 In this way I could become conscious only of a mere 
 power out of myself, and of this only as a conception of 
 my own mind, just as for the explanation of magnetic 
 phenomena, I suppose a magnetic or for the explanation 
 of electrical phenomena, an electrical power in Nature. 
 
 But the world does not appear to me such a mere 
 thought, the thought of a mere power. It is something 
 extended, something thoroughly accessible, not, like a 
 mere power, through its manifestations, but in itself; it 
 does not, like this, merely produce, it has qualities; I am 
 inwardly conscious of my apprehension of it, in a manner 
 quite different from my consciousness of mere thought ; 
 it appears to me as perception, notwithstanding that 
 it has been proved that it cannot be such, and that it 
 would be difficult for me to describe this kind of con- 
 sciousness, and to distinguish it from the other kinds of 
 which we have spoken. 
 
 Spirit. Thou must nevertheless attempt such a de- 
 scription, otherwise I shall not understand thee, and we 
 shall never arrive at clearness. 
 
 I. I will attempt to open a way towards it. I beseech 
 thee, Spirit ! if thy organ of sight be like mine, to fix 
 thine eye on the red object before us, to surrender thyself 
 unreservedly to the impression produced by it, and to for- 
 get meanwhile thy previous conclusions : and now tell 
 me candidly what takes place in thy mind. 
 
 Spirit. I can completely place myself in thy position ; 
 and it is no purpose of mine to disown any impression 
 which has an actual existence. But tell me, what is the 
 effect you anticipate ? 
 
 /. Dost thou not perceive and apprehend at a single 
 glance, the surface ? I say the surface, does it not stand 
 there present before thee, entire and at once ? art thou 
 conscious, even in the most distant and obscure way, of
 
 380 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 this extension of a simple red point to a line, and of this 
 line to a surface, of which thou hast spoken ? It is an 
 after-thought to divide this surface, and conceive of its 
 points and lines. Wouldst thou not, and would not every 
 one who impartially observes himself, maintain and insist, 
 notwithstanding thy former conclusions, that he really 
 saw a surface of such or such a colour ? 
 
 Spirit. I admit all this ; and on examining myself, I 
 find that it is exactly so as thou hast described. 
 
 But, in the first place, hast thou forgotten that it is not 
 our object to relate to each other what presents itself in 
 consciousness, as in a journal of the human mind, but to 
 consider its various phenomena in their connexion, and to 
 explain them by, and deduce them from, each other ; and 
 that consequently none of thy observations, which certain- 
 ly cannot be denied, but which must be explained, can 
 overturn any one of my just conclusions. 
 
 / I shall never lose sight of this. 
 
 Spirit. Then do not, in the remarkable resemblance 
 of this consciousness of bodies out of thyself, which yet 
 thou canst not describe, to real perception, overlook the 
 great difference nevertheless existing between them. 
 
 /. I was about to mention this difference. Each 
 indeed appears as an immediate, not as an acquired or 
 produced consciousness. But sensation is consciousness 
 of my own state. Not so the consciousness of the object 
 itself, which has absolutely no reference to me. I know 
 that it is, and this is all ; it does not concern me. If, in 
 the first case, I seem like a piece of soft clay, pressed and 
 moulded now in this way, now in that ; in the second I 
 appear like a mirror before which objects pass without 
 producing the slightest change in it. 
 
 This distinction however is in my favour. Just so much 
 the more do I seem to have a distinct consciousness of an 
 existence out of myself, entirely independent of the sense 
 of my own state of being ; of an existence out of myself,
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 381 
 
 I say for this differs altogether in kind from the con- 
 sciousness of my own internal states. 
 
 Spirit. Thou observest well but do not rush too 
 hastily to a conclusion. If that whereon we have already 
 agreed remains true, and thou canst be immediately con- 
 scious of thyself only ; if the consciousness now in question 
 be not a consciousness of thine own passivity, and still less 
 a consciousness of thine own activity ; may it not then 
 be an unrecognised consciousness of thine own being ? of 
 thy being in so far as thou art a knowing being, an In- 
 telligence ? 
 
 I. I do not understand thee ; but help me once more, 
 for I wish to understand thee. 
 
 Spirit. I must then demand thy whole attention, for 
 I am here compelled to go deeper, and expatiate more 
 widely, than ever. What art thou ? 
 
 I. To answer thy question in the most general way 
 I am I, myself. 
 
 Spirit. I am well satisfied with this answer. What 
 dost thou mean when thou sayest " I"; what lies in this 
 conception, and how dost thou attain it ? 
 
 /. On this point I can make myself understood only 
 by contrast. External existence the thing, is something 
 out of me, the cognitive being. 7am myself the cognitive 
 being, one with the object of my cognition. As to my 
 consciousness of the former, there arises the question, 
 Since the thing cannot know itself, how can a knowledge 
 of it arise ? how can a consciousness of the thing arise in 
 me, since I myself am not the thing, nor any of its modes 
 or forms, and all these modes and forms lie within the 
 circle of its own being, and by no means in mine ? How 
 does the thing reach me ? What is the tie between me, 
 the subject, and the thing which is the object of my know- 
 ledge ? But as to my consciousness of myself, there can 
 be no such question. In this case, I have my knowledge 
 within myself, for I am intelligence. What I am, I know
 
 382 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 because I am it ; and that whereof I know immediately 
 that I am it, that I am because I immediately know it. 
 There is here no need of any tie between subject and 
 object ; my own nature is this tie. I am subject and ob- 
 ject : and this subject-objectivity, this return of knowledge 
 upon itself, is what I mean by the term " I," when I de- 
 liberately attach a definite meaning to it. 
 
 Spirit. Thus it is in the identity of subject and object 
 that thy nature as an intelligence consists ? 
 
 /. Yes. 
 
 Spirit. Canst thou then comprehend the possibility of 
 thy becoming conscious of this identity, which is neither 
 subject nor object, but which lies at the foundation of 
 both, and out of which both arise ? 
 
 I. By no means. It is the condition of all my conscious- 
 ness, that the conscious being, and what he is conscious of, 
 appear distinct and separate. I cannot even conceive of 
 any other consciousness. In the very act of recognising 
 myself, I recognise myself as subject and object, both 
 however being immediately bound up with each other. 
 
 Spirit. Canst thou become conscious of the moment 
 in which this inconceivable one separated itself into these 
 two? 
 
 I. How can I, since my consciousness first becomes 
 possible in and through their separation, since it is my 
 consciousness itself that thus separates them ? Beyond 
 consciousness itself there is no consciousness. 
 
 Spirit. It is this separation, then, that thou necessarily 
 recognisest in becoming conscious of thyself? In this 
 thy very original being consists ? 
 
 /. So it is. 
 
 Spirit. And on what then is it founded ? 
 
 /. I am intelligence, and have consciousness in myself. 
 This separation is the condition and result of conscious- 
 ness. It has its foundation, therefore, in myself, like 
 consciousness.
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 383 
 
 Spirit. Thou art intelligence, thou sayest, at least this 
 is all that is now in question, and as such thou becomest 
 an object to thyself. Thy knowledge therefore, as objective, 
 presents itself before thyself, i. e. before thy knowledge, as 
 subjective, and floats before it ; but without thou thyself 
 being conscious of such a presentation ? 
 
 I. So it is. 
 
 Spirit. Canst thou not then adduce some more exact 
 characteristics of the subjective and objective elements 
 as they appear in consciousness ? 
 
 Z The subjective appears to contain within itself the 
 foundation of consciousness as regards its form, but not as 
 regards its substance. That there is a consciousness, an 
 inward perception and conception, of this the foundation 
 lies in itself; but that precisely this or that is conceived, 
 the consciousness of this is dependent on the objective, 
 with which it is conjoined, and with which it, as it were, 
 passes away. The objective, on the contrary, contains the 
 foundation of its being within itself ; it is in and for itself, 
 it is, as it is, because it is so. The subjective appears 
 as the still and passive mirror of the objective ; the latter 
 floats before it. That the former should reflect images 
 generally, lies in itself. That precisely this image and 
 none other should be reflected, depends on the latter. 
 
 Spirit The subjective, then, according to its essential 
 nature, is precisely so constituted as thou hast previously 
 described thy consciousness of an existence out of thyself 
 to be? 
 
 Z It is true, and this agreement is remarkable. I 
 begin to believe it half credible, that out of the internal 
 laws of my own consciousness may proceed even the pre- 
 sentation of an existence out of myself, and independent 
 of me ; and that this presentation may at bottom be nothing 
 more than the presentation of these laws themselves. 
 
 Spirit. And why only half credible ? 
 
 Z Because I do not yet see why precisely such a pre-
 
 384 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 sentation a presentation of a mass extended through 
 space should arise. 
 
 Spirit. Thou hast already seen that it is only thine 
 own sensation which thou extendest through space ; and 
 thou hast had some forebodings that it is by this exten- 
 sion in space alone that thy sensation becomes transformed 
 for thee into something sensible. We have therefore to 
 do at present only with space itself, and to explain its 
 origin in consciousness. 
 
 I. So it is. 
 
 Spirit. Let us then make the attempt. I know that 
 thou canst not become conscious of thy intelligent activity 
 as such, in so far as it remains in its original and unchange- 
 able unity; i.e. in the condition which begins with its very 
 being, and can never be destroyed without at the same 
 time destroying that being; and such a consciousness 
 therefore I do not ascribe to thee. But thou canst become 
 conscious of it in BO far as it passes from one state of tran- 
 sition to another within the limits of this unchangeable 
 unity. When thou dost represent it to thyself in the 
 performance of this function, how does it appear to thee 
 this internal spiritual activity ? 
 
 /. My spiritual faculty appears as if in a state of in- 
 ternal motion, swiftly passing from one point to another ; 
 in short, as an extended line. A definite thought 
 makes a point in this line. 
 
 Spirit. And why as an extended line ? 
 
 /. Can I give a reason for that beyond the circle of 
 which I cannot go without at the same time overstepping 
 the limits of my own existence ? It is so, absolutely. 
 
 Spirit. Thus, then, does a particular act of thy con- 
 sciousness appear to thee. But what shape then is assumed, 
 not by thy produced, but by thy inherited, knowledge, of 
 which all specific thought is but the revival and further 
 definition ? how does this present itself to thee ? 
 
 /. Evidently as something in which one may draw
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 385 
 
 lines and make points in all directions, namely, as space. 
 
 Spirit. Now then, it will be entirely clear to thee, how 
 that, which really proceeds from thyself, may nevertheless 
 appear to thee as an existence external to thyself, nay, 
 must necessarily appear so. 
 
 Thou hast penetrated to the true source of the presen- 
 tation of things out of thyself. This presentation is not 
 perception, for thou perceivest thyself only ; as little is it 
 thought, for things do not appear to thee as mere results 
 of thought. It is an actual, and indeed absolute and im- 
 mediate consciousness of an existence out of thyself, just 
 as perception is an immediate consciousness of thine own 
 condition. Do not permit thyself to be perplexed by 
 sophists and half-philosophers ; things do not appear to 
 thee through any representation ; of the thing that 
 exists, and that can exist, thou art immediately conscious ; 
 and there is no other thing than that of which thou art 
 conscious. Thou thyself art the thing ; thou thyself, by 
 virtue of thy finitude the innermost law of thy being 
 art thus presented before thyself, and projected out of 
 thyself ; and all that thou perceivest out of thyself is still 
 thyself only. This consciousness has been well named 
 INTUITION. In all consciousness I contemplate myself, 
 for I am myself: to the subjective, conscious being, con- 
 sciousness is self-contemplation. And the objective, that 
 which is contemplated and of which I am conscious, is 
 also myself, the same self which contemplates, but now 
 floating as an objective presentation before the subjective. 
 In this respect, consciousness is an active retrospect of 
 my own intuitions ; an observation of myself from my 
 own position ; a projection of myself out of myself by 
 means of the only mode of action which is properly mine, 
 perception. I am a living faculty of vision. I see (con- 
 sciousness) my own vision (the thing of which I am con- 
 scious.} 
 
 Hence this object is also thoroughly transparent to thy 
 
 cb
 
 386 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 mind's e} 7 e, because it is thy mind itself. Thou dividest, 
 limitest, determinest, the possible forms of things, and 
 the relations of these forms, previous to all perception, 
 No wonder, for in so doing thou dividest, limitest, and 
 determinest thine own knowledge, which undoubtedly is 
 sufficiently known to thee. Thus does a knowledge of 
 things become possible ; it is not in the things, and can- 
 not proceed out of them. It proceeds from thee, and is 
 indeed thine own nature. 
 
 There is no outward sense, for there is no outward per- 
 ception. There is, however, an outward intuition ; not 
 of things, but this outward intuition this knowledge 
 apparently external to the subjective being, and hovering 
 before it, is itself the thing, and there is no other. By 
 means of this outward intuition are perception and sense 
 regarded as external. It remains eternally true, for it is 
 proved, that I see or feel a surface, my sight or feeling 
 takes the shape of the sight or feeling of a surface. Space, 
 illuminated, transparent, palpable, penetrable space, 
 the purest image of my knowledge, is not seen, but is an 
 intuitive possession of my own mind ; in it even my 
 faculty of vision itself is contained. The light is not out 
 of, but in me, and I myself am the light. Thou hast 
 already answered my question, " How dost thou know of 
 thy sensations, of thy seeing, feeling, &c. ? " by saying that 
 thou hast an immediate knowledge or consciousness of 
 them. Now, perhaps, thou wilt be able to define more 
 exactly this immediate consciousness of sensation. 
 
 I. It must be a two-fold consciousness. Sensation is 
 itself an immediate consciousness ; for I am sensible of my 
 own sensation. But from this there arises no knowledge 
 of outward existence, but only the feeling of my own state. 
 I am however, originally, not merely a sensitive, but also 
 an intuitive being ; not merely a practical being, but also 
 an intelligence. I intuitively contemplate my sensation 
 itself, and thus there arises from myself and my own na-
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 387 
 
 ture, the cognition of an existence. Sensation becomes 
 transformed into its own object; my affections, as red, 
 smooth, and the like, into a something red, smooth, &c. out 
 of myself; and this something, and my relative sensation, 
 I intuitively contemplate in space, because the intuition 
 itself is space. Thus does it become clear why I believe 
 that I see or feel surfaces, which, in fact, I neither see nor 
 feel. I intuitively regard my own sensation of sight or 
 touch, as the sight or touch of a surface. 
 
 Spirit. Thou hast well understood me, or rather thyself. 
 
 I. But now it is not by means of any inference, either 
 recognised or unrecognised, from the principle of causality, 
 that things are originated for me ; they float immediately 
 before me, and are presented to my consciousness without 
 any process of reasoning. I cannot say, as I have for- 
 merly said, that perception becomes transformed into 
 something perceivable, for the perceivable, as such, has 
 precedence in consciousness. It is not with an affection 
 of myself, as red, smooth, or the like, that consciousness 
 begins, but with a red, smooth object out of myself. 
 
 Spirit. If, however, thou wert obliged to explain what 
 is red, smooth, and the like, couldst thou possibly make 
 any other reply than that it was that by which thou 
 wert affected in a certain manner that thou namest red, 
 smooth, &c. ? 
 
 /. Certainly not, if you were to ask me, and I were 
 to enter upon the question and attempt an explanation. 
 But originally no one asks me the question, nor do I ask 
 it of myself. I forget myself entirely, and lose myself in 
 my intuition of the object ; become conscious, not of my 
 own state, but only of an existence out of myself. Red, 
 green, and the like, are properties of the thing ; it is red 
 or green, and this is all. There can be no further ex- 
 planation, any more than there can be a further explana-
 
 388 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 tion of these affections in me : on this we have already 
 agreed. This is most obvious in the sensation of sight. 
 Colour appears as something out of myself; and the 
 common understanding of man, if left to itself, and with- 
 out farther reflection, would scarcely be persuaded to 
 describe red, green, &c. as that which excited within him 
 a specific affection. 
 
 Spirit. But, doubtless, it might so describe sweet or 
 sour. It is not our business at present to inquire whether 
 the impression made by means of sight be a pure sen- 
 sation, or whether it may not rather be a middle term 
 between sensation and intuition, and the bond by which 
 they are united in our minds. But I admit thy assertion, 
 and it is extremely welcome to me. Thou canst, indeed, 
 lose thyself in the intuition; and unless thou directest 
 particular attention to thyself, or takest an interest in 
 some external action, thou dost so, naturally and neces- 
 sarily. This is the remark to which the defenders of a 
 groundless consciousness of external things appeal, when 
 it is shown that the principle of causality, by which the 
 existence of such things might be inferred, exists only in 
 ourselves; they deny that any such inference is made, 
 and, in so far as they refer to actual consciousness in 
 particular cases, this cannot be disputed. These same 
 defenders, when the nature of intuition is explained to 
 them from the laws of intelligence itself, themselves draw 
 this inference anew, and never weary of repeating that 
 there must be something external to us which compels us 
 to this belief. 
 
 / Do not trouble thyself about them at present, but 
 instruct me. I have no preconceived opinion, but seek 
 for truth only. 
 
 Spirit. Nevertheless, intuition necessarily proceeds 
 from the perception of thine own state, although thou art 
 not always clearly conscious of this perception, as thou 
 hast already seen. Even in that consciousness in which
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 389 
 
 thou losest thyself in the object, there is always some- 
 thing which is only possible by means of an unrecognised 
 reference to thyself, and close observation of thine own 
 state. 
 
 /. Consequently, at all times and places the conscious- 
 ness of existence out of myself must be accompanied by 
 an unobserved consciousness of myself ? 
 
 Spirit. Just so. 
 
 /. The former being determined through the latter, 
 so determined as it actually is ? 
 
 Spirit. That is my meaning. 
 
 /. Prove this to me, and I shall be satisfied. 
 
 Spirit. Dost thou imagine only things in general as 
 placed in space, or each of them individually as occupying 
 a certain portion of space ? 
 
 I. The latter, each thing has its determinate bulk. 
 
 Spirit. And do different things occupy the same part 
 of space ? 
 
 I. By no means; they exclude each other. They are 
 beside, over or under, behind or before, each other ; 
 nearer to me or farther from me. 
 
 Spirit. And how dost thou come to this measurement 
 and arrangement of them in space ? Is it by sensation ? 
 
 I. How could that be, since space itself is no sensa- 
 tion ? 
 
 Spirit. Or intuition ? 
 
 /. This cannot be. Intuition is immediate and in- 
 fallible. What is contained in it does not appear as 
 produced, and cannot deceive. But I must train myself 
 to estimate, measure and deliberate upon, the size of an 
 object, its distance from me, its position with respect to 
 other objects. It is a truth known to every beginner, 
 that we originally see all objects in the same line ; that 
 we learn to estimate their greater or lesser distances ; 
 that the child attempts to grasp distant objects as if they 
 lay immediately before his eyes ; and that one born blind
 
 S90 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 who should suddenly receive sight would do the same. 
 This conception of distances is therefore a judgment ; 
 no intuition, but an arrangement of my different intui- 
 tions by means of the understanding. I may err in my 
 estimate of the size, distance, &c., of an object ; and the 
 so-called optical deceptions are not deceptions of sight, 
 but erroneous judgments formed concerning the size of 
 the object, concerning the size of its different parts in re- 
 lation to each other, and consequently concerning its true 
 figure and its distance from me and from other objects. 
 But it does really exist in space, as I contemplate it, and 
 the colours which I see in it are likewise really seen by 
 me ; and here there is no deception. 
 
 Spirit. And what then is the principle of this judg- 
 ment, to take the most distinct and easy case, thy 
 judgment of the proximity or distance of objects, how 
 dost thou estimate this distance ? 
 
 /. Doubtless by the greater strength or weakness of 
 impressions otherwise equal. I see before me two objects 
 of the same red colour. The one whose colour I see more 
 vividly, I regard as the nearer : that whose colour seems 
 to me fainter, as the more distant, and as so much the 
 more distant as the colour seems fainter. 
 
 Spirit. Thus thou dost estimate the distance according 
 to the degree of strength or weakness in the sensation ; 
 and this strength or weakness itself, dost thou also 
 estimate it ? 
 
 /. Obviously only in so far as I take note of my own 
 affections, and even of very slight differences in these. 
 Thou hast conquered ! All consciousness of objects out of 
 myself is determined by the clearness and exactitude of 
 my consciousness of my own states, and in this conscious- 
 ness there is always a conclusion drawn from the effect 
 in myself to a cause out of myself. 
 
 Spirit. Thou art quickly vanquished ; and I must now 
 myself carry forward, in thy place, the controversy against
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 391 
 
 myself. My argument can only apply to those cases in 
 which an actual and deliberate estimate of the size, dis- 
 tance, and position, of objects takes place, and in which 
 thou art conscious of making such an estimate. Thou wilt 
 however admit that this is by no means the common case, 
 and that for the most part thou rather becoinest conscious 
 of the size, distance, &c., of an object, at the very same 
 undivided moment in which thou becomest conscious of 
 the object itself. 
 
 /. When once we learn to estimate the distances of 
 objects by the strength of the impression, the rapidity of 
 this judgment is merely the consequence of its frequent 
 exercise. I have learnt, by a lifelong experience, rapidly 
 to observe the strength of the impression and thereby to 
 estimate the distance. My present conception is founded 
 upon a combination, formerly made, of sensation, intuition, 
 and previous judgments ; although at the moment I am 
 conscious only of the present conception. I no longer 
 apprehend generally red, green, or the like, out of myself, 
 but a red or a green at this, that, or the other distance ; 
 but this last addition is merely a renewal of a judgment 
 formerly arrived at by deliberate reflection. 
 
