CHAPTER I.

The object of this series is to furnish, in as popular a form as possible, a course of discipline for those who are beginning the study of philosophy. Strictly _popular_, in the sense the word is used—i. e. signifying that which holds fast to the ordinary consciousness of men, and does not take flights beyond—I am well aware, no philosophy can be. The nearest approach to it that can be made, consists in starting from the common external views, and drawing them into the speculative, step by step. For this purpose the method of definitions and axioms, with deductions therefrom, as employed by Spinoza, is more appropriate at first, and afterwards a gradual approach to the _Dialectic_, or true philosophic method. In the mathematical method (that of Spinoza just alluded to) the content may be speculative, but its form, never. Hence the student of philosophy needs only to turn his attention to the content at first; when that becomes in a measure familiar, he can then the more readily pass over to the true form of the speculative content, and thus achieve complete insight. A course of discipline in the speculative content, though under an inadequate form, would make a grand preparation for the study of Hegel or Plato; while a study of these, or, in short, of any writers who employ speculative _methods_ in treating speculative _content_—a study of these without previous acquaintance with the content is well nigh fruitless. One needs only to read the comments of translators of Plato upon his speculative passages, or the prevailing verdicts upon Hegel, to be satisfied on this point.

The course that I shall here present will embody my own experience, to a great extent, in the chronological order of its development. Each lesson will endeavor to present an _aperçu_ derived from some great philosopher. Those coming later will presuppose the earlier ones, and frequently throw new light upon them.

As one who undertakes the manufacture of an elegant piece of furniture needs carefully elaborated tools for that end, so must the thinker who wishes to comprehend the universe be equipped with the tools of thought, or else he will come off as poorly as he who should undertake to make a carved mahogany chair with no tools except his teeth and finger nails. What complicated machinery is required to transmute the rough ores into an American watch! And yet how common is the delusion that no elaboration of tools of thought is required to enable the commonest mind to manipulate the highest subjects of investigation. The alchemy that turned base metal into gold is only a symbol of that cunning alchemy of thought that by means of the philosopher’s stone (scientific method) dissolves the base _facts_ of experience into universal truths.

The uninitiated regards the philosophic treatment of a theme as difficult solely by reason of its technical terms. “If I only understood your use of words, I think I should find no difficulty in your thought.” He supposes that under those bizarre terms there lurks only the meaning that he and others put into ordinary phrases. He does not seem to think that the concepts likewise are new. It is just as though an Indian were to say to the carpenter, “I could make as good work as you, if I only had the secret of using my finger-nails and teeth as you do the plane and saw.” Speculative philosophy—it cannot be too early inculcated—does _not_ “conceal under cumbrous terminology views which men ordinarily hold.” The ordinary reflection would say that Being is the ground of thought, while speculative philosophy would say that thought is the ground of Being; whether of other being, or of itself as being—for it is _causa sui_.

Let us now address ourselves to the task of elaborating our technique—the tools of thought—and see what new worlds become accessible through our mental telescopes and microscopes, our analytical scalpels and psychological plummets.

I.—A PRIORI AND A POSTERIORI.

_A priori_, as applied to knowledge, signifies that which belongs to the nature of the mind itself. Knowledge which is before experience, or not dependent on it, is _a priori_.

_A posteriori_ or _empirical_ knowledge is derived from experience.

A criterion to be applied in order to test the application of these categories to any knowledge in question, is to be found in _universality_ and _necessity_. If the truth expressed has universal and necessary validity it must be _a priori_, for it could not have been derived from experience. Of empirical knowledge we can only say: “It is true so far as experience has extended.” Of _a priori_ knowledge, on the contrary, we affirm: “It is universally and necessarily true and no experience of its opposite can possibly occur; from the very nature of things it must be so.”

II.—ANALYTICAL AND SYNTHETICAL.

A judgment which, in the predicate, adds nothing new to the subject, is said to be _analytical_, as e. g. “Horse is an animal;”—the concept “animal” is already contained in that of “horse.”