 Spirit. Has it not then, at length, become clear to thee 
 whether thou discoverest the existence of things out of 
 thyself by intuition, or by reasoning, or both, and in 
 how far by each of these ? 
 
 I. Perfectly ; and I believe that I have now attained 
 the fullest insight into the origin of my conceptions of 
 objects out of myself. 
 
 1. I am absolutely conscious of myself, because I am 
 
 this 7, myself ; and that partly as a practical 
 being, partly as an intelligence. The first con- 
 sciousness is Sensation, the second Intuition 
 unlimited space. 
 
 2. I cannot comprehend the unlimited, for I am finite. 
 
 I therefore set apart, in thought, a certain portion
 
 392 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 of universal space, and place this portion in a cer- 
 tain relation to the whole. 
 
 3. The measure of this limited portion of space is the 
 extent of my own sensibility, according to a prin- 
 ciple which may be thus expressed : Whatever 
 affects me in such or such a manner is to be 
 placed, in space, in such or such relations to the 
 other things which affect me. 
 
 The properties or attributes of the object proceed from 
 the perception of my own internal state ; the space which 
 it fills, from intuitive contemplation. By a process of 
 thought, both are conjoined ; the former being added to 
 the latter. It is so, assuredly, as we have said before : 
 that which is merely a state or affection of myself, by 
 being transferred or projected into space becomes an at- 
 tribute of the object; but it is so projected into space, 
 not by intuition, but by thought, by measuring, regulating 
 thought. Not that this act is to be regarded as an intel- 
 lectual discovery or creation ; but only as a more exact 
 definition, by means of thought, of something which is 
 already given in sensation and intuition, independent of 
 all thought. 
 
 Spirit. Whatever affects me in such or such a manner 
 is to be placed in such or such relations : thus dost thou 
 reason in defining and arranging objects in space. But 
 does not the declaration that a thing affects thee in a 
 certain manner, include the assumption that it affects 
 thee generally ? 
 /. Undoubtedly. 
 
 Spirit. And is any presentation of an external object 
 possible, which is not in this manner limited and defined 
 in space ? 
 
 I. No ; for no object exists in space generally, but each 
 one in a determinate portion of space. 
 
 Spirit. So that in fact, whether thou art conscious of 
 it or not, every external object is assumed by thee as
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 393 
 
 affecting thyself, as certainly as it is assumed as filling a 
 determinate portion of space ? 
 
 /. That follows, certainly. 
 
 Spirit. And what kind of presentation is that of an 
 object affecting thyself? 
 
 /. Evidently a thought ; and indeed a thought founded 
 on the principle of causality already mentioned. I see 
 now, still more clearly, that the consciousness of the object 
 is engrafted on my self-consciousness in two ways, partly 
 by intuition, and partly by thought founded on the prin- 
 ciple of causality. The object, however strange this may 
 seem, is at once the immediate object of my consciousness, 
 and the result of deliberate thought. 
 
 Spirit. In different respects, however. Thou must be 
 capable of being conscious of this thought of the object ? 
 
 /. Doubtless; although usually I am not so. 
 
 Spirit. Therefore to thy passive state, thy affection, 
 thou dost superadd in thought an activity out of thyself, 
 such as thou hast before described in the case of thy 
 thought according to the principle of causality ? 
 
 /. Yes. 
 
 Spirit. And with the same meaning and the same 
 validity as thou didst describe it before. Thou thinkest 
 so once for all, and must think so; thou canst not alter 
 it, and canst know nothing more than that thou dost 
 think so ? 
 
 /. Nothing more. We have already investigated all 
 this thoroughly. 
 
 Spirit. I said, thou dost assume an object : in so far as 
 it is so assumed, it is a product of thy own thought only ? 
 
 I. Certainly : this follows from the former. 
 
 Spirit. And what now is this object which is thus 
 assumed according to the principle of causality ? 
 
 I. A power out of myself. 
 
 Spirit. Which is neither revealed to thee by sensation 
 nor by intuition ? 
 
 D b
 
 394 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 I. No ; I always remain perfectly conscious that I do 
 not perceive it immediately, but only by means of its 
 manifestations ; although I ascribe to it an existence in- 
 dependent of myself. I am affected, there must there- 
 fore be something that affects me, such is my thought. 
 
 Spirit The object which is revealed to thee in intui- 
 tion, and that which thou assumest by reasoning, are thus 
 very different things. That which is actually and imme- 
 diately present before thee, spread out in space, is the 
 object of intuition ; the internal force within it, which is 
 not present before thee, but whose existence thou art led 
 to assert only by a process of inference, is the object of 
 the reason. 
 
 /. The internal force within it, saidst thou ? and now 
 I bethink me, thou art right. I place this force also in 
 space, and superadd it to the mass which I regard as 
 occupying space. 
 
 Spirit. And what then, according to thy view, is the 
 nature of the relation subsisting between this force and 
 the mass ? 
 
 /. The mass, with its properties, is itself the result 
 and manifestation of the inward force. This force has two 
 modes of operation : one whereby it maintains itself, and 
 assumes this particular form in which it appears ; another 
 upon me, by which it affects me in a particular manner. 
 
 Spirit. Formerly thou soughtest another substratum 
 for sensible attributes or qualities than the space which 
 contains them ; something besides this space, permanent 
 amid the vicissitudes of perpetual change ? 
 
 I. Yes, and this permanent substratum is found. It 
 is force itself. This remains for ever the same amid all 
 change, and it is this which assumes and supports all 
 sensible attributes or qualities. 
 
 Spirit. Let us cast a glance back on all that we have 
 now established. Thou feelest thyself in a certain state, 
 affected in a certain manner, which thou callest red,
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 395 
 
 smooth, sweet, and so on. Of this thou knowest nothing, 
 but simply that thou feelest, and feelest in this particular 
 manner. Or dost thou know more than this ? Is there 
 in mere sensation anything more than mere sensation ? 
 
 / No. 
 
 Spirit. Further, it is by thine own nature as an intel- 
 ligence that there is space spread out before thee ; or 
 dost thou know anything more than this concerning space ? 
 
 /. By no means. 
 
 Spirit. Between that state of simple sensation, and 
 this space which is spread out before thee, there is not the 
 Bmallest connexion except that they are both present in 
 thy consciousness. Or dost thou perceive any other con- 
 nexion between them ? 
 
 /. I see none. 
 
 Spirit. But thou art a thinking, as well as a sensitive 
 and intuitive, being; and yet neither dost thou know 
 anything more of this matter, than that so thou art. Thou 
 dost not merely feel thy sensible state, thou canst also 
 conceive of it in thought ; but it affords thee no complete 
 thought ; thou art compelled to add something to it, an 
 external foundation, a foreign power. Or dost thou know 
 more of it than that thou dost so think, and that thou art 
 compelled so to think ? 
 
 I. I can know nothing more respecting it. I cannot 
 proceed beyond my thought ; for, simply because I think 
 it, does it become my thought and fall under the in- 
 evitable laws of my being. 
 
 Spirit. Through this thought of thine, there first arises a 
 connexion between thy own state which thou feelest, and 
 the space which thou dost intuitively contemplate ; thou 
 supposest the one the foundation of the other. Is it not so? 
 
 / It is so. Thou hast clearly proved that I produce 
 this connexion in my consciousness by my own thought 
 only, and that such a connexion is neither directly felt, nor 
 intuitively perceived. But of any connexion beyond the
 
 396 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 limits of my consciousness I cannot speak ; I cannot even 
 describe such a connexion in any manner of way ; for eveu 
 in speaking of it I must be conscious of it ; and, since this 
 consciousness can only be a thought, the connexion itself 
 could be nothing more than a thought ; and this is pre- 
 cisely the same connexion which occurs in my ordinary 
 natural consciousness, and no other. I cannot proceed 
 a hair's-breadth beyond this consciousness, any more than 
 I can spring out of myself. All attempts to conceive of an 
 absolute connexion between things in themselves, and the 
 / in itself, are but attempts to ignore our own thought, 
 a strange forgetfulness of the undeniable fact that we can 
 have no thought without having thought it. That there 
 is a thing in itself is itself a thought; this, namely, that 
 there is a great thought which yet no man has ever 
 thought out. 
 
 Spirit. From thee then I need fear no objection to 
 the principle now established : that our consciousness oj 
 things out of ourselves is absolutely nothing more than the 
 product of our own presentative faculty , and that, with re- 
 gard to external things we know nothing more than what 
 is produced through our consciousness itself, and through 
 a determinate consciousness subject to such and such laws. 
 
 I. I cannot refute this. It is so. 
 
 Spirit. Thou canst not then object to the bolder state- 
 ment of the same proposition ; that in that which we call 
 knowledge and observation of outward things, we at all 
 times recognise and observe ourselves only ; and that in 
 all our consciousness we know of nothing whatever but of 
 ourselves and of our own determinate states. 
 
 I say, thou wilt not be able to advance aught against 
 this proposition ; for if the external world generally arises 
 for us only through our own consciousness, what is par- 
 ticular and multiform in this external world can arise in 
 no other way ; and if the connexion between what ia 
 external to us and ourselves is merely a connexion in our
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 397 
 
 own thought, then is the connexion of the multifarious 
 objects of the external world among themselves undoubt- 
 edly this and no other. As clearly as I have now pointed 
 out to thee the origin of this system of objects beyond 
 thyself and their relation to thee, could I also show thee 
 the law according to which there arises an infinite multi- 
 plicity of such objects, mutually connected, reciprocally 
 determining each other with rigid necessity, and thus 
 forming a complete world-system, as thou thyself hast 
 well described it ; and I only spare myself this task be- 
 cause I find that thou hast already admitted the con- 
 clusion for the sake of which alone I should have under- 
 taken it. 
 
 /. I see it all, and must assent to it. 
 
 Spirit. And with this insight, mortal, be free, and for 
 ever released from the fear which has degraded and tor- 
 mented thee ! Thou wilt no longer tremble at a necessity 
 which exists only in thine own thought ; no longer fear to 
 be crushed by things which are the product of thine own 
 mind ; no longer place thyself, the thinking being, in the 
 same class with the thoughts which proceed from thee. 
 As long as thou couldst believe that a system of things, 
 such as thou hast described, really existed out of, and 
 independently of, thee, and that thou thyself mightst be 
 but a link in this chain, such a fear was well grounded. 
 Now, when thou hast seen that all this exists only in 
 and through thyself, thou wilt doubtless no longer fear 
 that which thou dost now recognise as thine own creation. 
 
 It was from this fear that I wished to set thee free. 
 Thou art delivered from it, and I now leave thee to thy- 
 self.* 
 
 * For an acute and exhaustive criticisim of the grounds and limits of 
 human knowledge, with special reference to the claims of physical science 
 in its more recent developments, and to the works of Helmholz, Huxley, 
 Tyndal and others, see " Modern Kealism examined, by Thomas Martin 
 Herbert, M. A. London, 1886." [Tr. 1888.]
 
 S98 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 Z Stay, deceitful Spirit ! Is this all the wisdom towards 
 which thou hast directed my hopes, and dost thou boast 
 that thou hast set me free ? Thou hast set me free, it is 
 true : thou hast absolved me from all dependence ; for 
 thou hast transformed myself, and everything around me 
 on which I could possibly be dependent, into nothing. 
 Thou hast abolished necessity by annihilating all existence. 
 
 Spirit. Is the danger so great ? 
 
 /. And thou canst jest ! According to thy system 
 
 Spirit. My system ? Whatever we have agreed upon, 
 we have produced in common ; we have laboured together, 
 and thou hast understood everything as well as I myself.. 
 But it would still be difficult for thee at present even to 
 guess at my true and perfect mode of thought. 
 
 / Call thy thoughts by what name thou wilt ; by all 
 that thou hast hitherto said, there is nothing, absolutely 
 nothing but presentations, modes of consciousness, and 
 of consciousness only. But a presentation is to me only 
 the picture, the shadow, of a reality ; in itself it cannot 
 satisfy me, and has not the smallest worth. I might be 
 content that this material world beyond me should vanish 
 into a mere picture, or be dissolved into a shadow; I 
 am not dependent on it : but according to thy previous 
 reasoning, I myself disappear no less than it ; I myself 
 am transformed into a mere presentation, without mean- 
 ing and without purpose. Or tell me, is it otherwise ? 
 
 Spirit. I say nothing in my own name. Examine, 
 help thyself ! 
 
 I. I appear to myself as a body existing in space, 
 with organs of sense and of action, as a physical force 
 governed by a will. Of all this thou wilt say, as thou hast 
 before said of objects out of myself, the thinking being, 
 that it is a product of sensation, intuition, and thought 
 combined. 
 
 Spirit. Undoubtedly. I will even show thee, step by 
 step, if thou desirest it, the laws according to which thou
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 399 
 
 appearest to thyself in consciousness as an organic body, 
 with such and such senses, as a physical force, &c., and 
 thou wilt he compelled to admit the truth of what I show 
 thee. 
 
 I. I foresee that result. As I have been compelled to 
 admit that what I call sweet, red, hard, and so on, is 
 nothing more than my own affection and that only by 
 intuition and thought it is transposed out of myself into 
 space, and regarded as the property of something existing 
 independently of me ; so shall I also be compelled to ad- 
 mit that this body, with all its organs, is nothing but a 
 sensible manifestation, in a determinate portion of space, 
 of myself the inward thinking being ; that /, the spiri- 
 tual entity, the pure intelligence, and /, the bodily frame in 
 the physical world, are one and the same, merely viewed 
 from two different sides, and conceived of by two different 
 faculties ; the first by pure thought, the second by ex- 
 ternal intuition. 
 
 Spirit. This would certainly be the result of any in- 
 quiry that might be instituted. 
 
 / And this thinking, spiritual entity, this intelligence 
 which by intuition is transformed into a material body, 
 what can even it be, according to these principles, but a 
 product of my own thought, something merely conceived 
 of by me because I am compelled to imagine its existence 
 by virtue of a law to me wholly incomprehensible, pro- 
 ceeding from nothing and tending to nothing ? 
 
 Spirit. It is possible. 
 
 /. Thou becomest hesitating and monosyllabic. It is 
 not possible only : it is necessary, according to these prin- 
 ciples. 
 
 This perceiving, thinking, willing, intelligent entity, or 
 whatever else thou mayest name that which possesses the 
 faculties of perception, thought, and so forth ; that in 
 which these faculties inhere, or in whatever other way 
 thou mayest express this thought ; how do I attain a
 
 400 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 knowledge of it ? Am I immediately conscious of it ? How 
 can I be ? It is only of actual and specific acts of percep- 
 tion, thought, will, &c., as of particular occurrences, that I 
 am immediately conscious ; not of the capacities through 
 which they are performed, and still less of a being in 
 whom these capacities inhere. I perceive, directly and in- 
 tuitively, this specific thought which occupies me during 
 the present moment, and other specific thoughts in other 
 moments ; and here this inward intellectual intuition, 
 this immediate consciousness, ends. This inward intuitive 
 thought now becomes itself an object of thought ; but 
 according to the laws under which alone I can think, it 
 seems to me imperfect and incomplete, just as formerly 
 the thought of my sensible states was but an imperfect 
 thought. As formerly to mere passivity I unconsciously 
 superadded in thought an active element, so here to my 
 determinate state (my actual thought or will) I superadd 
 a determinable element (an infinite, possible thought or 
 will) simply because / must do so, and for the same 
 reason, but without being conscious of this mental justi- 
 fication of my instinctive act. This manifold possible 
 thought I further comprehend as one definite whole ; 
 once more because I must do so, since I am unable to 
 comprehend anything indefinite, and thus I obtain the 
 idea of a finite capacity of thought, and since this idea 
 carries with it the notion of a something independent of 
 the thought itself of a being or entity which possesses 
 this capacity. 
 
 But, on higher principles it becomes still more conceiv- 
 able how this thinking being is produced by its own 
 thought. Thought in itself is genetic, assuming the pre- 
 vious creation of an object immediately revealed, and oc- 
 cupying itself with the description of this object. Intui- 
 tion gives the naked fact, and nothing more. Thought 
 explains this fact, and unites it to another, not found in 
 intuition, but produced purely by thought itself, from
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 401 
 
 which it, the fact, proceeds. So here. I am conscious of 
 a determinate thought ; thus far, and no farther, does 
 intuitive consciousness carry me. I think this deter- 
 minate thought, that is, I bring it forth from an indeter- 
 minate, but determinable, possibility of thought. In this 
 way I proceed with everything determinate which is pre- 
 sented in immediate consciousness, and thus arise for me 
 all those series of capacities, and of beings possessing 
 these capacities, whose existence I assume. 
 
 Spirit. Even with respect to thyself, therefore, thou 
 art conscious only that thou feelest, perceivest, or thinkest, 
 in this or that determinate manner ? 
 
 I. That / feel, / perceive, / think ? that I, as the 
 efficient principle, produce the sensation, the intuition, the 
 thought ? By no means! Not even so much as this have 
 thy principles left me. 
 
 Spirit. Possibly. 
 
 / Necessarily ; for see : All that I know is my con- 
 sciousness itself. All consciousness is either an immediate 
 or a mediate consciousness. The first is self-conscious- 
 ness ; the second, consciousness of that which is not myself. 
 What I call /, is therefore absolutely nothing more than a 
 certain modification of consciousness, which is called /, 
 just because it is immediate, returning into itself, and not 
 directed outward. Since all other consciousness is possible 
 only under the condition of this immediate consciousness, 
 it is obvious that this consciousness which is called /must 
 accompany all my other conceptions, be necessarily con- 
 tained in them, although not always clearly perceived by 
 me, and that in each moment of my consciousness I must 
 refer everything to this 1, and not to the particular thing 
 out of myself thought of at the moment. In this way the 
 / would at every moment vanish and reappear ; and for 
 every new conception a new / would arise, and this / 
 would never signify anything more than not the thing. 
 
 This scattered self-consciousness is now combined by 
 
 E b
 
 402 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 thought, by mere thought, I say and presented in the 
 unity of a supposed capacity of thought. According to 
 this supposition, all conceptions which are accompanied 
 by the immediate consciousness already spoken of, must 
 proceed from one and the same capacity, which inheres 
 in one and the same entity ; and thus there arises for me 
 the notion of the identity and personality of my /, and of 
 an efficient and real power in this person, necessarily a 
 mere fiction, since this capacity and this entity are them- 
 selves only suppositions. 
 
 Spirit. Thou reasonest correctly. 
 
 /. And thou hast pleasure in this ! I may then indeed 
 say "it is thought," and yet I can scarcely say even this ; 
 rather, strictly speaking, I ought to say " the thought 
 appears that I feel, perceive, think," but by no means 
 " that I feel, perceive, think." The first only is fact ; the 
 second is an imaginary addition to the fact. 
 
 Spirit. It is well expressed. 
 
 I. There is nothing enduring, either out of me, or in 
 me, but only ceaseless change. I know of no being, not 
 even of my own. There is no being. I myself absolutely 
 know not, and am not. Pictures are : they are the only 
 things which exist, and they know of themselves after the 
 fashion of pictures : pictures which float past without 
 there being anything past which they float; which, by 
 means of like pictures, are connected with each other : 
 pictures without anything which is pictured in them, 
 without significance and without aim. I myself am one 
 of these pictures ; nay, I am not even this, but merely a 
 confused picture of the pictures. All reality is trans- 
 formed into a strange dream, without a life which ia 
 dreamed of, and without a mind which dreams it ; into 
 a dream which is woven together in a dream of itself. 
 Intuition is the dream ; thought, the source of all the 
 being and all the reality which I imagine, of my own be- 
 ing, my own powers, and my own purposes, is the dream 
 of that dream.
 
 BOOK II. KNOWLEDGE. 403 
 
 Spirit. Thou hast well understood it all. Employ the 
 sharpest expressions to make this result hateful, since 
 thou must submit to it. And this thou must do. Thou 
 hast clearly seen that it cannot be otherwise. Or wilt 
 thou now retract thy admissions, and justify thy retracta- 
 tion on principle ? 
 
 /. By no means. I have seen, and now see clearly, 
 that it is so ; yet I cannot believe it. 
 
 Spirit. Thou seest it clearly, and yet canst not believe 
 it ? That is a different matter. 
 
 /. Thou art a profligate spirit : thy knowledge itself 
 is profligacy, and springs from profligacy ; and I cannot 
 thank thee for having led me on this path ! 
 
 Spirit. Short-sighted mortal ! When men venture to 
 look into being, and see as far as themselves, and a little . 
 farther, such as thou art call it profligacy. I have 
 allowed thee to deduce the results of our inquiry in thine 
 own way, to analyze them, and to clothe them in hateful 
 expressions. Didst thou then think that these results 
 were less known to me than to thyself, that I did not 
 understand, as well as thou, how by these principles all 
 reality was thoroughly annihilated, and transformed into 
 a dream ? Didst thou then take me for a blind admirer 
 and advocate of this system, as a complete system of the 
 human mind ? 
 
 Thou didst desire to know, and thou hadst taken a 
 wrong road. Thou didst seek knowledge where no know- 
 ledge can reach, and hadst even persuaded thyself that 
 thou hadst obtained an insight into something which is 
 opposed to the very nature of all insight. I found thee 
 in this condition, I wished to free thee from thy false 
 knowledge ; but by no means to bring thee the true. 
 
 Thou didst desire to know of thy knowledge. Art thou 
 surprised that in this way thou didst discover nothing
 
 4)04 THE VOCATION- OF MAN. 
 
 more than that of which thou desiredst to know, thy 
 knowledge itself; and wouldst thou have had it other- 
 wise ? What has its origin in and through knowledge, is 
 merely knowledge. But all knowledge is only pictures, 
 representations ; and there is always something awant- 
 ing in it, that which corresponds to the representation. 
 This want cannot be supplied by knowledge ; a system of 
 knowledge is necessarily a system of mere pictures, wholly 
 without reality, significance, or aim. Didst thou expect 
 anything else ? Wouldst thou change the very nature of 
 thy mind, and desire thy knowledge to be something 
 more than knowledge ? 
 
 The reality, in which thou didst formerly believe, a 
 material world existing independently of thee, of which 
 thou didst fear to become the slave,, has vanished ; for 
 this whole material world arises only through knowledge, 
 and is itself our knowledge ; but knowledge is not reality, 
 just because it is knowledge. Thou hast seen through 
 the illusion ; and without belying thy better insight, thou 
 canst never again give thyself up to it. This is the sole 
 merit which I claim for the system which we have to- 
 gether discovered ; it destroys and annihilates error. It 
 cannot give us truth, for in itself it is absolutely empty. 
 Thou dost now seek, and with good right as I well know, 
 something real lying beyond mere appearance, another 
 reality than that which has thus been annihilated. But 
 in vain wouldst thou labour to create this reality by means 
 of thy knowledge, or out of thy knowledge ; or to embrace 
 it by thy understanding. If thou hast no other organ by 
 which to apprehend it, thou wilt never find it. 
 
 But thou hast such an organ. Arouse and animate it, 
 and thou wilt attain to perfect tranquillity. I leave thee 
 alone with thyself.
 
 ( 405 ) 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 TERRIBLE Spirit, thy discourse has smitten me to the 
 ground. But thou hast referred me to myself, and what 
 were I could anything out of myself irrecoverably cast me 
 down ? I will, yes, surely I will follow thy counsel. 
 
 What seekest thou, then, my complaining heart ? What 
 is it that causes thee to rebel against a system to M r hich 
 my understanding cannot raise the slightest objection ? 
 
 This it is : I demand something beyond a mere pre- 
 sentation or conception ; something that is, has been, and 
 will be, even if the presentation were not ; and which the 
 presentation only records, without producing it, or in the 
 smallest degree changing it. A mere presentation I now 
 see to be a deceptive show ; my presentations must have a 
 meaning beneath them, and if all my knowledge revealed 
 to me nothing but knowledge, I would be defrauded of my 
 whole life. That there is nothing whatever but my pre- 
 sentations or conceptions, is, to the natural sense of man- 
 kind, a silly and ridiculous conceit which no man can 
 seriously entertain, and which requires no refutation. To 
 the better-informed judgment, which knows the deep, 
 and, by mere reasoning, irrefragable grounds for this as- 
 sertion, it is a prostrating, annihilating thought.
 
 406 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 And what, then, is this something lying beyond all 
 presentation, towards which I stretch forward with such 
 ardent longing ? What is the power with which it draws 
 me towards it ? What is the central point in my soul 
 with which it is so intimately bound up that only with 
 my being itself can it be extinguished ? 
 
 " Not merely TO KNOW, but according to thy knowledge 
 TO DO, is thy vocation : " thus is it loudly proclaimed in 
 the innermost depths of my soul, as soon as I recollect 
 myself for a moment, and turn my observation inward 
 upon myself. . " Not for idle contemplation of thyself, not 
 for brooding over devout sensations ; no, for action art 
 thou here ; thine action, and thine action alone, deter- 
 mines thy worth." 
 
 This voice leads me out from presentation, from mere 
 cognition, to something that is beyond it and opposed 
 to it ; to something that is greater and higher than all 
 knowledge, and that contains within itself the end and 
 object of all knowledge. When I act, I doubtless know 
 that I act, and how I act ; nevertheless this knowledge is 
 not the act itself, but only the observation of it. This 
 voice thus announces to me precisely that which I sought ; 
 a something lying beyond mere knowledge, and, in its 
 nature, wholly independent of knowledge. 
 
 Thus it is, I know it immediately. But, having entered 
 within the domain of speculation, the doubt which has 
 been awakened within me will secretly endure and con- 
 tinue to disturb me. Since I have placed myself in this 
 position, I can obtain no complete satisfaction until every- 
 thing which I accept is justified before the tribunal of 
 speculation. I have thus to ask myself, how is it thus ? 
 Whence arises that -voice in my soul which directs me to 
 something beyond mere presentation and knowledge ? 
 
 There is within me an impulse to absolute, indepen- 
 dent self-activity. Nothing is more insupportable to me 
 than to be merely by another, for another, and through
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 407 
 
 another ; I must be something for myself and by myself 
 alone. This impulse I feel along with the perception of 
 my own existence, it is inseparably united to my con- 
 sciousness of myself. 
 
 I explain this feeling to myself by reflection ; and, as it 
 were, endow this blind impulse with the gift of insight 
 by the power of thought. According to this impulse I 
 must act as an absolutely independent being : thus I 
 understand and translate the impulse. I must be inde- 
 pendent. Who am I ? Subject and object in one, the 
 conscious being and that of which I am conscious, gifted 
 with intuitive knowledge and myself revealed in that in- 
 tuition, the thinking mind and myself the object of the 
 thought inseparable and ever present to each other. 
 As both, must I be what I am, absolutely by myself alone ; 
 by myself originate conceptions, by myself produce a 
 condition of things lying beyond these conceptions. But 
 how is the latter possible ? With nothing I cannot con- 
 nect any being whatsoever ; from nothing there can never 
 arise something; my objective thought is necessarily me- 
 diative only. But any being that is connected with another 
 being becomes thereby dependent ; it is no longer a 
 primary, original, and genetic, but only a secondary 
 and derived, being. I am constrained to connect myself 
 with something ; with another being I cannot connect my- 
 self without losing that independence which is the condi- 
 tion of my own existence. 
 
 My conception and origination of a purpose, however, 
 is, by its very nature, absolutely free, producing some- 
 thing out of nothing. With such a conception I must 
 connect my activity, in order that it may be possible to 
 regard it as free, and as proceeding absolutely from myself 
 alone. 
 
 In the following manner, therefore, do I conceive of my 
 independence as /. I ascribe to myself the power of 
 originating a conception simply because I originate it,
 
 408 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 of originating this conception simply because I originate 
 this one, by the absolute sovereignty of myself as an 
 intelligence. I further ascribe to myself the power of 
 manifesting this conception beyond itself by means of an 
 action ; ascribe to myself a real, active power, capable 
 of producing something beyond itself, a power which 
 is entirely different from the mere power of conception. 
 These conceptions, which are called conceptions of design, 
 or purposes, are not, like the conceptions of mere know- 
 ledge, copies of something already existing, but rather 
 types of something yet to be ; the real power lies beyond 
 them, and is in itself independent of them ; it only re- 
 ceives from them its immediate determinations, which 
 are apprehended by knowledge. Such an independent 
 power it is that, in consequence of this impulse, I ascribe 
 to myself. 
 
 Here then, it appears, is the point at which conscious- 
 ness connects itself with reality ; the real efficiency of my 
 conception, and the real power of action which, in con- 
 sequence of it, I am compelled to ascribe to myself, is this 
 point. Let it be as it may with the reality of a sensible 
 world beyond me ; I possess reality and comprehend it, 
 it lies within my own being, it is native to myself. 
 
 I conceive this, my real power of action, in thought, but 
 I do not create it by thought. The immediate feeling of 
 my impulse to independent activity lies at the foundation 
 of this thought ; the thought does no more than pourtray 
 this feeling, and accept it in its own form, the form of 
 thought. This procedure may, I think, be vindicated be- 
 fore the tribunal of speculation. 
 
 What ! Shall I, once more, knowingly and intentionally 
 deceive myself? This procedure can by no means be 
 justified before that strict tribunal. 
 
 I feel within me an impulse and an effort towards out-
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 409 
 
 ward activity ; this appears to be true, and to be the only 
 truth belonging to the matter. Since it is I who feel this 
 impulse, and since I cannot pass beyond myself, either 
 with my whole consciousness, or in particular with my 
 capacity of sensation ; since this / itself is the last point 
 at which I am conscious of this impulse, it certainly 
 appears to me as an impulse founded in myself, to an 
 activity also founded in myself. But may it not be that 
 this impulse is, unknown to me, in reality the impulse of 
 a foreign power invisible to me, and that notion of inde- 
 pendence merely a delusion arising from my sphere of 
 vision being limited to myself alone ? I have no reason 
 to assume this, but just as little reason to deny it. I 
 must confess that I absolutely know nothing, and can 
 know nothing, about it. 
 
 Do I then indeed feel that real power of free action 
 which, strangely enough, I ascribe to myself without 
 knowing anything of it ? By no means ; it is merely the 
 assumed determinable element which, by the well-known 
 laws of thought whereby all capacities and all powers arise, 
 we are compelled to add to the determinate element the 
 real action which itself is, in like manner, only an as- 
 sumption. 
 
 Is that procession, from the mere conception to an imagi- 
 nary realization of it, anything more than the usual and 
 well-known procedure of all objective thought, which seeks 
 to shape itself, not as mere thought, but as something 
 more ? By what sophistry can this procedure be made 
 of more value here than in any other case ? can it pos- 
 sess any deeper significance, when to the conception of a 
 thought it adds a realization of this thought, than when 
 to the conception of this table it adds an actual and 
 present table ? " The conception of a purpose, a particu- 
 lar determination of events in me, appears in a double 
 shape, partly as subjective a Thought ; partly as objec- 
 tive an Action." What reason, which would not itself 
 
 F b
 
 410 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 stand in need of a genetic deduction, could I adduce 
 against this explanation ? 
 
 I say that I feel this impulse : it is therefore I myself 
 who say so, and think so while I say it. Do I then really 
 feel, or only think that I feel ? Is not all that I call feel- 
 ing only a presentation produced by my objective process 
 of thought, and indeed the first transition-point of all 
 objectivity ? And then again, do I really think, or do I 
 merely think that I think ? And do I think that I really 
 think, or merely that I possess the idea of thinking ? 
 What can hinder speculation from raising such questions, 
 and continuing to raise them without end ? What can I 
 answer, and where is there a point at which I can com- 
 mand such questionings to cease ? I know, and must 
 admit, that each definite act of consciousness may be 
 made the subject of reflection, and a new consciousness 
 of the first consciousness may thus be created ; and that 
 thereby the immediate consciousness is raised a step 
 higher, and the first consciousness darkened and made 
 doubtful ; and that to this ladder there is no highest step. 
 I know that all scepticism rests upon this process, and 
 that the system which has so violently prostrated me is 
 founded on the adoption and the clear consciousness of 
 this process. 
 
 I know that if I am not merely to play another per- 
 plexing game with this system, but intend really and 
 practically to adopt it, I must refuse obedience to that 
 voice within me. I cannot will to act, for according to 
 that system I cannot know whether I can really act or not. 
 I can never believe that I truly act ; that which seems 
 to be my action must appear to me as entirely without 
 meaning, as a mere delusive picture. All earnestness and 
 all reality are banished from my life ; and life, as well as 
 thought, is tranformed into a mere play which proceeds 
 from nothing and tends to nothing. 
 
 Shall I then refuse obedience to that inward voice ? I
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 411 
 
 will not do so. I will freely accept the vocation which 
 this impulse assigns to me, and in this resolution I will 
 lay hold at once of thought, in all its reality and truth- 
 fulness, and on the reality of all things which are pre- 
 supposed therein. I will restrict myself to the position of 
 natural thought in which this impulse places me, and cast 
 from me all those over-refined and sophistical inquiries 
 which alone could make me doubtful of its truth. 
 
 I understand thee now, sublime Spirit ! I have found 
 the organ by which to apprehend this reality and, with 
 this, probably all other reality. Knowledge is not this 
 organ : no knowledge can be its own foundation, its own 
 proof; every knowledge pre-supposes another higher know- 
 ledge on which it is founded, and to this ascent there is 
 no end. It is FAITH, that voluntary acquiescence in the 
 view which is naturally presented to us, because only 
 through this view can we fulfil our vocation ; this it is, 
 which first lends a sanction to knowledge, and raises to 
 certainty and conviction that which without it might be 
 mere delusion. It is not knowledge, but a resolution of 
 the will to admit the validity of knowledge. 
 
 Let me hold fast for ever by this doctrine, which is no 
 mere verbal distinction, but a true and deep one, bearing 
 with it the most important consequences for my whole 
 existence and character. All my conviction is Jbut. faith ; 
 and it proceeds from feeling, not from the understanding. 
 Knowing this, I will enter upon no subtle disputation, 
 because I foresee that thereby nothing can be gained ; I 
 will not suffer myself to be perplexed by it, for the source 
 of my conviction lies higher than all disputation ; I will 
 not suffer myself to entertain the desire of pressing this 
 conviction on others by reasoning, and I will not be sur- 
 prised if such an undertaking should fail. I have adopted 
 my mode of thinking first of all for myself, not for others, 
 and before myself only will I justify it. He who possesses
 
 412 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 the honest, upright purpose of which I am conscious will 
 also attain a similar conviction ; without that, such a con- 
 viction can in no way be attained. Now that I know 
 this, I also know from what point all culture of myself 
 and others must proceed ; from the will, not from the un- 
 derstanding. If the former be only fixedly and honestly 
 directed towards the Good, the latter will of itself appre- 
 hend the True. Should the latter only be exercised whilst 
 the former remains neglected, there can arise nothing what- 
 ever but a dexterity in groping after vain and empty re- 
 finements throughout the absolute void inane. Now that 
 I know this, I am able to confute all false knowledge that 
 may rise in opposition to my faith. I know that every 
 pretended truth, produced by mere speculative thought, 
 and not founded upon faith, is assuredly false and surrep- 
 titious ; for mere knowledge, thus produced, leads only to 
 the conviction that we can know nothing. I know that 
 such false knowledge never can discover anything but 
 what it has previously placed in its premises - through 
 faith, from which it probably draws conclusions which are 
 wholly false. Now that I know this', I possess the touch- 
 stone of all truth and of all conviction. Conscience alone 
 is the root of all truth : whatever is opposed to conscience, 
 or stands in the way of the fulfilment of her behests, is 
 assuredly false ; and it is impossible for me to arrive at a 
 conviction of its truth, even if I should be unable to dis- 
 cover the fallacies by which it is produced. 
 
 So has it been with all men who have ever seen the 
 light of this world. Without being conscious of it they 
 apprehend, through faith alone, all the reality which has 
 an existence for them ; and this faith forces itself on them 
 simultaneously with their existence ; it is born with 
 them. How could it be otherwise ? If in mere knowledge, 
 in mere perception and reflection, there is no ground for 
 regarding our mental presentations as more than mere 
 pictures which necessarily pass before our view, why do
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 413 
 
 we yet regard them as more than this, and assume, as 
 their foundation, something which exists independently 
 of all presentation ? If we all possess the capacity and 
 the instinct to go beyond our first natural view of things, 
 why do so few actually go beyond it, and why do we 
 defend ourselves, even with a sort of bitterness, from every 
 attempt to persuade us to this course ? What is it which 
 holds us within the power of this first natural belief? 
 Not inferences of reason, for there are none such ; it is 
 our interest in a reality which we desire to produce ; 
 the good, absolutely for its own sake, the common and 
 sensuous, for the sake of the enjoyment they afford. No 
 one who lives can divest himself of this interest, and just 
 as little can he cast off the faith which this interest brings 
 with it. We are all born in faith ; he who is blind, follows 
 blindly the secret and irresistible impulse ; he who sees, 
 follows by sight, and believes because he resolves to 
 believe. 
 
 What unity and completeness does this view present ! 
 what dignity does it confer on human nature ! Our 
 thought is not founded on itself alone, independently of 
 our impulses and affections ; man does not consist of two 
 independent and separate elements ; he is absolutely one. 
 All our thought is founded on our impulses ; as a man's 
 affections are so is his, knowledge. These impulses com- 
 pel us to a certain mode of thought only so long as we do 
 not perceive the constraint ; the constraint vanishes the 
 moment it is perceived ; and it is then no longer the un- 
 conscious impulse, but we ourselves who form our own 
 system of thought in accordance with it. 
 
 But I shall open my eyes; shall learn thoroughly to know 
 myself; I shall recognise that constraint; this is my 
 vocation. I shall thus, and under that supposition I shall 
 necessarily, myself form my own mode of thought. Then 
 shall I stand absolutely independent, thoroughly equipt
 
 414 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 and perfected through my own act and deed. The source 
 of all my other thought and even of my life itself, that 
 from which everything proceeds which can have an exis- 
 tence in me, for me, or through me, the innermost spirit 
 of my spirit, is no longer a foreign power ; it is, in the 
 strictest possible sense, my own reasonable act. I am 
 wholly my own creation. I might have followed blindly 
 the leading of my spiritual nature. But I would be a 
 work not of Nature but of myself, and I have become so 
 even by means of this resolution. By endless subtilties I 
 might have made the natural conviction of my own mind 
 dark and doubtful. But I have accepted it with freedom, 
 simply because I resolved to accept it. I have chosen the 
 system which I have now adopted with settled purpose 
 and deliberation from among other possible modes of 
 thought, because I have recognised in it the only one 
 consistent with my dignity and my vocation. With free- 
 dom and consciousness I have returned to the point at 
 which Nature had left me. I accept that which she an- 
 nounces ; but I do not accept it because I must ; I 
 believe it because I will. 
 
 The true dignity of my understanding fills me with 
 reverence. It is no longer the deceptive mirror which re- 
 flects a series of empty pictures, proceeding from nothing 
 and tending to nothing ; it is bestowed upon me for a great 
 purpose. Its cultivation for this purpose is entrusted to 
 me ; it is placed in my hands, and at my hands it will be 
 required. It is placed in my hands. I know immediately 
 and here my faith accepts the testimony of my conscious- 
 ness without farther criticism I know that I am not 
 under the necessity of allowing my thoughts to float about 
 without direction or purpose, but that I can voluntarily 
 arouse and direct my attention to one object, or turn it, 
 towards another; know that I am free continuously to
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 415 
 
 investigate any object until I thoroughly understand it 
 and feel quite satisfied about it ; know that it is neither 
 a blind necessity which compels me to a certain mode of 
 thought, nor an empty chance which runs riot with my 
 thoughts ; but that it is I who think, and that I can think 
 of that whereof I choose to think. Thus by reflection I have 
 discovered something more ; I have discovered that I my- 
 self, by^my own act alone, determine my whole mode of 
 thought, and the particular view which I take of truth in 
 general ; since it remains with me either by over-refine- 
 ment to deprive myself of all sense of truth, or to yield 
 myself to it with faithful obedience. My whole mode of 
 thought, and the cultivation which my understanding re- 
 ceives, as well as the objects to which I direct it, depend 
 entirely on myself. True insight is merit ; the perversion 
 of my capacity for knowledge, thoughtlessness, obscurity, 
 error, and unbelief, are guilt. 
 
 There is but one point towards which I have unceasingly 
 to direct all my attention, namely, 
 
 and how I may best fulfil the obligation. All my thoughts 
 must have a bearing on my actions, and must be capable 
 of being considered as means, however remote, to this end ; 
 otherwise they are an idle and aimless show, a mere waste 
 of time and strength, the perversion of a noble power 
 which is entrusted to me for a very different end. 
 
 I dare hope, I dare surely promise, myself, to follow out 
 this undertaking with good results. The Nature on which 
 I have to act is not a foreign element, called into existence 
 without reference to me, into which I cannot penetrate. 
 It is moulded by my own laws of thought, and must be in 
 harmony with them ; it must be thoroughly transparent, 
 knowable and penetrable to me, even to its inmost re- 
 cesses. In all its phenomena it expresses nothing but the 
 connexions and relations of my own being to myself ; and 
 as surely as I may hope to know myself, so surely may I 
 expect to comprehend it. Let me seek 'only that which I
 
 416 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 ought to seek, and I shall find; let me ask only that 
 which I ought to ask, and I shall receive an answer. 
 
 That voice within my soul in which I believe, and on 
 account of which I believe in every other thing to which 
 I attach credence, does not command me merely to act in 
 general. This is impossible ; all these general principles 
 are formed only through my own voluntary observation 
 and reflection applied to many individual facts ; but never 
 in themselves express any fact whatever. This voice of 
 my conscience announces to me precisely what I ought to 
 do, and what leave undone, in every particular situation 
 of life ; it accompanies me, if I will but listen to it with 
 attention, through all the events of my life, and never 
 refuses me its reward where I am called upon to act. It 
 carries with it immediate conviction, and irresistibly com- 
 pels my assent to its behests : it is impossible for me to 
 contend against it. 
 
 To listen to it, to obey it honestly and unreservedly, 
 without fear or equivocation, this is my true vocation, 
 the whole end and purpose of my existence. My life ceases 
 to be an empty play without truth or significance. There 
 is something that must absolutely be done for its own sake 
 alone ; that which conscience demands of me in this par- 
 ticular situation of life it is mine to do, for this only am 
 I here ; to know it, I have understanding ; to perform 
 it, I have power. 
 