_Synthetical_ judgments, on the contrary, add in the predicate something new to the conception of the subject, as e. g. “This rose is red,” or “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line;”—in the first judgment we have “red” added to the general concept “rose;” while in the second example we have _straightness_, which is quality, added to _shortest_, which is quantity.

III.—APODEICTICAL.

Omitting the consideration of _a posteriori_ knowledge for the present, let us investigate the _a priori_ in order to learn something of the constitution of the intelligence which knows—always a proper subject for philosophy. Since, moreover, the _a priori analytical_ (“A horse is an animal”) adds nothing to our knowledge, we may confine ourselves, as Kant does, to _a priori synthetical_ knowledge. The axioms of mathematics are of this character. They are universal and necessary in their application, and we know this without making a single practical experiment. “Only one straight line can be drawn between two points,” or the proposition: “The sum of the three angles of a triangle is equal to two right angles,”—these are true in all possible experiences, and hence transcend any actual experience. Take any _a posteriori_ judgment, e. g. “All bodies are heavy,” and we see at once that it implies the restriction, “So far as we have experienced,” or else is a mere analytical judgment. The _universal and necessary_ is sometimes called the _apodeictical_. The conception of the _apodeictical_ lies at the basis of all true philosophical thinking. He who does not distinguish between _apodeictic_ and _contingent_ judgments must pause here until he can do so.

IV. SPACE AND TIME.

In order to give a more exhaustive application to our technique, let us seek the universal conditions of experience. The mathematical truths that we quoted relate to Space, and similar ones relate to Time. No experience would be possible without presupposing Time and Space as its logical condition. Indeed, we should never conceive our sensations to have an origin outside of ourselves and in distinct objects, unless we had the conception of Space _a priori_ by which to render it possible. Instead, therefore, of our being able to generalize particular experiences, and collect therefrom the idea of Space and Time in general, we must have added the idea of Space and Time to our sensation before it could possibly become an experience at all. This becomes more clear when we recur to the _apodeictic_ nature of Space and Time. Time and Space are thought as _infinites_, i. e. they can only be limited by themselves, and hence are universally continuous. But no such conception as _infinite_ can be derived analytically from an object of experience, for it does not contain it. All objects of experience must be _within_ Time and Space, and not _vice versa_. All that is limited in extent and duration presupposes Time and Space as its logical condition, and this we know, not from the senses but from the constitution of Reason itself. “The third side of a triangle is less than the sum of the two other sides.” This we never measured, and yet we are certain that we cannot be mistaken about it. It is so in all triangles, present, past, future, actual, or possible. If this was an inference _a posteriori_, we could only say: “It has been found to be so in all cases that have been measured and reported to us.”

V. MIND.

Mind has a certain _a priori_ constitution; this is our inference. It must be so, or else we could never have any experience whatever. It is the only way in which the possibility of _apodeictic_ knowledge can be accounted for. What I do not get from without I must get from within, if I have it at all. Mind, it would seem from this, cannot be, according to its nature, a finite affair—a thing with properties. Were it limited in Time or Space, it could never (without transcending itself) conceive Time and Space as universally continuous or infinite. Mind is not within Time and Space, it is as universal and necessary as the _apodeictic_ judgments it forms, and hence it is the substantial essence of all that exists. Time and Space are the logical conditions of finite existences, and Mind is the logical condition of Time and Space. Hence it is ridiculous to speak of _my_ mind and _your_ mind, for mind is rather the universal substrate of all individuality than owned by any particular individual.

These results are so startling to the one who first begins to think, that he is tempted to reject the whole. If he does not do this, but scrutinizes the whole fabric keenly, he will discover what he supposes to be fallacies. We cannot anticipate the answer to his objections here, for his objections arise from his inability to distinguish between his imagination and his thinking and this must be treated of in the next chapter. Here, we can only interpose an earnest request to the reader to persevere and thoroughly refute the whole argument before he leaves it. But this is only one and the most elementary position from which the philosophic traveller sees the Eternal Verities. Every perfect analysis—no matter what the subject be—will bring us to the same result, though the degrees of concreteness will vary,—some leaving the solution in an abstract and vague form,—others again arriving at a complete and satisfactory view of the matter in detail.