 Through this edict of conscience alone, truth and reality 
 are introduced into my conceptions. I cannot refuse them 
 my attention and my obedience without thereby surren- 
 dering the very purpose of my existence. 
 
 Hence I cannot withhold my belief from the reality 
 which they announce, without at the same time renounc-
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 417 
 
 ing my vocation. It is absolutely true, without farther 
 proof or confirmation, nay, it is the first truth, and the 
 foundation of all other truth and certainty, that this voice 
 must be obeyed ; and therefore everything becomes to me 
 true and certain the truth and certainty of which is as- 
 sumed in the possibility of such obedience. 
 
 There appear before me in space certain phenomena toN/ 
 which I transfer the idea of myself ; I conceive of them 
 as beings like myself. Speculation, when carried out to 
 its last results, has indeed taught me, or would teach me, 
 that these supposed rational beings out of myself are but 
 the products of my own presentative power ; that, accor- 
 ding to certain laws of my thought, I am compelled to 
 represent out of myself my conception of myself ; and that, 
 according to the same laws, I can transfer this conception 
 only to certain definite objects. But the voice of my con- 
 science thus speaks: " Whatever these beings may be 
 in and for themselves, thou shalt act towards them as self- 
 existent, free, substantive beings, wholly independent of 
 thee. Assume it, as already known, that they can give a 
 purpose to their own being wholly by themselves, and 
 quite independently of thee ; never interrupt the accom- 
 plishment of this purpose, but rather further it to the 
 utmost of thy power. Honour their freedom, lovingly 
 take up their purposes as if they were thine own." Thus 
 ought I to act : by this course of action ought all my 
 thought to be guided, nay, it shall and must necessarily 
 be so, if I have resolved to obey the voice of my conscience. 
 Hence I shall always regard these beings as -in possession 
 of an existence for themselves wholly independent of mine, 
 as capable of forming and carrying out their own pur- 
 poses ; from this point of view, I shall never be able to 
 conceive of them otherwise, and my previous speculations 
 regarding them shall vanish like an empty dream. I 
 think of them as beings like myself, I have said ; but 
 strictly speaking, it is not by mere thought that they are 
 
 Gb
 
 418 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 % 
 
 first presented to me as such. It is by the voice of my 
 conscience, by the command : "Here set a limit to thy 
 freedom; here recognise and reverence purposes which 
 are not thine own." This it is which is first translated 
 into the thought, " Here, certainly and truly, are beings 
 like myself, free and independent." To view them other- 
 wise, I must in action renounce, and in speculation disre- 
 gard, the voice of my own conscience. 
 
 Other phenomena present themselves before me which 
 I do not regard as beings like myself, but as things irra- 
 tional. Speculation finds no difficulty in showing how the 
 conception of such things is developed solely from my own 
 presentative faculty and its necessary modes of activity. 
 But I apprehend these things, also, through want, desire, 
 and enjoyment. Not by the mental conception, but by 
 hunger, thirst, and their satisfaction, does anything become 
 for me food and drink. I am necessitated to believe in 
 the reality of that which threatens my sensuous existence, 
 or in that which alone is able to maintain it. Conscience 
 enters the field in order that it may at once sanctify and 
 restrain this natural impulse. " Thou shalt maintain, ex- 
 ercise, and strengthen thyself and thy physical powers, for 
 they have been taken account of in the plans of reason. 
 But thou canst maintain them only by legitimate use, 
 conformable to their nature. There are also, besides thee, 
 many other beings like thyself, whose powers have been 
 counted upon like thine own, and can be maintained only 
 in the same way as thine own. Concede to them the same 
 privilege that has been allowed to thee. Respect what 
 belongs to them as their possession ; use what belongs 
 to thee legitimately as thine own." Thus ought I to act, 
 according to this course of action must I think. lam 
 compelled to regard these things as standing under their 
 own natural laws, independent of, though perceivable by, 
 me ; and therefore to ascribe to them an independent 
 existence. I am compelled to believe in such laws ; the
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 419 
 
 task of investigating them is set before me, and that empty 
 speculation vanishes like a mist when the genial sun 
 appears. 
 
 In short, there is for me absolutely no such thing as an 
 existence which has no relation to myself, and which I 
 contemplate merely for the sake of contemplating it ; 
 whatever has an existence for me, has it only through its 
 relation to my own being. But there is, in the highest 
 sense, only one relation to me possible, all others are but 
 subordinate forms of this : my vocation to moral activity. 
 My world is the object and sphere of my duties, and ab- 
 solutely nothing more ; there is no other world for me, 
 and no other qualities of my world than what are implied 
 in this ; my whole united capacity, all finite capacity, is 
 insufficient to comprehend any other. Whatever possesses 
 an existence for me can bring its existence and reality 
 into contact with me only through this relation, and only 
 through this relation do I comprehend it : for any other 
 existence than this I have no organ whatever. 
 
 To the question, whether, in deed and in fact, such a 
 world exists as that which I represent to myself, I can 
 give no answer more fundamental, more raised above all 
 doubt, than this : I have, most certainly and truly, these 
 determinate duties, which announce themselves to me as 
 duties towards certain objects, to be fulfilled by means of 
 certain materials ; duties which I cannot otherwise con- 
 ceive of, and cannot otherwise fulfil, than within such a 
 world as I represent to myself. Even to one who had 
 never meditated on his own moral vocation, if there could 
 be such a one, or who, if he had given it some general 
 consideration, had, at least, never entertained the slightest 
 purpose of fulfilling it at any time within an indefinite 
 futurity, even for him, his sensuous world, and his belief 
 in its reality, arises in no other manner than from his 
 ideas of a moral world. If he do not apprehend it by the 
 thought of his duties, he certainly does so by the demand
 
 420 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 for his rights. What he perhaps never requires of himself, 
 he does certainly exact from others in their conduct to- 
 wards him, that they should treat him with propriety, 
 consideration, and respect, not as an irrational thing, but 
 as a free and independent being ; and thus, by supposing 
 in them an ability to comply with his own demands, he is 
 compelled also to regard them as themselves considerate, 
 free, and independent of the dominion of mere natural 
 power. Even should he never propose to himself any other 
 purpose in his use and enjoyment of surrounding objects 
 but simply that of enjoying them, he at least demands 
 this enjoyment as a right, in the possession of which he 
 claims to be left undisturbed by others ; and thus he ap- 
 prehends even the irrational world of sense by means of 
 a moral idea. These claims of respect for his rationality, 
 independence, and preservation, no one can resign who 
 possesses a conscious existence ; and with these claims, at 
 least, there is united in his soul, earnestness, renunciation 
 of doubt, and faith in a reality, even if they be not asso- 
 ciated with the recognition of a moral law within him. 
 Take the man who denies his own moral vocation, and thy 
 existence, and the existence of a material world, except 
 as a mere futile speculation, approach him practically, 
 apply his own principles to life, and act as if either he 
 had no existence at all, or were merely a portion of rude 
 matter, he will soon lay aside his scornful indifference, 
 indignantly complain of thee, earnestly call thy at- 
 tention to thy conduct towards him, maintain that thou 
 oughtst not and darest not so to act, and thus prove to 
 thee, by deeds, that thou art assuredly capable of acting 
 upon him ; that he is, and that thou art, that there is a 
 medium through which thou canst influence him, and that 
 thou, at least, hast duties to perform towards him. 
 V Thus, it is not the operation of supposed external objects, 
 which indeed exist for ue, and we for them, only in so far 
 as we already know of them ; and just as little an empty
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 421 
 
 vision evoked by our own imagination and thought, the 
 products of which must, like itself, be mere empty pictures ; 
 it is not these, but the necessary faith in our own free- 
 dom and power, in our own real activity, and in the de- 
 finite laws of human action, which lies at the root of all 
 our consciousness of a reality external to ourselves ; a 
 consciousness which is itself but faith, since it is founded 
 on another faith, of which however it is a necessary conse- 
 quence. We are compelled to believe that we act, and that 
 we ought to act in a certain manner ; we are compelled to 
 assume a certain sphere for this action ; this sphere is the 
 real, actually present world, such as we fiod it ; and on 
 the other hand, the world is absolutely nothing more than, 
 and cannot in any way extend itself beyond, this sphere. 
 From this necessity of action proceeds the consciousness 
 of the actual world ; and not the reverse way, from the 
 consciousness of the actual world the necessity of action : 
 this, not that, is the first ; the former is derived from 
 the latter. We do not act because we know, but we know 
 because we are called upon to act : the practical reason 
 is the root of all reason. The laws of action for rational 
 beings are immediately certain; their world is certain 
 only through that previous certainty. We cannot deny 
 these laws without plunging the world, and ourselves with 
 it, into absolute annihilation ; we raise ourselves from 
 this abyss, and maintain ourselves above it, solely by our 
 moral activity. 
 
 II 
 
 There is something which I am called upon to do, simply 
 in order that it may be done ; something to avoid doing, 
 solely that it may be left undone. But can I act without 
 having an end in view beyond the action itself, without 
 directing my intention towards something which can be- 
 come possible by means of my action, and only by means
 
 422 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 of it ? Can I will without having something which I will ? 
 No ; this would be contradictory to the very nature of 
 my mind. To every action there is united in my thought, 
 immediately and by the laws of thought itself, a condition 
 of things placed in futurity, to which my action is related 
 as the efficient cause to the effect produced. But this 
 purpose or end of my action must not be proposed to me 
 for its own sake, perhaps through some necessity of 
 Nature, and my course of action be then determined ac- 
 cording to this end ; I must not have an end assigned to 
 me, and then inquire how I must act in order to attain 
 this end ; my action must not be dependent on the end : 
 I must act in a certain manner, simply because I ought 
 so to act ; this is the first point. That a result will fol- 
 low from this course of action is proclaimed by the voice 
 within me. This result necessarily becomes an end to me, 
 since J am bound to perform the action that brings it, and 
 it alone, to pass. I will that something shall come to pass, 
 because I must act so that it may come to pass ; just as 
 I do not hunger because food is before me but a thing 
 becomes food for me because I hunger, so I do not act as 
 I do because a certain end is to be attained, but the end 
 becomes an end to me because I am bound to act in the 
 manner by which it may be attained. I have not first in 
 view the point towards which I am to draw my line, and 
 then, by its position, determine the direction of my line 
 and the angle it shall make ; but I draw my line abso- 
 lutely in a right angle, and thereby the points are deter- 
 mined through which my line must pass. The end does 
 not determine the commandment ; but, on the contrary, 
 the immediate purport of the commandment determines 
 the end. 
 
 I say, it is the law which commands me to act that of 
 itself assigns an end to my action ; the same inward power 
 that compels me to think, that I ought to act thus compels 
 me also to believe that from my action some result will
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 423 
 
 arise ; it opens to my spiritual vision a prospect into 
 another world, which is indeed a world, a reality namely, 
 and not an action, but another and better world than 
 that which is present to the physical eye ; it constrains 
 me to aspire after this better world, to embrace it with 
 every power, to long for its realization, to live only in it, 
 and in it alone find satisfaction. The law itself is my gua- 
 rantee for the certain attainment of this end. The same 
 resolution by which I devote my whole thought and life 
 to the fulfilment of this law, and determine to see nothing 
 beyond it, brings with it the indestructible conviction 
 that the promise it implies is likewise true and certain, 
 and renders it impossible for me even to conceive the 
 possibility of the opposite. As I live in obedience to it, 
 so do I live also in the contemplation of its end, in that 
 better world which it promises to me. 
 
 Even in the mere consideration of the world as it is, 
 apart from this law, there arises within me the wish, the 
 desire, no, not the mere desire, but the absolute demand 
 for a better world. I cast a glance on the present relations 
 of men towards each other and towards Nature ; on the 
 feebleness of their powers, on the strength of their desires 
 and passions. A voice within me proclaims with irresis- 
 tible conviction "It is impossible that it can remain 
 thus ; it must become other and better." 
 
 I cannot think of the present state of humanity as that 
 in which it is destined to remain ; I am absolutely unable 
 to conceive of this as its complete and final vocation. 
 Then, indeed, were all a dream and a delusion ; and it 
 would not be worth the trouble to have lived, and played 
 out this ever-repeated game, which tends to nothing and 
 signifies nothing. Only in so far as I can regard this state 
 as the means towards a better, as the transition-point to 
 a higher and more perfect state, has it any value in my
 
 424 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 eyes ; not for its- own sake, but for the sake of that bet- 
 ter world for which it prepares the way, can I support it, 
 esteem it, and joyfully perform my part in it. My soul 
 can accept no place in the present, nor 1'est in it even for 
 a moment ; my whole being flows onward, incessantly and 
 irresistibly, towards that future and better state of things. 
 
 Shall I eat and drink only that I may hunger and 
 thirst and eat and drink again, till the grave which is 
 open beneath my feet shall swallow me up and I myself 
 become the food of worms ? Shall I beget beings like my- 
 self, that they too may eat and drink and die, and leave 
 behind them beings like themselves to do over again the 
 same things that I have done ? To what purpose this 
 ever-revolving circle, this ceaseless and unvarying round, 
 in which all things appear only to pass away, and pass 
 away only that they may re-appear as they were before ; 
 this monster continually devouring itself that it may 
 again bring itself forth, and bringing itself forth only that 
 it may again devour itself. ? 
 
 This can never be the vocation of my being, and of all 
 being. There must be something which exists because it 
 has come into existence ; and endures, and cannot come 
 anew, having once become such as it is. And this abiding 
 existence must be produced amid the vicissitudes of the 
 transitory and perishable, maintain itself there, and be 
 borne onwards, pure and inviolate, upon the waves of 
 time. 
 
 Our race still laboriously extorts the means of its sub- 
 sistence and preservation from an opposing Nature. The 
 larger portion of mankind is still condemned through life 
 to severe toil in order to supply nourishment for itself 
 and for the smaller portion which thinks for it ; immor- 
 tal spirits are compelled to fix their whole thoughts and 
 endeavours on the earth that brings forth their food. It 
 still frequently happens that, when the labourer has com- 
 pleted his toil and has promised himself in return a lasting
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 425 
 
 endurance for himself and for his work, a hostile element 
 will destroy in a moment that which it has cost him years 
 of patient forethought and industry to accomplish, and the 
 assiduous and careful man is undeservedly made the prey 
 of hunger and misery ; often do floods, storms, volcanoes, 
 desolate whole countries, and works which bear the im- 
 press of a rational soul are mingled with their authors in 
 the wild chaos of destruction and death. Disease sweeps 
 into an untimely grave men in the pride of their strength 
 and children whose existence has as yet borne no fruit ; 
 pestilence stalks through blooming lands, leaves the few 
 who escape its ravages like lonely orphans bereaved of 
 the accustomed support of their fellows, and does all that 
 it can do to give back to the wilderness regions which the 
 labour of man has reclaimed from thence as a possession 
 to himself. Thus it is now, but thus it cannot remain for 
 ever. No work that bears the stamp of Reason, and has 
 been undertaken to extend her power, can ever be wholly 
 lost in the onward progress of the ages. The sacrifices 
 which the irregular violence of Nature extorts from 
 Reason, must at least exhaust, satiate, and appease that 
 violence. The same power which has burst out into law- 
 less fury, cannot again commit like excesses ; it cannot be 
 destined to renew its ravages ; by its own outbreak its 
 energies must henceforth and for ever be exhausted. All 
 those outbreaks of unregulated power before which hu- 
 man strength vanishes into nothing, those desolating 
 hurricanes, those earthquakes, those volcanoes, can be 
 nothing but the last struggles of the rude mass against 
 the law of regular, progressive, living, and systematic ac- 
 tivity to which it is compelled to submit in opposition 
 to its own undirected impulses ; nothing but the last 
 shivering strokes by which the perfect formation of' our 
 globe has yet to be accomplished. That resistance must 
 gradually become weaker and at length be worn out, 
 since, in the regulated progress of things, there can be 
 
 Hb
 
 426 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 nothing to renew its strength ; that formation must at 
 length be achieved and our destined dwelling-place be 
 made complete. Nature must gradually be resolved into 
 a condition in which her regular action may be calculated 
 and safely relied upon, and her power bear a fixed and 
 definite relation to that which is destined to govern it, 
 that of man. In so far as this relation already exists and 
 the cultivation of Nature has attained a firm footing, the 
 works of man, by their mere existence, and by an influence 
 altogether beyond the original intent of their authors, 
 shall again react upon Nature and become to her a new 
 vivifying principle. Cultivation shall quicken and ameli- 
 orate the sluggish and baleful atmosphere of primeval 
 forests, deserts, and marshes ; more regular and varied 
 cultivation shall diffuse throughout the air new impulses 
 to life and fertility ; and 'the sun shall pour his animating 
 rays into an atmosphere breathed by healthful, industrious, 
 and civilized nations. Science, first called into existence 
 by the pressure of necessity, shall afterwards calmly and 
 deliberately investigate the unchangeable laws of Nature 
 review its powers at large and learn to calculate their 
 possible manifestations ; and, while closely following the 
 footsteps of Nature in the living and actual world, form 
 for itself in thought a new ideal one. Every discovery 
 which Reason has extorted from Nature shall be main- 
 tained throughout the ages, and become the ground of 
 new knowledge for the common possession of our race. 
 Thus shall Nature ever become more and more intelligible 
 and transparent, even in her most secret depths ; human 
 power, enlightened and armed by human invention, shall 
 rule over her without difficulty, and the conquest, once 
 made, shall be peacefully maintained. This dominion of 
 man over Nature shall gradually be extended, until, at 
 length, no farther expenditure of mechanical labour shall 
 be necessary than what the human body requires for its 
 development, cultivation, and health ; and this labour shall
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 427 
 
 cease to be a burden ; for a reasonable being is not des- 
 tined to be a bearer of burdens. 
 
 But it is not Nature, it is Freedom itself, by which the 
 greatest and most terrible disorders incident to our race 
 are produced ; man is the crudest enemy of man. Law- 
 less hordes of savages still wander over vast wildernesses ; 
 they meet, and the victor devours his foe at the trium- 
 phal feast : or Avhere culture has at length united these 
 wild hordes under some social bond, they attack each other, 
 as nations, with the power which law and union have given 
 them. Defying toil and privation, their armies traverse 
 peaceful plains and forests ; they meet each other, and the 
 sight of their brethren is the signal for slaughter. Equipt 
 with the mightiest inventions of the human intellect, hos- 
 tile fleets plough their way through the ocean ; through 
 storm and tempest man rushes to meet his fellow-men 
 upon the lonely inhospitable sea ; they meet, and defy 
 the fury of the elements that they may destroy each other 
 -with their own hands. Even in the interior of states, 
 where men seem to be united in equality under the law, 
 it is still for the most part only force and fraud which 
 rule under that venerable name ; and here the warfare is 
 so much the more shameful that it is not openly declared 
 to be war, and the party attacked is even deprived of the 
 privilege of defending himself against unjust oppression. 
 Combinations of the few rejoice aloud in the ignorance, 
 the folly, the vice, and the misery in which the greater 
 number of their fellow-men are sunk, avowedly seek to re- 
 tain them in this state of degradation, and even to plunge 
 them deeper in it in order to perpetuate their slavery ; 
 nay, would destroy any one who should venture to en- 
 lighten or improve them. No attempt at amelioration 
 can anywhere be made without rousing up from slumber 
 a host of selfish interests to war against it, and uniting 
 even the most varied and opposite in a common hostility. 
 The good cause is ever the weaker, for it is simple, and
 
 428 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 can be loved only for itself ; the bad attracts each indi- 
 vidual by the promise which is most seductive to him ; 
 and its adherents, always at war among themselves, so 
 soon as the good makes its appearance, conclude a truce 
 that they may unite the whole powers of their wickedness 
 against it. Scarcely, indeed, is such an opposition needed, 
 for even the good themselves are but too often divided by 
 misunderstanding, error, distrust, and secret self-love, and 
 that so much the more violently, the more earnestly each 
 strives to propagate that which he deems to be the best ; 
 and thus internal discord dissipates a power which, even 
 when united, could scarcely hold the balance with evil. 
 One blames the other for rushing onwards with stormy 
 impetuosity to his object, without waiting until the way 
 shall have been prepared ; whilst he in turn is blamed 
 that, through hesitation and cowardice, he accomplishes 
 nothing, but allows all things to remain as they are, con- 
 trary to his better conviction, because for him the hour of 
 action never arrives : and only the Omniscient can de- 
 termine whether either of the parties in the dispute is in 
 the right. Every one regards the undertaking, the ne- 
 cessity of which is most apparent to him, and for the 
 prosecution of which he has acquired the greatest skill, 
 as most important and needful, as the point from which 
 all improvement must proceed ; he requires all good men 
 to unite their efforts with his, and to subject themselves 
 to him for the accomplishment of his particular purpose, 
 holding it to be treason to the good cause if they hold 
 back ; while they on the other hand make the same de- 
 mands upon him, and accuse him of similar treason for a 
 similar refusal. Thus do all good intentions among men 
 appear to be lost in vain disputations, which leave behind 
 them no trace of their existence ; while in the meantime 
 the world goes on as well, or as ill, as it can without human 
 effort, by the blind mechanism of Nature, and so will go 
 on for ever.
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 
 
 And so go on for ever ? No ; not so, unless the whole 
 existence of humanity is to be an idle game, without sig- 
 nificance and without end. It cannot be intended that 
 those savage tribes should always remain savage ; no race 
 can be born with all the capacities of perfect humanity 
 and yet be destined never to develope these capacities, 
 never to become more than that which a sagacious animal 
 by its own proper nature might become. Those savages 
 must be destined to be the progenitors of more powerful, 
 cultivated, and virtuous generations ; otherwise it is im- 
 possible to conceive of a purpose in their existence, or even 
 of the possibility of their existence in a world ordered 
 and arranged by reason. Savage races may become civi- 
 lized, for this has already occurred ; the most cultivated 
 nations of modern times are the descendants of savages. 
 Whether civilization is a direct and natural development 
 of human society, or is invariably brought about through 
 instruction and example from without, and the primary 
 source of all human culture must be sought in a super- 
 human guidance, by the same way in which nations 
 which once were savage have emerged into civilization, 
 will those who are yet uncivilized gradually attain it. 
 They must, no doubt, at first pass through the same dan- 
 gers and corruptions of a merely sensuous civilization by 
 which the civilized nations are still oppressed, but they 
 will thereby be brought into union with the great whole 
 of humanity and be made capable of taking part in its 
 further progress. 
 
 It is the vocation of our race to unite itself into one 
 single body, all the parts of which shall be thoroughly 
 known to each other, and all possessed of similar culture. 
 Nature, and even the passions and vices of men, have 
 from the beginning tended towards this end ; a great part 
 of the way towards it is already passed, and we may surely 
 calculate that this end, which is the condition of all further 
 progress, will in time be attained. Let us not ask of
 
 430 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 history if man, on the whole, has yet become purely moral ! 
 To a more extended, comprehensive, energetic freedom he 
 has certainly attained ; but hitherto it has been an almost 
 necessary result of his position that this freedom has been 
 applied chiefly to evil purposes. Neither let us ask 
 whether the aesthetic and intellectual culture of the 
 ancient world, concentrated on a few points, may not 
 have excelled in degree that of modern times ! It might 
 happen that we should receive a humiliating answer, and 
 that in this respect the human race has not advanced, but 
 rather seemed to retrograde, in its riper years. But let 
 us ask of history at what period the existing culture has 
 been most widely diffused, and distributed among the 
 greatest number of individuals; and we shall doubtless 
 find that from the beginning of history down to our own 
 day, the few light-points of civilization have spread them- 
 selves abroad from their centre, that one individual after 
 another, and one nation after another, has been embraced 
 within their circle, and that this wider outspread of cul- 
 ture is proceeding under our own eyes. And this is the 
 first point to be attained in the endless path on which 
 humanity must advance. Until this shall have been at- 
 tained, until the existing culture of every age shall have 
 been diffused over the whole inhabited globe, and our race 
 become capable of the most unlimited inter-communica- 
 tion with itself, one nation or one continent must pause 
 on the great common path of progress, and wait for the 
 advance of the others ; and each must bring as an offering 
 to the universal commonwealth, for the sake of which alone 
 it exists, its ages of apparent immobility or retrogression. 
 When that first point shall have been attained, when every 
 useful discovery made at one end of the earth shall be at 
 once made known and communicated to all the rest, then, 
 without further interruption, without halt or regress, with 
 united strength and equal step, humanity shall move on- 
 ward to a higher culture, of which we can at present form 
 no conception.
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 431 
 
 Within those singular associations, thrown together by 
 unreasoning accident, which we call States, after they 
 have subsisted for a time in peace, when the resistance 
 excited by yet new oppression has been lulled to sleep, 
 and the fermentation of contending forces appeased, 
 abuse, by its continuance, and by general sufferance, as- 
 sumes a sort of established form ; and the ruling classes, 
 in the uncontested enjoyment of their extorted privileges, 
 have nothing more to do but to extend them further, and 
 to give to this extension also the same established form. 
 Urged by their insatiable desires, they will continue from 
 generation to generation their efforts to acquire wider and 
 yet wider privileges, and never say " It is enough ! " until 
 at last oppression shall reach its limit, and become wholly 
 insupportable, and despair give back to the oppressed that 
 power which their courage, extinguished by centuries of 
 tyranny, could not procure for them. They will then no 
 longer endure any among them who cannot be satisfied to 
 stand and to abide on an equality with others. In order 
 to protect themselves against internal violence or new op- 
 pression, all will take on themselves the same obligations. 
 Their deliberations, in which, whatever a man may decide, 
 he decides for himself, and not for one subject to him 
 whose sufferings will never affect him and in whose fate 
 he takes no concern ; deliberations, according to which 
 no one can hope that it shall be he who is to practise a 
 permitted injustice, but every one must fear that he may 
 have to suffer it ; deliberations that alone deserve the 
 name of legislation, which is something wholly different 
 from the ordinances of combined lords to the countless 
 herds of their slaves ; these deliberations will necessarily 
 be guided by justice, and will lay the foundation of a true 
 State, in which each individual, from a regard for his own 
 security, will be irresistibly compelled to respect the se- 
 curity of every other without exception ; since, under the 
 supposed legislation, every injury which he should attempt
 
 432 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 to do to another would not fall upon its object but would 
 infallibly recoil upon himself. 
 
 By the establishment of this only true State, this firm 
 foundation of internal peace, the possibility of foreign war, 
 at least with other true States, is cut off. Even for its own 
 sake, even to prevent the thought of injustice, plunder, 
 and violence entering the minds of its own citizens, and 
 to leave them no possibility of gain, except by means of 
 industry and diligence within their legitimate sphere of 
 activity, every true state must forbid as strictly, prevent 
 as carefully, compensate as exactly, or punish as severely, 
 any injury to the citizen of a neighbouring state as to one 
 of its own. This law concerning the security of neigh- 
 bours is necessarily a law in every state that is not a 
 robber-state ; and by its operation the possibility of any 
 just complaint of one state against another, and conse- 
 quently every case of self-defence among nations, is en- 
 tirely prevented. There are no necessary, permanent, and 
 immediate relations of states, as such, with each other, 
 which should be productive of strife ; there are, as a rule, 
 only relations of the individual citizens of one state to 
 the individual citizens .of another ; a state can be injured 
 only in the person of one of its citizens; hut such injury 
 will be immediately compensated, and the aggrieved state 
 satisfied. Between states such as these, there is no rank 
 which can be insulted, no ambition which can be offended. 
 No officer of one state is authorised to intermeddle in the 
 internal affairs of another, nor is there any temptation for 
 him to do so, since he could not derive the slightest per- 
 sonal advantage from any such influence. That a whole 
 nation should determine, for the sake of plunder, to make 
 war on a neighbouring country, is impossible ; for in a 
 state where all are equal, the plunder could not become 
 the booty of a few, but must be equally divided amongst 
 all, and the share of no one individual could ever recom- 
 pense him for the trouble of the war. Only where the
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 433 
 
 advantage falls to the few oppressors, and the injury, the 
 toil, the expense, to the countless herd of slaves, is a war 
 of spoliation possible and conceivable. Not from states 
 like themselves could states such as these entertain any 
 fear of war ; only from savages, or barbarians whose lack 
 of skill to enrich themselves by industry impels them to 
 plunder ; or from enslaved nations driven by their mas- 
 ters to a war from which they themselves will reap no 
 advantage. In the former case, each individual civilized 
 state must already be the stronger through the arts of 
 civilization ; against the latter danger, the common advan- 
 tage of all demands that they should strengthen themselves 
 by union. No free state can reasonably suffer in its vi- 
 cinity associations governed by rulers whose interests would 
 be promoted by the subjugation of adjacent nations, and 
 whose very existence is therefore a constant source of dan- 
 ger to their neighbours ; a regard for their own security 
 compels all free states to transform all around them into 
 free states like themselves ; and thus, for the sake of their 
 own welfare, to extend the empire of culture over bar- 
 barism, of freedom over slavery. Soon will the nations 
 civilized or enfranchised by them find themselves placed 
 in the same relation towards others still enthralled by 
 barbarism or slavery in which the earlier free nations for- 
 merly stood towards them, and be compelled to do the 
 same things for these which were formerly done for them- 
 selves ; and thus, of necessity, by reason of the existence 
 of some few really free states, will the empire of civiliza- 
 tion, freedom, and with it universal peace, gradually em- 
 brace the whole world. 
 
 Thus, from the establishment of a just internal organiza- 
 tion, and of peace between individuals, there will neces- 
 sarily result integrity in the external relations of nations 
 towards each other, and universal peace among them. 
 But the establishment of this just internal organization, 
 and the emancipation of the first nation that shall be 
 
 ib
 
 434 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 truly free, arises as a necessary consequence from the 
 ever-growing oppression exercised by the ruling classes 
 towards their subjects, which gradually becomes insup- 
 portable,: a progress which may be safely left to the 
 passions and the blindness of those classes, even although 
 warned of the result. 
 
 In this only true state all temptation to evil, nay, even 
 the possibility of a man resolving upon a bad action with 
 any reasonable hope of benefit to himself, will be entirely 
 taken away ; and the strongest possible inducements will 
 be offered to every man to make virtue the sole object of 
 his life. 
 
 There is no man who loves evil because it is evil ; it is 
 only the advantages and enjoyments expected from it, 
 and which, in the present condition of humanity, do ac- 
 tually, in most cases, result from it, that are loved. So 
 long as this condition shall continue, so long as a premium 
 shall be set upon vice, a fundamental improvement of 
 mankind, as a whole can scarcely be hoped for. But in 
 a civil society constituted as it ought to be, as reason re- 
 quires it to be, as the thinker may easily describe it to . 
 himself although he may nowhere find it actually existing 
 at the present day, but as it must necessarily exist in the 
 first nation that shall really acquire true freedom, in 
 such a state of society evil will present no advantages, 
 but rather the most certain disadvantages, and self-love 
 itself will restrain the excess of self-love when it would 
 run out into injustice. By the unerring administration of 
 such a state every fraud or oppression practised upon 
 others, all self-aggrandizement at their expense, will not 
 merely be rendered vain, and all labour so applied fruit- 
 less, but such attempts would even recoil upon their au- 
 thor, and assuredly bring home to himself the evil which 
 he would cause to others. In his own land, out of his 
 own land, throughout the whole world, he could find no 
 one whom he might injure and yet go unpunished. But
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 435 
 
 it is not to be expected, even of a bad man, that he would 
 determine upon evil merely for the sake of such a resolu- 
 tion, although he had no power to carry it into effect and 
 nothing could arise from it but infamy to himself. The 
 use of liberty for evil purposes is thus destroyed; man 
 must resolve either to renounce his freedom altogether, 
 and patiently to become a mere passive wheel in the great 
 machine of the universe, or else to employ it for good. In 
 soil thus prepared good will easily prosper. When men 
 shall no longer be divided by selfish purposes, nor their 
 powers exhausted in struggles with each other, nothing 
 will remain for them but to direct their united strength 
 against the one common enemy which still remains unsub- 
 dued, resisting, uncultivated Nature. No longer estranged 
 from each other by private ends, they will necessarily 
 combine for this common object ; and thus there arises a 
 body everywhere animated by the same spirit and the 
 same love. Every misfortune to the individual, since it 
 can no longer be a gain to any other individual, is a mis- 
 fortune to the whole and to each individual member of 
 the whole ; and is felt with the same pain, and remedied 
 with the same activity, by every member ; every step in 
 advance made by one man is a step in advance made by 
 the whole race. Here, where the petty, narrow self of 
 mere individual personality is merged in the more com- 
 prehensive unity of the social constitution, each man truly 
 loves every other as himself, as~a^ member of this greater 
 self which now claims all his love, and of which he himself 
 is no more than a member, capable of participating only 
 in a common gain or in a common loss. The strife of evil 
 against good is here abolished, for here no evil can intrude. 
 The strife of the good among themselves for the sake of 
 good disappears now that they find it easy to love good 
 for its own sake alone and not because they are its authors ; 
 now that it has become all-important to them that the 
 truth should really be discovered, that the useful action
 
 436 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 should be done, but not at all by whom this may be 
 accomplished. Here each individual is at all times ready 
 to join his strength to that of others, to make it subordi- 
 nate to that of others ; and whoever is acknowledged by all 
 as most capable of accomplishing the greatest amount of 
 good, will be supported by all, and his success rejoiced in 
 by all with a common joy. 
 
 This is the purpose of our earthly life, which Reason sets 
 before us, and for the infallible attainment of which she 
 is our pledge and security. This is not an object given 
 to us only that we may strive after it for the mere purpose 
 of exercising our powers on something great, the real ex- 
 istence of which we may perhaps be compelled to abandon 
 to doubt ; it shall, it must be realized ; there must be a. 
 time in which it shall be accomplished, as surely as there 
 is a sensible world and a race of reasonable beings exis- 
 tent in time with respect to which nothing earnest and 
 rational is conceivable besides this purpose, and whose 
 existence becomes intelligible only through this purpose. 
 Unless all human life be metamorphosed into a~mere 
 theatrical display for the gratification of some malignant 
 spirit, who has implanted in poor humanity this inex- 
 tinguishable longing for the imperishable only to amuse 
 himself with its ceaseless pursuit of that which it can 
 never overtake, with its ever-repeated efforts, Ixion-like, 
 to embrace that which still eludes its grasp, with its restless 
 hurrying on in an ever-recurring circle ; only to mock its 
 earnest aspirations with an empty, insipid farce ; unless 
 the wise man, seeing through this mockery, and feeling 
 an irrepressible disgust at continuing to play his part in 
 it, is to cast life indignantly from him and make the 
 moment of his awakening to reason also that of his phy- 
 sical death; unless these things are so, this purpose
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 437 
 
 most assuredly must be attained. Yes ! it is attainable 
 in life, and through life, for Reason commands me to live: 
 it is attainable, for I am. 
 
 III. 
 
 But when this end shall have been attained, and hu- 
 manity shall at length stand at this point, what is there 
 then to do ? Upon earth there is no higher state than 
 this ; the generation which has once reached it, can do 
 no more than abide there, steadfastly maintain its posi- 
 tion, die, and leave behind it descendants who shall do the 
 like, and who will again leave behind them descendants 
 to follow in their footsteps. Humanity would thus stand 
 still upon her path ; and therefore her earthly end cannot 
 be her highest end. This earthly end is conceivable, at- 
 tainable, and finite. Even although we consider all pre- 
 ceding generations as means for the attainment of the 
 last complete one, we do not thereby escape the question 
 of earnest reason, to what end then is this last one ? 
 Since a Human Race has appeared upon earth, its exis- 
 tence there must certainly be in accordance with, and not 
 contrary to, reason ; and it must attain all the develop- 
 ment which it is possible for it to attain on earth. But 
 why should such a race have an existence at all, why 
 may it not as well have remained in the womb of chaos ? 
 Reason is not for the sake of existence, but existence for 
 the sake of Reason. An existence which does not of itself 
 satisfy reason and solve all her questions cannot by pos- 
 sibility be the highest being. 
 
 And, then, are those actions which are commanded by 
 the voice of conscience by that voice whose dictates I 
 never dare to criticise, but must always obey in silence 
 are those actions, in reality, always the means, and the
 
 438 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 only means, for the attainment of the earthly purpose of 
 humanity ? That I cannot do otherwise than refer them 
 to this purpose, and dare not have any other object in 
 view to be attained by means of them, is incontestible. 
 But then are these, my intentions, always fulfilled ? is 
 it enough that we will what is good, in order that it may 
 happen ? Alas ! many virtuous resolutions are entirely 
 lost for this world, and others appear even to hinder the 
 purpose which they were designed to promote. On the 
 other hand, the most despicable passions of men, even 
 their vices and their crimes, often forward more certainly 
 the good cause than the endeavours of the virtuous man 
 who will never do evil that good may come ! It seems 
 that the Highest Good of the world pursues its course of 
 increase and prosperity independently of all human vir- 
 tues or vices, according to its own laws, through an in- 
 visible and unknown Power, just as the heavenly bodies 
 run their appointed course independently of all human 
 effort ; and that this Power carries along wibh it, in its 
 own great plan, all human intentions good and bad, and, 
 with over-ruling wisdom, employs for its own purpose 
 that which was undertaken for other ends. 
 
 Thus, even if the attainment of this earthly end could 
 be the purpose of our existence, and every doubt which 
 reason could start with regard to it were silenced, yet 
 would this end not be ours, but the end of that unknown 
 power. We do not know at any given moment what is 
 most conducive to this end ; and nothing is left to us but 
 to give by our actions some material, no matter what, for 
 this power to work upon, and to leave to it the task of 
 elaborating this material to its own purposes. It would, 
 in that case, be our highest wisdom not to trouble our- 
 selves about matters that do not concern us ; to live ac- 
 cording to our own fancy or inclinations, and quietly leave 
 the consequences to that unknown power. The moral law 
 within us would be void and superfluous, and absolutely
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 439 
 
 unfitted to a being destined to nothing higher than this. 
 In order to be at one with ourselves, we should have to 
 refuse obedience to that law, and to suppress it as a per- 
 verse and foolish fanaticism. 
 
 No ! I will not refuse obedience to the law of duty ; 
 as surely as I live and am, I will obey, absolutely because 
 it commands. This resolution shall be first and highest 
 in my mind; that to which everything"else must conform, 
 but which is itself dependent'on nothing else ; this shall 
 be the innermost principle of my spiritual life. 
 
 But, as a reasonable being, before whom a purpose must 
 be set solely by its own will and determination, it is im- 
 possible for me to act without a motive and without an 
 end. If this obedience is to be recognised by me as a 
 reasonable service, if the voice which demands this 
 obedience be really that of the creative reason within me, 
 and not a mere fanciful enthusiasm, invented by my own 
 imagination, or communicated to me somehow from with- 
 out, this obedience must have some consequences, must 
 serve some end. It is evident that it does not serve the 
 purpose of the world of sense ; hence there must be a 
 super-sensual world whose purposes it does serve. 
 
 The mist of delusion clears away from before my sight ! 
 I receive a new organ, and a new world opens before me. 
 It is disclosed to me only by the law of reason, and an- 
 swers only to that law in my spirit. I apprehend this 
 world limited as I am by my sensuous view I must thus 
 name the unnameable I apprehend this world merely in 
 and through the end which my obedience demands ; it 
 is in reality nothing else than this necessary end itself 
 which reason annexes to the law of dutv.
 
 440 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 Setting aside everything else, how could I suppose that 
 this law had reference to the world of sense, or that the 
 whole end and object of the obedience which it demands 
 is to be found within that world, since that in which alone 
 this obedience consists serves no purpose whatever in that 
 world, can never become a cause in it, and can never pro- 
 duce results. In the world of sense, which proceeds on a 
 chain of material causes and effects, and in which what- 
 ever happens depends merely on that which preceded 
 it, it is never of any moment how, and with what motives 
 and intentions, an action is performed, but only what the 
 action is. 
 
 Had it been the sole purpose of our existence to pro- 
 duce an earthly condition of our race, there would have 
 been required only an unercing mechanism by which our 
 outward actions might have been determined, we need 
 have been no more than wheels well fitted to the great 
 machine. Freedom would have been not merely vain, 
 but even obstructive ; a virtuous will wholly superfluous. 
 The world would, in that case, have been most unskilfully 
 directed, and attain the purposes of its existence by waste- 
 ful extravagance and circuitous byeways. Hadst thou, 
 mighty World-Spirit ! withheld from us this freedom 
 which thou art now constrained to adapt to thy plans with 
 labour and contrivance ; hadst thou rather at once com- 
 pelled us to act in the way in which thy plans required 
 that we should act, thou wouldst have attained thy pur- 
 poses by a much shorter way, as the humblest of the 
 dwellers in these thy worlds can tell thee. But I am free ; 
 and therefore such a chain of causes and effects, in which 
 freedom is absolutely superfluous and without aim, cannot 
 exhaust my whole nature. I must be free; for it is not 
 the mere mechanical act, but the free determination of 
 free will, for the sake of duty and for the ends of duty 
 only, thus speaks the voice of conscience within us, 
 this alone it is which constitutes our true worth. The
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 441 
 
 bond with which this law of duty binds me is a bond for 
 living spirits only ; it disdains to rule over a dead me- 
 chanism, and addresses its decrees only to the living and 
 the free. It requires of me this obedience; this obe- 
 dience cannot be nugatory or superfluous. 
 
 And now the Eternal World rises before me more 
 brightly, and the fundamental law of its order stands 
 clearly and distinctly apparent to my mental vision. In 
 this world, will alone, as it lies concealed from mortal eye 
 in the secret obscurities of the soul, is the first link in a 
 chain of consequences that stretches through the whole 
 invisible realms of spirit; as, in the physical world, action 
 a certain movement of matter is the first link in a 
 material chain that runs through the whole system of 
 nature. The will is the efficient, living principle of the 
 world of reason, as motion is the efficient, living principle 
 of the world of sense. I stand in the centre of two en- 
 tirely opposite Avorlds : a visible world, in which action is 
 the only moving power ; and an invisible and absolutely* 
 incomprehensible world, in which will is the ruling prin- 
 ciple. I am one of the primitive forces of both these 
 worlds. My will embraces both. This will is, in itself, a 
 constituent element of the super-sensual world ; for as I 
 move it by successive resolutions I move and change some- 
 thing in that world, throughout which my activity thus 
 extends itself giving birth to new and ever-enduring re- 
 sults which henceforward possess a real existence and need 
 not be again produced. This will may break forth in a 
 material act, and this act belongs to the world of sense 
 and does there that which pertains to a material act to do. 
 
 It is not necessary that I should first be severed from 
 the terrestrial world before I can obtain admission into 
 the celestial one ; I am and live in it even now, far more 
 truly than in the terrestrial ; even now it is my only sure 
 
 Kb
 
 442 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 foundation, and the eternal life on the possession of which 
 I have already entered is the only ground \vhy I should 
 still prolong this earthly one. That which we call heaven 
 does not lie beyond the grave ; it is even here diffused 
 around us, and its light arises in every pure heart. My 
 will is mine, and it is the only thing that is wholly mine 
 and entirely dependent on myself; and through it I have 
 already become a citizen of the realm of freedom and of 
 pure spiritual activity. What determination of my will 
 of the only thing by which I am raised from earth into 
 this region is best adapted to the order of the spiritual 
 world, is proclaimed to me at every moment by my con- 
 science, the. bond that constantly unites me to it; and it 
 depends solely on myself to give my activity the appointed 
 direction. Thus I cultivate myself for this world ; labour 
 in it, and for it, in cultivating one of its members ; in it, 
 and only in it, pursue my purpose according to a settled 
 plan, without doubt or hesitation, certain of the result, 
 since here no foreign power stands opposed to my free 
 will. That, in the world of sense my will, truly so called, 
 also becomes an action, is but the law of this sensuous 
 world. I did not send forth the act as I did the will ; 
 only the latter was wholly -and purely my work, it was 
 all that proceeded forth from me. It was not even neces- 
 sary that there should be another particular act on my 
 part to unite the deed to the will ; the deed unites itself 
 to it according to the law of that second world with which 
 I am connected through my will, and in which this will is 
 likewise an original force, as it is in the first. I am in- 
 deed compelled, when I regard my will, determined ac- 
 cording to the dictates of conscience, as a fact and an 
 efficient cause in the world of sense, to refer it to that 
 earthly purpose of humanity as a means to the accom- 
 plishment of an end ; not as if I should first survey the 
 plan of the world and from this knowledge calculate what 
 I had to do; but the specific action, which conscience di-
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 443 
 
 rectly enjoins me to do, reveals itself to me at once as the 
 only means by which, in my position, I can contribute to 
 the attainment of that end. Even if it should afterwards 
 appear as if this end had not been promoted nay, if it 
 should even seem to have been hindered by my action, 
 yet I can never regret it, nor perplex myself about it, so 
 surely as I have truly obeyed my conscience in perform- 
 ing this act. Whatever consequences it may have in this 
 world, in the other world there can nothing but good re- 
 sult from it. And even in this world, should my action 
 appear to have failed of its purpose, my conscience for 
 that very reason commands me to repeat it in a manner 
 by which it may more effectually reach its end ; or, should 
 it seem to have hindered that purpose }t /0r that very reason 
 to make good the detriment and annihilate the untoward 
 result. I will as I ought, and the new deed follows. It 
 may happen that the consequences of this new action, in 
 the world of sense, may appear to me not more beneficial 
 than those of the first; but with respect to the other 
 world I retain the same calm assurance as before ; and in 
 the present it is again my bounden duty to make good 
 my previous failure by new action. And thus should it 
 still appear that, during my whole earthly life, I have not 
 advanced the good cause a single hair's-breadth in this 
 world, yet I dare not cease my efforts : after every unsuc- 
 cessful attempt I must still believe that the next will be 
 successful. But in the spiritual world no step is ever lost. 
 In short, I do not pursue the earthly purpose for its own 
 sake alone or as a final aim ; but only because my true 
 final aim, obedience to the law of conscience, does not 
 present itself to me in this world in any other shape than 
 as the advancement of this end. I may not cease to pur- 
 sue it unless I were to deny the law of duty, or unless 
 that law were to manifest itself to me, in this life, in some 
 other shape than as a commandment to promote this pur- 
 pose in my own place ; I shall actually cease to pursue
 
 444 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 it in another life in which that commandment shall have 
 set before me some other purpose wholly incomprehen- 
 sible to me here. In this life, I must will to promote it, 
 because I must obey ; whether it be actually promoted 
 by the deed that follows my will thus fittingly directed is 
 not my care ; I am responsible only for the will, (which 
 indeed in the world of sense can only have to do with the 
 earthly purpose) but not for the result. Previous to the 
 actual deed, I can never resign this purpose ; the deed, 
 when it is completed, I may resign, and repeat it, or im- 
 prove it. Thus do I live and labour, even here, in my 
 most essential nature and in my nearest purposes, only for 
 the other world ; and my activity for it is the only thing 
 of which I am completely ceitain ; in the world of sense 
 I labour only for the sake of the other, and only because 
 I cannot work for the other without at least willing to 
 work for the world of sense. 
 
 I will establish myself firmly in this, to me, wholly new 
 view of my vocation. The present life cannot be rationally 
 regarded as the sole purpose of my existence, or of the 
 existence of a human race in general ; there is something 
 in me, and there is something required of me, which finds 
 in this life nothing to which it can be applied, and which 
 is entirely superfluous and unnecessary for the attainment 
 of the highest objects that can be attained on earth. 
 There must therefore be a purpose in human existence 
 which lies beyond this life. But should the present life, 
 which is nevertheless imposed upon us, and which may 
 possibly be designed solely for the development of reason, 
 since even awakened reason commands us to maintain it 
 and to promote its highest purposes with all our powers, 
 should this life not prove entirely vain and ineffectual, 
 it must at least have relation to a future life, as means to 
 an end. Now there is nothing in this present life, the
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 445 
 
 ultimate consequences of which do not remain on earth, 
 nothing whereby we could be connected with a future 
 life, but only our virtuous will, which in this world, by 
 the fundamental laws thereof, is entirely fruitless. Only 
 our virtuous will can it, must it be, by which we can la- 
 bour for another life, and for the first and nearest objects 
 which are there revealed to us ; and it is the consequences, 
 invisible to us, of this virtuous will, through which we 
 first acquire a firm standing-point in that life, whence we 
 may then advance in a farther course of progress. 
 
 That our virtuous will in, and for and through itself, 
 must have consequences, we know already in this life, for 
 reason cannot command anything which is without a pur- 
 pose ; but what these consequences may be, nay, how it 
 is even possible for a mere will to produce any effect at 
 all, as to this we can form no ' conception whatever, so 
 long as we are still involved in this material world ; and 
 it is true wisdom not to undertake an inquiry in which 
 we know beforehand that we cannot be successful. With 
 respect to the nature of these consequences, the present 
 life is therefore, in relation to the future, a life in faith. 
 In the future life, we shall possess these consequences, for 
 we shall then proceed from them as our starting-point, 
 and build upon them as our foundation ; and this other 
 life will thus be, in relation to the consequences of our 
 virtuous will in the present, a life in sight. In that other 
 life, we shall also have an immediate purpose set before 
 us, as we have in the present ; for our activity must not 
 cease. But we remain finite beings, and for finite beings 
 there is but finite, determinate activity ; and every deter- 
 minate act has a determinate end. As, in the present 
 life, the actually existing world as we find it around us, 
 the fitting adjustment of this world to the work we have 
 to do in it, the degree of culture and virtue already at-
 
 446 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 tained by men, and our own physical powers, as these 
 stand related to the purposes of this life, so, in the future 
 life, the consequences of our virtuous will in the present 
 shall stand related to the purposes of that other existence. 
 The present is the beginning of our existence ; the en- 
 dowments requisite for its purpose, and a firm footing in 
 it, have been freely bestowed on us : the future is the 
 continuation of this existence, and in it we must acquire 
 for ourselves a beginning, and a definite standing-point. 
 
 And now the present life no longer appears vain and 
 useless ; for this and this alone it is given to us that we 
 may acquire for ourselves a firm foundation in the future 
 life, and only by means of this foundation is it connected 
 with our whole eternal existence. It is very possible, that 
 the immediate purpose of this second life may prove as 
 unattainable by finite powers, with certainty and after a 
 fixed plan, as the purpose of the present life is now ; and 
 that even there a virtuous will may appear superfluous 
 and without result. But it can never be lost there, any 
 more than here, for it is the eternal and unalterable com- 
 mand of reason. Its necessary efficacy would, in that case, 
 direct us to a third life, in which the consequences of our 
 virtuous will in the second life would become visible ; a 
 life which during the second life would again be believed 
 in through faith, but with firmer, more unwavering confi- 
 dence, since we should already have had practical experi- 
 ence of the truthfulness of reason, and have regained the 
 fruits of a pure heart which had been faithfully garnered 
 up in a previously completed life. 
 
 As in the present life it is only from the command of 
 conscience to follow a certain course of action that there 
 arises our conception of a certain purpose in this action, 
 and from this our whole intuitive perception of a world of 
 sense ; so in the future, upon a similar, but now to us 
 wholly inconceivable command, will be founded our con- 
 ception of the immediate purpose of that life ; and upon
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 447 
 
 this, again, our intuitive perception of a world in which 
 we shall set out from the consequences of our virtuous will 
 in the present life. The present world exists for us only 
 through the law of duty ; the other will be revealed to us, 
 in a similar manner, through another command of duty ; 
 for in no other manner can a world exist for any reasonable 
 being. 
 
 This, then, is my whole sublime vocation, my true 
 nature. I am a member of two orders : the one purely 
 spiritual, in which I rule by my will alone ; the other 
 sensuous, in which I operate by my deed. The sole end 
 of reason is pure activity, absolutely by itself alone, having 
 no need of any instrument out of itself, independence of 
 everything which is not reason, absolute freedom. The 
 will is the living principle of reason, is itself reason, 
 when purely and simply apprehended ; that reason is 
 active by itself alone, means that pure will, merely as 
 such, lives and rules. It is only the Infinite Reason that 
 lives immediately and wholly in this purely spiritual order. 
 The finite reason, which does not of itself constitute the 
 world of reason, but is only one of its many members, 
 lives necessarily at the same time in a sensuous order ; 
 that is to say, in one which presents to it another object 
 beyond a purely spiritual activity : a material object, to 
 be promoted by instruments and powers which indeed 
 stand under the immediate dominion of the will, but 
 whose activity is also conditioned by their own natural 
 laws. Yet as surely as reason is reason, must the will 
 operate absolutely by itself, and independently of the 
 natural laws by which the material action is determined ; 
 and hence the sensuous life of every finite being points 
 towards a higher, into which the will, by itself alone, may 
 open the way, and of which it may acquire possession, 
 a possession which indeed we are again constrained to 
 conceive of sensuously as a state, and not as a mere will.
 
 448 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 These two orders, the purely spiritual and the sensuous, 
 the latter consisting possibly of an innumerable series of 
 particular lives, have existed for rne since the first mo- 
 ment of the development of an active reason within me, 
 and still continue parallel to each other. The latter order 
 is only a phenomenon for myself, and for those with whom 
 I am associated in this life ; the former alone gives it sig- 
 nificance, purpose, and value. I am immortal, imperish- 
 able, eternal, as soon as I form the resolution to obey the 
 laws of reason ; I do not need to become so. The super- 
 sensual world is no future world ; it is now present ; it 
 can at no point of finite existence be more present than 
 at another ; not more present after an existence of myriads 
 of lives than at this moment. My sensuous existence may, 
 in future, assume other forms, but these will be just as 
 little the true life as its present form. By that resolution 
 I lay hold on eternity, and cast off this earthly life and all 
 other forms of sensuous life which may yet lie before me 
 in futurity, and place myself far above them. I become 
 the sole source of my own being and its phenomena, and, 
 henceforth, unconditioned by anything without me, I have 
 life in myself. My will, directed by no foreign agency in 
 the order of the super-sensual world but by myself alone, 
 is this source of true life, and of eternity. 
 
 But it is my will alone which is this source of true life 
 and of eternity : only by recognising this will as the true 
 seat of moral goodness, and by actually raising it thereto, 
 do I obtain the assurance and the possession of that super- 
 sensual world. 
 
 Without regard to any conceivable or visible object, 
 without inquiry as to whether my will may be followed by 
 any result other than the mere volition, I must will in 
 accordance with the moral law. My will stands alone, 
 apart from all that is not itself, and is its own world 
 merely by itself and for itself; not only as being itself an 
 absolutely first, primary and original power, before which
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 449 
 
 there is no preceding influence by which it may be governed, 
 but also as being followed by no conceivable or compre- 
 hensible second step in the series, by which its activity 
 may be brought under the dominion of a foreign law. Did 
 there proceed from it any second, and from this again a 
 third result, and so forth, in any conceivable sensuous 
 world distinct from the spiritual world, then would its 
 strength be broken by the resistance of the independent 
 elements which such a world would set in motion ; the 
 mode of its activity would no longer exactly correspond 
 to the purpose expressed in the volition ; and the will 
 would be no longer free, but be in so far limited by the 
 laws of its heterogeneous sphere of action. And thus must 
 I actually regard the will in the present sensuous world, 
 the only one known to me. I am indeed compelled to 
 believe, and consequently to act as if I thought, that by 
 my mere volition my tongue, my hand, or my foot, may be 
 set in motion ; but how a mere aspiration, an impress of 
 intelligence upon itself, such as will is, can be the principle 
 of motion to a heavy material mass, this I not only find 
 it impossible to conceive, but the mere assertion is, before 
 the tribunal of the understanding, a palpable absurdity ; 
 here the movement of matter, even in myself, can be 
 explained only by the internal forces of matter itself. 
 
 Such a view of my will as I have taken, can, however, 
 be attained only through an intimate conviction that it is 
 not merely the highest active principle for this world, 
 which it certainly might be, without having freedom in 
 itself, by the mere energy of the system of the universe, 
 such as we must conceive of the formative power in 
 Nature, but that it absolutely disregards all earthly 
 objects, and generally all objects lying out of itself, and\/ 
 recognises itself, for its own sake, as its own ultimate end. 
 But by such a view of my will I am at once directed to a 
 super-sensual order of things, in which the will, by itself 
 alone and without any instrument lying out of itself, be- 
 
 Lb
 
 450 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 comes an efficient cause in a sphere which, like itself, is 
 purely spiritual, and is thoroughly accessible to it. That 
 moral volition is demanded of us absolutely for its own 
 sake alone, a truth which I discover only as a fact in my 
 inward consciousness, and to the knowledge of which I 
 cannot attain in any other way : this was the first step 
 of my thought. That this demand is reasonable, and the 
 source and standard of all else that is reasonable ; that it 
 is not modelled upon any other thing whatever, but that 
 all other things must, on the contrary, model themselves 
 upon it, and be dependent upon it, a conviction which 
 also I cannot arrive at from without, but can attain only 
 by inward experience, by means of the unhesitating and 
 immovable assent which I freely accord to this demand : 
 this was the second step of my thought. And from these 
 two terms I have attained to faith in a super-sensual 
 Eternal World. If I abandon the former, the latter falls 
 to the ground. If it were true, as many say it is, 
 assuming it without farther proof as self-evident and ex- 
 tolling it as the highest summit of human wisdom, that 
 all human virtue must have before it a certain definite 
 external object, and that it must first be assured of the 
 possibility of attaining this object, before it can act and 
 before it can become virtue ; that, consequently, reason by 
 no means contains within itself the principle and the 
 standard of its own activity, but must receive this stan- 
 dard from without through contemplation of an external 
 world ; if this were true, then might the ultimate end of 
 our existence be accomplished here below ; human nature 
 might be completely developed and exhausted by our 
 earthly vocation, and we should have no rational ground 
 for raising our thoughts above the present life. 
 
 But every thinker who has anywhere acquired those 
 first principles historically, moved perhaps only by a mere
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 451 
 
 love of the new and unusual, and who is able to prosecute 
 a correct course of reasoning from them, might speak and 
 teach as I have now spoken to myself. He would then 
 present us with the thoughts of .some other being, not with 
 his own ; everything would float before him empty and 
 without significance, because he would be without the 
 sense whereby he might apprehend its reality. He is a 
 blind man, who, upon certain true principles concerning 
 colours which he has learned historically, has built a per- 
 fectly correct theory of colour, notwithstanding that there 
 is in reality no colour existing for him ; he can tell how, 
 under certain conditions, it must be ; but to him it is not 
 so, because he does not stand under these conditions. The 
 faculty by which we lay hold on Eternal Life is to be at- 
 tained only by actually renouncing the sensuous and its 
 objects, and sacrificing them to that law which takes cog- 
 nizance of our will only and not of our actions ; renoun- 
 cing them with the firmest conviction that it is reasonable 
 for us to do so, nay, that it is the only thing reasonable 
 for us. By this renunciation of the Earthly, does faith in 
 the Eternal first arise in our soul, and is there enshrined 
 apart, as the only support to which we can cling after we 
 have given up all else, as the only animating principle 
 that can elevate our minds and inspire our lives. We 
 must indeed, according to the figure of a sacred doctrine, 
 first " die unto the world and be born again, before we 
 can enter the kingdom of God." 
 
 I see Oh I now see clearly before me the cause of my 
 former indifference and blindness concerning spiritual 
 things ! Absorbed by mere earthly objects, lost in them 
 with all our thoughts and efforts, moved and urged on- 
 ward only by the notion of a result lying beyond ourselves, 
 by the desire of such a result and of our own enjoyment 
 therein, insensible and dead to the pure impulse of rea-
 
 452 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 son, which gives a law to itself, and offers to our aspira- 
 tions a purely spiritual end, the immortal Psyche 
 remains with fettered pinions fastened to the earth. Our 
 philosophy becomes the history of our own heart and life ; 
 and according to what we ourselves are do we conceive of 
 man and his vocation. Never impelled by any other mo- 
 tive than the desire after what can be actually realized in 
 this world, there is for us no true freedom, no freedom 
 which holds the ground of its determination absolutely 
 and entirely within itself. Our freedom is, at best, that 
 of the self-forming plant ; not essentially higher in its na- 
 ture, but only more elaborate in its results ; not producing 
 a mere material form with roots, leaves, and blossoms, but 
 a mind with impulses, thoughts, and actions. We cannot 
 have the slightest conception of true freedom, because we 
 do not ourselves possess it ; when it is spoken of, we either 
 bring down what is said to the level of our own notions, 
 or at once declare all such talk to be nonsense. Without 
 the idea of freedom, we are likewise without the faculty 
 for another world. Everything of this kind floats past 
 before us like words that are not addressed to us ; like a 
 pale shadow, without colour or meaning, which we know 
 not how to lay hold of or retain. We leave it as we find 
 it, without the least participation or sympathy. Or should 
 we ' ever be urged by a more active zeal to consider it 
 seriously, we then convince ourselves to our own satis- 
 faction that all such ideas are untenable and worthless 
 reveries which the man of sound understanding unhesi- 
 tatingly rejects ; and according to the premises from which 
 we proceed, made up as they are of our inward experiences, 
 we are perfectly in the right, and secure from either refu- 
 tation or conversion so long as we remain what we are. 
 The excellent doctrines which are taught amongst us with 
 a special authority, concerning freedom, duty, and ever- 
 lasting life, become to us romantic fables, like those of 
 Tartarus and the Elysian fields ; although we do not
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 453 
 
 publish to the world this our secret opinion, because we 
 find it expedient, by means of these figures, to maintain 
 an outward decorum among the populace ; or, should we 
 be less reflective, and ourselves bound in the chains of au- 
 thority, then we sink to the level of the common mind, 
 and believing what, thus understood, would be mere foolish 
 fables, we find in those pure spiritual symbols only the 
 promise of continuing throughout eternity the same miser- 
 able existence which we possess here below. 
 
 In one word : only by the fundamental improvement 
 of my will does a new light arise within me concerning 
 my existence and vocation ; without this, however much 
 I may speculate, and with what rare intellectual gifts so- 
 ever I may be endowed, darkness remains within me and 
 around me. The improvement of the heart alone leads 
 to true wisdom. Let then my whole life be unceasingly 
 devoted to this one purpose. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My Moral Will, merely as such, in and through itself, 
 shall certainly and invariably produce consequences ; every 
 determination of my will in accordance with duty, although 
 no action should follow it, shall operate in another to me 
 incomprehensible world, in which nothing but this moral 
 determination of the will shall possess efficient activity. 
 What is it that is assumed in this conception ? 
 
 Obviously a Law ; a rule absolutely without exception, 
 according to which a will determined by duty must have 
 consequences ; just as in the material world which sur- 
 rounds me I assume a law according to which this ball, 
 when thrown by' my hand with this particular force, in 
 this particular direction, necessarily moves in such a di- 
 rection with a certain degree of velocity, perhaps strikes 
 another ball with a certain amount of force, which in its
 
 45-i THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 turn moves on with a certain velocity, and so on. As 
 here, in the mere direction and motion of my hand, I 
 already recognise and apprehend all the consequent direc- 
 tions and movements with the same certainty as if they 
 were already present before me ; even so do I embrace by 
 means of my virtuous will a series of necessary and in- 
 evitable consequences in the spiritual world as if they 
 were already present before me ; only that I cannot define 
 them as I do those in the material world, that is, I only 
 know that they must be, but not how they shall be ; and 
 even in doing this I conceive of a Law of the spiritual 
 world in which my pure will is one of the moving forces, 
 as my hand is one of the moving forces of the material 
 world. My own firm confidence in these results, and the 
 conceptions of this Law of a spiritual world, are one and 
 the same ; they are not two thoughts one of which arises 
 by means of the other, but they are entirely the same 
 thought ; just as the confidence with which I calculate on 
 a certain motion in a material body, and the conception 
 of a mechanical law of nature on which that motion de- 
 pends, are one and the same. The conception of a Law 
 expresses nothing more than the firm, immovable confi- 
 dence of reason in a principle, and the absolute impossi- 
 bility of admitting its opposite. 
 
 I assume such a law of a spiritual world, not given by 
 my will nor by the will of any finite being, nor by the will 
 of all finite beings taken together, but to which my will, 
 and the will of all finite beings, is subject. Neither I, nor 
 any finite and therefore sensuous being, can conceive how 
 a mere will can have consequences, nor what may be the 
 true nature of those consequences ; for herein consists the 
 essential character of our finite nature, that we are un- 
 able to conceive this, that having indeed our will, as such, 
 wholly within our power, we are yet compelled by our 
 sensuous nature to regard the consequences of that will 
 as sensuous states : how then can I, or any other finite
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 455 
 
 being whatever, propose to ourselves as objects, and there- 
 by give reality to, that which we can neither imagine nor 
 conceive ? I cannot say that, in the material world, my 
 hand, or any other body which belongs to that world and 
 is subject to the universal law of gravity, brings this law 
 into operation ; these bodies themselves stand under this 
 law, and are able to set another body in motion only in 
 accordance with this law, and only in so far as that body, 
 by virtue of this law, partakes of the universal moving 
 power of Nature. Just as little can a finite will give 
 a law to the super-sensual world which no finite spirit 
 can embrace ; but all finite wills stand under the law of 
 that world, and can produce results therein only inasmuch 
 as that law already exists, and inasmuch as they them- 
 selves, in accordance with the form of that law which is 
 applicable to finite wills, bring themselves under its con- 
 ditions and within the sphere of its activity by moral 
 obedience; by moral obedience, I say, the only tie which 
 unites them to that higher world, the only nerve that 
 descends from it to them, and the only organ through 
 which they can re-act upon it. As the universal power 
 of attraction embraces all bodies, and holds them together 
 in themselves and with each other, and the movement of 
 each separate body is possible only on the supposition of 
 this power, so does that super-sensual law unite, hold 
 together, and embrace all finite reasonable beings. My 
 will, and the will of all finite beings, may be regarded 
 from a double point of view : partly as a mere volition, 
 an internal act directed upon itself alone, ajid, in so far, 
 the will is complete in itself, concluded in this act of 
 volition ; partly as something beyond this, a fact. It 
 assumes the latter form to me, as soon as I regard it as 
 completed ; but it must also become so beyond me : in 
 the world of sense, as the moving principle, for instance, 
 of my hand, from the movement of which, again, other 
 movements follow ; in the super-sensual world, as the
 
 456 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 principle of a series of spiritual consequences of which I 
 have no conception. In the former point of view, as a 
 mere act of volition, it stands wholly within my own 
 power ; its assumption of the latter character, that of an 
 active first principle, depends not upon me, but on a law 
 to which I myself am subject; on the law of nature in 
 the world of sense, on a super-sensual law in the world of 
 pure thought. 
 
 What, then, is this law of the spiritual world which I 
 conceive ? This idea now stands before me in fixed and 
 perfect shape ; I cannot and dare not add anything what- 
 ever to it ; I have only to express and interpret it distinctly. 
 It is obviously not such as I may suppose the principle 
 of my own, or any other possible sensuous world, to be, 
 a fixed, inert existence, from which by the encounter of 
 a will some internal power may be evolved, something 
 altogether different from a mere will. For, and this is the 
 substance of my belief, my will, absolutely by itself, and 
 without the intervention of any instrument that might 
 weaken its expression, shall act in a perfectly congenial 
 sphere, reason upon reason, spirit upon spirit, in a 
 sphere to- which nevertheless it does not give the law of 
 life, activity, and progress, but which has that law in itself; 
 therefore upon self-active reason. But self-active reason 
 is will. The law of the super-sensual world must, there- 
 fore, be a Will : A Will which operates purely as will ; 
 by itself, and absolutely without any instrument or sen- 
 sible material of its activity ; which is at the same time 
 both act and product ; with whom to will is to do, to com- 
 mand is to execute ; in which therefore the instinctive 
 demand of reason for absolute freedom and independence 
 is realized : A Will, which in itself is law ; determined 
 by no fancy or caprice, through no previous reflection, 
 hesitation, or doubt : but eternal, unchangeable, on which 
 we may securely and infallibly rely, as the physical man 
 relies with certainty on the laws of his world : A Will in
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 457 
 
 which the moral will of finite beings, and this alone, has 
 sure and unfailing results ; since for it all else is unavail- 
 ing, all else is as if it were not. 
 
 That sublime Will thus pursues no solitary path with- 
 drawn from the other parts of the world of reason. There 
 is a spiritual bond between Him and all finite rational 
 beings ; and He himself is this spiritual bond of the 
 rational universe. Let me will, purely and decidedly, my 
 duty ; and He wills that, in the spiritual world at least, 
 my will shall prosper. Every moral resolution of a finite 
 being goes up before Him, and to speak after the manner 
 of mortals moves and determines Him, not in consequence 
 of a momentary satisfaction, but in accordance with the 
 eternal law of His being. With surprising clearness does 
 this thought, which hitherto was veiled in obscurity, now 
 reveal itself to my soul ; the thought that my will, 
 merely as such and through itself, shall have results. It 
 has results, because it is immediately and infallibly per- 
 ceived by another Will to which it is related, which is its 
 own accomplishment and the only living principle of the 
 spiritual world ; in Htm it has its first results, and through 
 Him it acquires an influence on the whole spiritual world, 
 which throughout is but a product of that Infinite Will. 
 
 Thus do I approach the mortal must speak in his own 
 language thus do I approach that Infinite Will ; and the 
 voice of conscience in my soul, which teaches me in every 
 situation of life what I have there to do, is the channel 
 through which again His influence descends upon me. 
 That voice, made audible by my environment and trans- 
 lated into my language, is the oracle of the Eternal World 
 which announces to me how I arn to perform my part in 
 the order of the spiritual universe, or in the Infinite Will 
 who is Himself that order. I cannot, indeed, survey or 
 comprehend that spiritual order, and I need not to do so ; 
 I am but a link in its chain, and can no more judge of 
 the whole, than a single tone of music can judge of the 
 
 M b
 
 458 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 entire harmony of which it forms a part. But what I 
 myself ought to be in this harmony of spirits I must know, 
 for it is only I myself who can make me so, and this is 
 immediately revealed to me by a voice whose tones de- 
 scend upon me from that other world. Thus do I stand 
 connected with the ONE who alone has existence, and 
 thus do I participate in His being. There is nothing real, 
 lasting, imperishable in me, save these two elements : 
 the voice of conscience, and my free obedience. By the 
 first, the spiritual world bows down to me and embraces 
 me as one of its members ; by the second, I raise myself 
 into this world, apprehend it, and re-act upon it. That 
 Infinite Will is the mediator between it and me ; for He 
 Himself is the original source of both it and me. This 
 is the one True and Imperishable for which my soul 
 yearns even from its inmost depths ; all else is mere ap- 
 pearance, ever vanishing, and ever returning in a new- 
 semblance. 
 
 This Will binds me in union with Himself; He also 
 binds me in union with all finite beings like myself, and 
 is the common mediator between us all. This is the great 
 mystery of the invisible world, and its fundamental law, 
 in so far as it is a world or system of many individual 
 wills : the union and direct reciprocal action of many 
 separate and independent wills ; a mystery which already 
 lies clearly before every eye in the present life, without 
 attracting the notice of any one, or being regarded as in 
 any way wonderful. The voice of conscience, which im- 
 poses on each his particular duty, is the light-beam on 
 which we come forth from the bosom of the Infinite, and 
 assume our place as particular individual beings ; it fixes 
 the limits of our personality ; it is thus the true original 
 element of our nature, the foundation and material of all 
 our life. The absolute freedom of the will, which we 
 bring down with us from the Infinite into the world of
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 459 
 
 Time, is the principle of this our life. I act : and, 
 the sensible intuition through which alone I become a 
 personal intelligence being supposed, it is easy to conceive 
 how I must necessarily know of this my action, I know 
 it because it is I myself who act ; it is easy to conceive 
 how, by means of this sensible intuition, my spiritual act 
 appears to me as a fact in the world of sense ; and how, 
 on the other hand, by the same intuition, the law of duty, 
 which in itself is a purely spiritual law, should appear to 
 me as the command to such an act ; it is easy to con- 
 ceive, how an actually present world should appear to me 
 as the condition of this act, and, in part, as the conse- 
 quence and product of it. Thus far I remain within my- 
 self and upon my own territory ; everything here which 
 has an existence for me, unfolds itself purely and solely 
 from myself ; I see everywhere only myself, and no true 
 existence out of myself. But in this my world I admit 
 also the operations of other beings, as separate and inde- 
 pendent of me as I am of them. How these beings can 
 themselves know of the influences which proceed from 
 them may easily be conceived ; they know of them in the 
 same way in which I know of my own. But how / can 
 know of them is absolutely inconceivable ; just as it is in- 
 conceivable how they can possess that knowledge of my 
 existence, and its manifestations, Avhich nevertheless I 
 ascribe to them. How do they come within my world, or 
 I within theirs, since the principle by which the con- 
 sciousness of ourselves, of our operations, and of their 
 sensuous conditions, is deduced from ourselves, i. e. that 
 each individual must undoubtedly know what he himself 
 does, is here wholly inapplicable ? How have free spirits 
 knowledge of free spirits, since we know that free spirits 
 are the only reality, and that an independent world of 
 sense, through which they might act on each other, is no 
 longer to be taken into account ? Or shall it be said, 
 I perceive reasonable beings like myself by the changes
 
 460 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 which they produce in the world of sense ? Then I ask 
 again, How dost thou perceive these changes ? I com- 
 prehend very well how thou canst perceive changes which 
 are brought about by the mere mechanism of nature ; for 
 the law of this mechanism is no other than the law of thy 
 own thought, according to which, this world being once 
 assumed, it is carried out into farther developments. But 
 the changes of which we now speak are not brought about 
 by the mere mechanism of nature, but by a free will ele- 
 vated above nature ; and only in so far as thou canst 
 regard them in this character, canst thou infer from them 
 the existence of free beings like thyself. Where then is 
 the law within thyself, according to which thou canst 
 realize the determinations of other wills absolutely inde- 
 pendent of thee ? In short, this mutual recognition and 
 reciprocal action of free beings in this world, is perfectly 
 inexplicable by the laws of nature or of thought, and can 
 be explained only through the One in -whom they are 
 united although to each other they are separate ; through 
 the Infinite Will who sustains and embraces them all in 
 His own sphere. Not immediately from thee to me, nor 
 from me to thee, flows forth the knowledge which we have 
 of each other ; we are separated by an insurmountable 
 barrier. Only through the common fountain of our spiri- 
 tual being do we know of each other ; only in Him do we 
 recognize each other and influence each other. " Here 
 reverence the image of freedom upon the earth ; here, a 
 work which bears its impress:" thus is it proclaimed 
 within me by the voice of that Will which speaks to me 
 only in so far as it imposes duties upon me ; and the 
 only principle through which I recognize thee and thy 
 work is the command of conscience to respect them. 
 
 Whence, then, our feelings, our sensible intuitions, our 
 discursive laws of thought, on all which is founded the 
 external world which we behold, in which we believe that 
 we exert an influence on each other ? With respect to
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 461 
 
 the two last our sensible intuitions and our laws of 
 thought to say these are laws of reason in itself, is only 
 to give no satisfactory answer at all. For us, indeed, who 
 are excluded from the pure domain of reason in itself, it 
 may be impossible to think otherwise, or to conceive of 
 reason under any other law. But the true law of reason 
 in itself is the practical law, the law of the super-sensual 
 world, or of that sublime Will. And, leaving this for a 
 moment undecided, whence comes our universal agreement 
 as to feelings, which, nevertheless, are something positive, 
 immediate, inexplicable ? On this agreement in feeling, 
 perception, and in the laws of thought, however, it depends 
 that we all behold the same external world. 
 
 " It is a harmonious, although inconceivable, limitation 
 of the finite rational beings who compose our race ; and 
 only by means of such a harmonious limitation do they 
 become a race :" thus answers the philosophy of mere 
 knowledge, and here it must rest as its highest point. 
 But what can set a limit to reason but reason itself? 
 what can limit all finite reason but the Infinite Reason ? 
 This universal agreement concerning a sensible world, 
 assumed and accepted by us as the foundation of all our 
 other life, and as the sphere of our duty which, strictly 
 considered, is just as incomprehensible as our unanimity 
 concerning the products of our reciprocal freedom, this 
 agreement is the result of the One Eternal Infinite Will. 
 Our faith, of which we have spoken as faith in duty, is 
 only faith in Him, in His reason, in His truth. What, 
 then, is the peculiar and essential truth which we accept 
 in the world of sense, and in which we believe ? Nothing 
 less than that from our free and faithful performance of 
 our duty in this world, there will arise to us throughout 
 eternity a life in which our freedom and morality may 
 still continue their development. If this be true, then 
 indeed is there truth in our world, and the only truth 
 possible for finite beings ; and it must be true, for this
 
 4G2 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 world is the result of the Eternal Will in us, and that 
 Will, by the law of His own being, can have no other 
 purpose with respect to finite beings than that which we 
 have set forth. 
 
 That Eternal Will is thus assuredly the Creator of the 
 World, in the only way in which He can be so, and in the 
 only way in which it needs creation : in the finite reason. 
 Those who regard Him as building up a world from an 
 everlasting inert matter, which must still remain inert 
 and lifeless, like a vessel made by human hands, not an 
 eternal procession of His self-development, or who ascribe 
 to Him the production of a material universe out of 
 nothing, know neither the world nor Him. If matter only 
 can be reality, then indeed there is nothing, and through- 
 out all eternity there can be nothing. Reason alone ex- 
 ists : the Infinite in Himself, the finite in Him and 
 through Him. Only in our minds has he created a world ; 
 at least that from which we unfold it, and that by which 
 we unfold it ; the voice of duty, and harmonious feelings, 
 intuitions, and laws of thought. It is His light through 
 which we behold the light and all that it reveals to us. 
 In our minds He still creates this world, and acts upon it 
 by acting upon our minds through the call of duty as 
 soon as another free being changes aught therein. In our 
 minds He upholds this world, and thereby the finite ex- 
 istence of which alone we are capable, by continually 
 evolving from each state of our existence other states in 
 succession. When He shall have sufficiently proved us 
 according to His supreme designs, for our next succeeding 
 vocation, and we shall have sufficiently cultivated our- 
 selves for entering upon it, then, by that which we call 
 death, will He annihilate for us this life, and introduce 
 us to a new life, the product of our virtuous actions. All 
 our life is His life." We are in His hand, and abide therein, 
 and no one can pluck us out of His hand. We are eter- 
 nal, because He is eternal.
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 463 
 
 Sublime and Living Will ! named by no name, com- 
 passed by no thought ! I may well raise my soul to Thee, 
 for Thou and I are not divided. Thy voice sounds within 
 me, mine resounds in Thee ; and all my thoughts, if they 
 be but good and true, live in Thee also. In Thee, the 
 Incomprehensible, I myself, and the world in which I live, 
 become clearly comprehensible to me ; all the secrets of 
 my existence are laid open, and perfect harmony arises in 
 my soul. 
 
 Thou art best known to the child-like, devoted, simple 
 mind. To it Thou art the searcher of hearts, who seest 
 its inmost depths; the ever-present true witness of its 
 thoughts, who knowest its truth, who knowest it though 
 all the world know it not. Thou art the Father who ever 
 desirest its good, who rulest all things for the best. To 
 Thy will it unhesitatingly resigns itself : " Do with me," 
 it says, "what Thou wilt; I know that it is good, for it is 
 Thou who doest it." The inquisitive understanding, which 
 has heard of Thee, but seen Thee not, would teach us Thy 
 nature ; and, as Thy image, shows us a monstrous and 
 incongruous shape, which the sagacious laugh at and the 
 wise and good abhor. 
 
 I hide my face before Thee, and lay my hand upon my 
 mouth. How Thou art, and seemest to Thine own being, 
 I can never know, any more than I can assume Thy na- 
 ture. After thousands upon thousands of spirit-lives, I 
 shall comprehend Thee as little as I do now in this earthly 
 house. That which I conceive becomes finite through 
 my very conception of it; and this can never, even by 
 endless exaltation, rise into the Infinite. Thou differest 
 from men, not in degree but in nature. In every stage 
 of their advancement they think of Thee as a greater man, 
 and still a greater; but never as God the Infinite, 
 whom no measure can mete. I have only this discursive, 
 progressive thought, and I can conceive of no other : 
 how can I venture to ascribe it to Thee ? In the Idea of
 
 464 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 person there are imperfections, limitations : how can I 
 clothe Thee with it without these ? 
 
 I will not attempt that which the imperfection of my 
 finite nature forbids, and which would be useless to me : 
 How Thou art, I may not know. But let me be what I 
 ought to be, and Thy relations to me the mortal and 
 to all mortals, lie open before my eyes, and surround me 
 more clearly than the consciousness of my own existence. 
 Thou workest in me the knowledge of my duty, of my vo- 
 cation in the world of reasonable beings ; how, I know 
 not, nor need I to know. Thou knowest what I think and 
 what I will : how Thou canst know, through what act 
 tbou bringest about that consciousness, I cannot under- 
 stand, nay, I know that the idea of an act, of a particu- 
 lar act of consciousness belongs to me alone, and not to 
 Thee, the Infinite One. Thou wiliest that my free obedi- 
 ence shall bring with it eternal consequences : the act of 
 Thy will I cannot comprehend, I only know that it is not 
 like mine. Thou doest, and Thy will itself is the deed ; 
 but the way of Thy working is not as my ways, I cannot 
 trace it. Thou Uvest and art, for Thou knowest and wiliest 
 and workest, omnipresent to finite Reason ; but Thou art 
 not as / now and always must conceive of being. 
 
 In the contemplation of these Thy relations to me, the 
 finite being, will I rest in calm blessedness. I know im- 
 mediately only what I ought to do. This will I do, freely, 
 joyfully, and without cavilling or sophistry, for it is Thy 
 voice which commands me to do it ; it is the part assigned 
 to me in the spiritual World-plan ; and the power with 
 which I shall perform it is Thy power. Whatever may 
 be commanded by that voice, whatever executed by that 
 power, is, in that plan, assuredly and truly good. I re- 
 main tranquil amid all the events of this world, for they 
 are in Thy world. Nothing can perplex or surprise or
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 4G5 
 
 dishearten me, as surely as Thou livest, and I can behold 
 Thy life. For in Thee, and through Thee, O Infinite 
 One! do I see even my present world in another light. 
 Nature and natural consequences in the destinies and 
 conduct of free beings become, in relation to Thee, empty 
 unmeaning words. Nature is no longer; Thou, only 
 Thou, art. It no longer appears to me to be the end and 
 purpose of the present world to bring about that state of 
 universal peace among men, and of unlimited dominion 
 over the mechanism of Nature, for its own sake alone, 
 but that this should be brought about by men themselves; 
 and since the duty is laid upon all, that it should be 
 brought about by all, as one great, free, moral, community. 
 Nothing new and better for an individual shall be attain- 
 able except through his own virtuous will ; nothing new 
 and better for a community except through the common 
 will being in accordance with duty: this is a funda- 
 mental law of the great moral empire of which the present 
 life is a part. The good will of the individual is thus 
 often lost to this world because it is only the will of the 
 individual, and the will of the majority is not in harmony 
 with his, and then its results are to be found solely in a 
 future world ; while even the passions and vices of men 
 cooperate in the attainment of good, not in and for 
 themselves, for in this sense good can never come out of 
 evil, but by holding the balance against the opposite 
 vices, and, at last, by their excess, annihilating these an- 
 tagonists and themselves with them. Oppression could 
 never have gained the upper hand in human affairs unless 
 the cowardice, baseness, and mutual mistrust of men had 
 Smoothed the way to it. It will continue to increase until 
 it extirpate cowardice and slavishness ; and despair itself 
 at last reawaken courage. Then shall the two opposite 
 vices have annihilated each other, and the noblest of all 
 human relations, lasting freedom, come forth from their 
 antagonism. 
 
 N b
 
 466 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 The actions of free beings, strictly considered, have re- 
 sults only in other free beings ; for in them, and for them 
 alone, there is a world ; and that in which they all accord 
 is itself the world. But they have these results only 
 through the Infinite Will, the medium through which 
 all individual beings influence each other. But the an- 
 nouncement, the publication of this Will to us, is always a 
 call to a particular duty. Thus even what we call evil in the 
 world, the consequence of the abuse of freedom, exists only 
 through this Will ; and it exists for those who experience 
 it only in so far as, through it, duties are laid upon them. 
 Were it not in the eternal plan of our moral culture, and 
 of the culture of our whole race, that precisely these duties 
 should be laid upon us they would not be so laid upon 
 us ; and that through which they are laid upon us i. e. 
 what we call evil would not even have arisen. In so 
 far, everything that is is good, and absolutely legitimate. 
 There is but one world possible, a thoroughly good world. 
 All that happens in this world is subservient to the im- 
 provement and' culture of man, and, by means of this, to 
 the promotion of the purpose of his earthly existence. It 
 is this higher World-plan whicn we call Nature, when we 
 say, Nature leads men through want to industry; through 
 the evils of general disorder to a just constitution ; through 
 the miseries of continual wars to endless peace on earth. 
 Thy will, O Infinite One ! thy Providence alone, is this 
 higher Nature. This, too, is best understood by artless 
 simplicity, when it regards this life as a place of trial and 
 culture, as a school for eternity ; when, in all the events 
 of life, the most trivial as well as the most important, it 
 beholds thy guiding Providence disposing all for the best ; 
 when it firmly believes that all things must work together 
 for the good of those who love their duty, and who know 
 Thee.
 
 BOOK 'III. FAITH. 467 
 
 Oh ! I have, indeed, dwelt in darkness during the past 
 days of my life ! I have indeed heaped error upon error, 
 and imagined myself wise ! Now, for the first time, do I 
 wholly understand the doctrine which from thy lips, O 
 Wonderful Spirit ! seemed so strange to me although my 
 understanding bad nothing to oppose to it ; for now, for 
 the first time, do I comprehend it in its whole compass, in 
 its deepest foundations, and through all its consequences. 
 
 Man is not a product of the world of sense, and the end 
 of his existence cannot be attained in it. His vocation 
 transcends Time and Space, and everything that pertains 
 to sense. What he is, and to what he is to train himself, 
 of that he must know ; as his vocation is a lofty one, he 
 must be able to raise his thoughts above the limitations 
 of sense. He must accomplish it : where his being finds 
 its home, there his thoughts too seek their dwelling-place ; 
 and the truly human mode of thought, that which alone -is 
 worthy of him, that in which his whole spiritual strength 
 is manifested, is that whereby he raises himself above 
 those limitations, whereby all that pertains to sense van- 
 ishes into nothing, into a mere reflection in mortal eyes 
 of the one, abiding Infinite. 
 
 Many have raised themselves to this mode of thought, 
 without scientific inquiry, merely by their nobleness of 
 heart and their pure moral instinct, because their lives 
 have been preeminently lives of feeling and sentiment. 
 They have denied, by their conduct, the efficiency and 
 reality of the world of sense, and made it of no account in 
 regulating their resolutions and their actions ; whereby 
 they have not indeed made it clear, by reasoning, that 
 this world has no existence for the intellect. Those who 
 could dare to say, "Our citizenship is in heaven; we have 
 here no continuing city, but we seek one to come ;" those 
 whose chief principle it was "to die to the world, to be 
 born again, and already here below to enter upon a new 
 life," certainly set no value whatever on the things of
 
 468 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 sense, and were, to use the language of the schools, prac- 
 tical Transcendental Idealists. 
 
 Others, who, besides possessing the natural proneness 
 to mere sensuous activity which is common to us all, have 
 also added to its power by the adoption of similar habits 
 of thought, until they have got wholly entangled in it, and 
 it has grown with their growth and strengthened with 
 their strength, can raise themselves above it, permanently 
 and completely, only by persistent and conclusive thought ; 
 otherwise, with the purest moral intentions, they would 
 be continually drawn down again by their understanding, 
 and their whole being would remain a prolonged and in- 
 soluble contradiction. For these, the philosophy which I 
 now, for the first time, thoroughly understand will be the 
 power that shall first set free the imprisoned Psyche and 
 unfold her wings, so that, hovering for a moment above 
 her former self, she may cast a glance on her abandoned 
 slough, and then soar upwards thenceforward to live and 
 move in higher spheres. 
 
 Blessed be the hour in which I first resolved to inquire 
 into myself and my vocation ! All my doubts are solved ; 
 I know what I can know, and have no apprehensions 
 regarding that which I cannot know. I am satisfied; 
 perfect harmony and clearness reign in my soul, and a 
 new and more glorious spiritual existence begins for me. 
 
 My entire complete vocation I cannot comprehend ; 
 what I shall be hereafter transcends all my thoughts. A 
 part of that vocation is concealed from me ; it is visible 
 only to One, to the Father of Spirits, to whose care it is 
 committed. I know only that it is sure, and that it is 
 eternal and glorious like Himself. But that part of it which 
 is confided to myself, I know, and know it thoroughly, for 
 it is the root of all my other knowledge. I know assuredly, 
 in every moment of my life, what I ought to do; and
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 469 
 
 this is my whole vocation in so far as it depends on me. 
 From this point, since my knowledge does not reach be- 
 yond it, I shall not depart ; I shall not desire to know- 
 aught beyond this ; I shall take my stand upon this cen- 
 tral point, and firmly root myself here. To this shall all 
 my thoughts and endeavours, my whole powers, be direc- 
 ted ; my whole existence shall be interwoven with it. 
 
 I ought, as far as in me lies, to cultivate my under- 
 standing and to acquire knowledge ; but only with the 
 purpose of preparing thereby within me a larger field and 
 wider sphere of duty. I ought to desire to have much ; 
 in order that much may be required of me. I ought to 
 exercise my powers and capacities in every possible way ; 
 but only in order to render myself a more serviceable 
 and fitting instrument of duty, for until the command- 
 ment shall have been realize4 in the outward world, by 
 means of my whole personality, I am answerable for it to 
 my conscience. I ought to exhibit in myself, as far as I am 
 able, humanity in all its completeness ; not for the mere 
 sake of humanity, which in itself has not the slightest 
 worth, but in order that virtue, which alone has worth in 
 itself, may be exhibited in its highest perfection in human 
 nature. I ought to regard myself, body and soul, with all 
 that is in me or that belongs to me, only as a means of 
 duty ; and only be solicitous to fulfil that, and to make 
 myself able to fulfil it, as far as in me lies. But when 
 the commandment, provided only that it shall have been 
 in truth the commandment which I have obeyed, and I 
 have been really conscious only of the pure, single inten- 
 tion of obeying it, when the commandment shall have 
 passed beyond my personal being to its realization in the 
 outward world, then I have no more anxiety about it, for 
 thenceforward it is committed into the hands of the Eter- 
 nal Will. Farther care or anxiety would be but idle self- 
 torment ; would be unbelief and distrust of that Infinite 
 Will. I shall never dream of governing the world in His"
 
 470 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 stead ; of listening to the voice of my own imperfect 
 wisdom instead of to His voice in my conscience ; or of 
 substituting the partial views of a short-sighted creature 
 for His vast plan which embraces the universe. I know 
 that thereby I should lose my own place in His order, 
 and in the order of all spiritual being. 
 
 As with calmness and devotion I reverence this higher 
 Providence, so in my actions ought I to reverence the free- 
 dom of other beings around me. The question for me is 
 not what they, according to my conceptions, ought to do ; 
 but what I may venture to do in order to induce them to 
 do it. I can only desire to act on their conviction and 
 their will as far as the order of society and their own 
 consent will permit ; but by no means, without their con- 
 viction and consent, to influence their powers and relations. 
 They do what they do on their own responsibility : with 
 this I neither can nor dare intermeddle, and the Eternal 
 Will will dispose all for the best. It concerns me more to 
 respect their freedom than to hinder or prevent what to 
 me seems evil in its use. 
 
 In this point of view I become a new creature, and my 
 whole relations to the existing world are changed. The 
 ties by which my mind was formerly united to this world, 
 and by whose secret guidance I followed all its movements, 
 are for ever sundered, and I stand free, calm and immov- 
 able, a universe to myself. No longer through my affec- 
 tions, but by my eye alone, do I apprehend outward 
 objects and am connected with them ; and this eye itself 
 is purified by freedom, and looks through error and de- 
 formity to the True and Beautiful, as upon the unruffled 
 surface of water shapes are more purely mirrored in a 
 milder light. 
 
 My mind is for ever closed against embarrassment and
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 471 
 
 perplexity, against uncertainty, doubt, and anxiety ; my 
 heart against grief, repentance, and desire. There is but 
 one thing that I may know, namely, what I oughrt to do ; 
 and this I always know infallibly. Concerning all else I 
 know nothing, and know that I know nothing. I firmly 
 root myself in this my ignorance, and refrain from harass- 
 ing myself with conjectures concerning that of which I 
 know nothing. No occurrence in this world can affect me 
 either with joy or sorrow ; calm and unmoved I look down 
 upon all things, for I know that I cannot explain a single 
 event, nor comprehend its connexion with that which alone 
 concerns me. All that happens belongs to the plan of the 
 Eternal World, and is good in its place ; thus much I 
 know : what in this plan is pure gain, what is only a 
 means for the removal of some existing evil, what there- 
 fore ought to afford me more or less satisfaction, I know 
 not. In His world all things prosper ; this satisfies me, 
 and in this belief I stand fast as a rock : but what in 
 His world is merely the germ, what the blossom and 
 what the fruit itself, I know not. 
 
 The only matter in which I can be concerned is the 
 progress of reason and morality in the world of reasonable 
 beings ; and this only for its own sake, for the sake of 
 this progress. Whether I or some one else be the instru- 
 ment of this progress, whether it be my deed or that of 
 another by which it is promoted or hindered, is of no im- 
 portance to me. I regard myself merely as one of the 
 instruments for carrying out the purpose of reason ; I re- 
 spect, love, or feel an interest in myself only as such an 
 instrument, and desire the successful issue of my deed only 
 in so far as it promotes this purpose. In like manner, I 
 regard all the events of this world only with reference to 
 this one purpose ; whether they proceed from me or from 
 others, whether they relate directly to me or to others. My 
 breast is steeled against annoyance on account of personal 
 offences and vexations, or exultation in personal merit;
 
 472 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 for my whole personality has disappeared in the contem- 
 plation of the purpose of my being. 
 
 Should it ever seem to me as if truth had been put to 
 silence, and virtue expelled from the world ; as if folly 
 and vice had now summoned all their powers, and even 
 assumed the place of reason and true wisdom ; should it 
 happen, that just when all good men looked with hope 
 for the regeneration of the human race, everything should 
 become even worse than it had been before ; should the 
 work, well and happily begun, on which the eyes of all 
 true-minded men were fixed with joyous expectation, sud- 
 denly and unexpectedly be changed into the vilest forms 
 of evil, these things will not disturb me ; and as little 
 will I be persuaded to indulge in idleness, neglect, or 
 false security, on account of an apparently rapid growth 
 of enlightenment, a seeming diffusion of freedom and 
 independence, an increase of more gentle manners, peace- 
 fulness, docility and general moderation among men, as if 
 now everything were attained. Thus it appears to me ; 
 or rather it is so it is actually so to me ; and I know 
 in both cases, as indeed I know in all possible cases, what 
 I have next to do. As to everything else, I rest in the 
 most perfect tranquillity, for I know nothing whatever 
 about any other thing. Those, to me, so sorrowful events 
 may, in the plan of the Eternal One, be the direct means 
 for the attainment of a good result ; that strife of evil 
 against good may be their last decisive struggle, and it 
 may be permitted to the former to assemble all its powers 
 for this encounter only to lose them, and thereby to ex- 
 hibit itself in all its impotence. These, to me, joyful 
 appearances may rest on very uncertain foundations ; 
 what I had taken for enlightenment may perhaps be but 
 hollow superficiality, and aversion to all true ideas ; what 
 I had taken for independence but unbridled passion ; what 
 I had taken for gentleness and moderation but weakness 
 and indolence. I do not indeed know this, but it might
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 473 
 
 be so ; and then I should have as little cause to mourn 
 over the one as to rejoice over the other. But I do know 
 that I live in a world which belongs to the Supreme Wis- 
 dom and Goodness, who thoroughly comprehends its plan, 
 and will infallibly accomplish it ; and in this conviction I 
 rest, and am blessed. 
 
 That there are free beings, destined to reason and 
 morality, who strive against reason and call forth all their 
 powers to the support of folly and vice ; just as little will 
 this disturb me and stir up within me indignation and 
 wrath. The perversity which would hate what is good 
 because it is good, .and promote evil merely from a love 
 of evil as such, this perversity which alone could excite 
 my just anger, I ascribe to no one who bears the form of 
 man, for I know that it does not lie in human nature. I 
 know that for all who act thus 'there is really, in so far 
 as they act thus, neither good nor evil, but only an agree- 
 able or disagreeable feeling ; that they do not stand un- 
 der their own dominion, but under the power of Nature ; 
 and that it is not themselves but this Nature in them 
 which with all its strength seeks the pleasure and flies 
 from the pain, without regard to whether it be otherwise 
 good or evil. I know that, being once for all what they 
 are, they cannot act in any respect otherwise than as they 
 do act, and I am very far from getting angry with neces- 
 sity, or indulging in wrath against blind and unconscious 
 Nature. Herein truly lies their guilt and unworthi- 
 ness, that they are what they are ; and that, in place of 
 being free and independent, they have resigned them- 
 selves to the current of mere natural impulse. 
 
 It is this alone which could excite my indignation ; but 
 here I should fall into absolute absurdity. I cannot call 
 them to account for their want of freedom, without first 
 attributing to them the power of making themselves free. 
 I wish to be angry with them, and find no object for my 
 wrath. What they actually are, does not deserve my 
 
 Ob
 
 474 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 anger; what might deserve it they are not, and they 
 would not deserve it if they were. My displeasure would 
 strike an impalpable nonentity. I must indeed always 
 treat them, and address them, as if they were what I well 
 know they are not ; I must always suppose in them that 
 whereby alone I can approach them and communicate with 
 them. Duty commands me to act towards them according 
 to a conception of them the opposite of that which I arrive 
 at by contemplating them. And thus it may certainly 
 happen that I turn towards them with a noble indigna- 
 tion, as if they were free, in order to arouse within them 
 a similar indignation against themselves, an indignation 
 which in my own heart I cannot reasonably entertain. It 
 is only the practical man of society within me whose anger 
 is excited by folly and vice ; not the contemplative man 
 who reposes undisturbed in the calm serenity of his own 
 spirit. 
 
 Should I be visited by corporeal suffering, pain, or dis- 
 ease, I cannot avoid feeling them, for they are accidents 
 of my nature ; and as long as I remain here below I am 
 a part of Nature. But they shall not grieve me. They 
 can only touch the Nature with which in a wonderful 
 manner I am united, not myself, the being exalted above 
 all Nature. The sure end of all pain, and of all sensibility 
 to pain, is death ; and of all things which the mere natural 
 man is wont to regard as evils, this is to me the least. I 
 shall not die to myself, but only to others ; to those who 
 remain behind, from whose fellowship I am torn : for 
 myself the hour of Death is the hour of Birth to .a new, 
 more excellent life. 
 
 Now that my heart is closed against all desire for earthly 
 things, now that I have no longer any sense for the transi- 
 tory and perishable, the universe appears before my eyes 
 clothed in a more glorious form. The dead inert mass, 
 which only filled up space, has vanished ; and in its place 
 there flows onward, with the rushing music of mighty
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 475 
 
 waves, an endless stream of life and power and action, 
 which issues from the original Source of all life from 
 Thy Life, O Infinite One ! for all life is Thy Life, and only 
 the religious eye penetrates to the realm of True Beauty. 
 
 I am related to Thee, and all that I behold around 
 me is related to me ; all is life and soul, and regards me 
 with bright spirit-eyes, and speaks with spirit-voices to my 
 heart. In all the forms that surround me, I behold the 
 reflection of my own being broken up into countless di- 
 versified shapes, as the morning sun, broken in a thousand 
 dew-drops, throws back its splendours to itself. 
 
 Thy Life, as alone the finite mind can conceive it, is 
 self-forming, self-manifesting Will : this Life, clothed to 
 the eye of the mortal with manifold sensible forms, flows 
 forth through me, and throughout the immeasurable 
 universe of Nature. Here it streams as self-creating and 
 self-forming matter through my veins and muscles, and 
 pours out its abundance into the tree, the plant, the grass. 
 Creative life flows forth in one continuous stream, drop on 
 drop, through all forms and into all places where my eye 
 can follow it ; it reveals itself to me, in a different shape in 
 each various corner of the universe, as the same power 
 by which in secret darkness my own frame was formed. 
 There, in free play, it leaps and dances as spontaneous 
 activity in the animal, and manifests itself in each new 
 form as a new, peculiar, self-subsisting world : the same 
 power which, invisibly to me, moves and animates my 
 own frame. Everything that lives and moves follows this 
 universal impulse, this one principle of all motion, which, 
 from one end of the universe to the other, guides the har- 
 monious movement; in 'the animal without freedom ; in 
 me, from whom in the visible world the motion proceeds 
 although it has not its source in me, with freedom. 
 
 But pure and holy, and as near to Thine own nature as 
 aught can be to mortal eye, does this Thy Life flow forth 
 as the bond which unites spirit with spirit, as the breath
 
 476 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 and atmosphere of a rational world, unimaginable and 
 incomprehensible, and yet there, clearly visible to the spiri- 
 tual eye. Borne onward in this stream of light, thought 
 floats from soul to soul without pause or variation, and re- 
 turns purer and brighter from each kindred mind. Through 
 this mysterious union does each individual perceive, un- 
 derstand, and love himself only in another ; each soul un- 
 folds itself only through its fellows, and there are no 
 longer individual men, but only one humanity; no indivi- 
 dual thought or love or hate, but only thought, love and 
 hate, in and through each other. Through this wondrous 
 influence the affinity of spirits in the invisible world per- 
 meates even their physical nature ; manifests itself in 
 two sexes, which, even if that spiritual bond could be torn 
 asunder, would, simply as creatures of nature, be com- 
 pelled to love each other ; flows forth in the tenderness 
 of parents and children, brothers and sisters, as if the souls 
 were of one blood like the bodies, and their minds were 
 branches and blossoms of the same stem ; and from these 
 embraces, in narrower or wider circles, the whole sentient 
 world. Even at the root of their hate, there lies a secret 
 thirst after love ; and no enmity springs up but from 
 friendship denied. 
 
 Through that which to others seems a mere dead mass, 
 my eye beholds this eternal life and movement in every 
 vein of sensible and spiritual Nature, and sees this life 
 rising in ever-increasing growth, and ever purifying itself 
 to a more spiritual expression. The universe is to me no 
 longer what it was before the ever-recurring circle, the 
 eternally-repeated play, the monster swallowing itself up 
 only to bring itself forth again ; it has become trans- 
 figured before me, and now bears the one stamp of spiritual 
 life a constant progress towards higher perfection in a 
 line that runs out into the Infinite. 
 
 The sun rises and sets, the stars sink and reappear, the 
 spheres hold their circle-dance; but they never return
 
 BOOK III. FAITH. 4-77 
 
 again as they disappeared", and even in the bright fountain 
 of life itself there is life and progress. Every hour which 
 they lead on, every morning and every evening, sinks 
 with new increase upon the world ; new life and new love 
 descend from the spheres like dew-drops from the clouds, 
 and encircle nature as the cool night the earth. 
 
 All Death in Nature is Birth, and in Death itself ap- 
 pears visibly the exaltation of Life. There is no destruc- 
 tive principle in Nature, for Nature throughout is pure, 
 unclouded Life ; it is not Death that kills, but the more 
 living Life which, concealed behind the former, bursts 
 forth into new development. Death and Birth are but 
 the struggle of Life with itself to assume a more glorious 
 and congenial form. And my death, how can it be aught 
 else, since I am not a mere show and semblance of life, but 
 bear within me the one original, true^ and essential Life ? 
 It is impossible to conceive that Nature should annihilate 
 a life which does not proceed from her ; the Nature which 
 exists for me and not I for her. 
 
 Yet even my natural life, even this mere outward mani- 
 festation to mortal sight of the inward invisible Life, she 
 cannot destroy without destroying herself; she who only 
 exists for me, and on account of me, and exists not if I am 
 not. Even because she destroys me must she animate me 
 anew ; it is only my Higher Life, unfolding itself in her, 
 before which my present life can disappear ; and what 
 mortals call Death is the visible appearance of this second 
 Life. Did no reasonable being who had once beheld the 
 light of this world die, there would be no ground to look 
 with faith for a new heavens and a new earth ; the only 
 possible purpose of Nature, to manifest and maintain Rea- 
 son, would be fulfilled here below, and her circle would be 
 completed. But the very act by which she consigns a 
 free and independent being to death, is her own solemn 
 entrance, intelligible to all Reason, into a region beyond 
 this act itself, and beyond the whole sphere of existence
 
 478 THE VOCATION OF MAN. 
 
 which is thereby closed. Death is the ladder by which 
 my spiritual vision rises to a new Life and a new Nature. 
 
 Every one of my fellow-creatures who leaves this earthly 
 brotherhood and whom, because he is my brother, my spirit 
 cannot regard as annihilated, draws my thoughts after him 
 beyond the grave ; he is still, and to him there belongs a 
 place. While we mourn for him here below, as in the dim 
 realms of unconsciousness there might be mourning when 
 a man bursts from them into the light of this world's sun, 
 above there is rejoicing that a man is born into that 
 world, as we citizens of the earth receive with joy those 
 who are born unto us. When I shall one day follow, it 
 will be but joy for me ; sorrow shall remain behind in the 
 sphere I shall have left. 
 
 The world on which but now I gazed with wonder 
 passes away from before me and is withdrawn from my 
 sight. With all the fulness of life, order, and increase 
 which I beheld in it, it is yet but the curtain by which a 
 world infinitely more perfect is concealed from me, and 
 the germ from which that other world shall develope 
 itself. My FAITH looks behind this veil, and cherishes 
 and animates this germ. It sees nothing definite, but it 
 awaits more than it can conceive here below, more than it 
 will ever be able to conceive in all time. 
 
 Thus do I live, thus am I, and th us am I unchangeable, 
 firm, and completed for all Eternity ; for this is no exist- 
 ence assumed from without, it is my own, true, essential 
 Life and Being.
 
 Jfc
 
 NivERsrnr OF ILLINOIS-URBANA