SEED LIFE. BY E. V.

Ah! woe for the endless stirring, The hunger for air and light, The fire of the blazing noonday Wrapped round in a chilling night!

The muffled throb of an instinct That is kin to the mystic To Be; Strong muscles, cut with their fetters, As they writhe with claim to be free.

A voice that cries out in the silence, And is choked in a stifling air; Arms full of an endless reaching, While the “Nay” stands everywhere.

The burning of conscious selfhood, That fights with pitiless fate! God grant that deliverance stay not, Till it come at last too late;

Till the crushed out instinct waver, And fainter and fainter grow, And by suicide, through unusing, Seek freedom from its woe.

Oh! despair of constant losing The life that is clutched in vain! Is it death or a joyous growing That shall put an end to pain?

A DIALOGUE ON IMMORTALITY. BY ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER. (Translated from the German, by Chas. L. Bernays.)

_Philalethes._—I could tell you that, after your death, you will be what you were previous to your birth; I could tell you that we are never born, and that we only seem to die—that we have always been precisely the same that we are now, and that we shall always remain the same—that _Time_ is the apparatus which prevents us from being aware of all this; I could tell you that our consciousness stands always in the centre of _Time_—never on one of its termini; and that any one among us, therefore, has the immovable centre of the whole infinite _Time_ in himself. I then could tell you that those who, by that knowledge, are assured that the present time always originates in ourselves, can never doubt the indestructibility of their own essence.

_Thrasymachus._—All of that is too long and too ambiguous for me. Tell me, briefly, what I shall be after death.

_Phil._—All and nothing.

_Thras._—There we are! Instead of a solution to the problem you give me a contradiction; that is an old trick.

_Phil._—To answer transcendental questions in language that is only made for immanent perceptions, may in fact lead us into contradictions.

_Thras._—What do you mean by “transcendental” and “immanent” perceptions?

_Phil._—Well! _Transcendental_ perception is rather the knowledge, which, by exceeding any possibility of experience, tends to discover the essence of things as they are by themselves; _immanent_ perception it is, if it keeps inside of the limits of experience. In this case, it can only speak of appearances. You, as an individual, end with your death. Yet individuality is not your true and final essence, but only a mere appearance of it. It is not the _thing in itself_, but only its appearance, established in the form of time, thereby having a beginning and an end. That which is essential in you, knows neither of beginning nor ending, nor of Time itself; it knows no limits such as belong to a given individuality, but exists in all and in each. In the first sense, therefore, you will become nothing after your death; in the second sense, you are and remain all. For that reason I said you would be all and nothing. You desired a short answer, and I believe that hardly a more correct answer could be given _briefly_. No wonder, too, that it contains a contradiction; for your life is in Time, while your immortality is in Eternity.

_Thras._—Without the continuation of my individuality, I would not give a farthing for all your “immortality.”

_Phil._—Perhaps you could have it even cheaper. Suppose that I warrant to you the continuation of your individuality, but under the condition that a perfectly unconscious slumber of death for three months should precede its resuscitation.

_Thras._—Well, I accept the condition.

_Phil._—Now, in an absolutely unconscious condition, we have no measure of time; hence it is perfectly indifferent whether, whilst we lie asleep in death in the unconscious world, three months or ten thousand years are passing away. We do not know either of the one or of the other, and have to accept some one’s word with regard to the duration of our sleep, when we awake. Hence it is indifferent to you whether your individuality is given back to you after three months or after ten thousand years.

_Thras._—That I cannot deny.

_Phil._—Now, suppose that after ten thousand years, one had forgotten to awake you at all, then I believe that the long, long state of non-being would become so habitual to you that your misfortune could hardly be very great. Certain it is, any way, that you would know nothing of it; nay, you would even console yourself very easily, if you were aware that the secret mechanism which now keeps your actual appearance in motion, had not ceased during all the ten thousand years for a single moment to establish and to move other beings of the same kind.

_Thras._—In that manner you mean to cheat me out of my individuality, do you? I will not be fooled in that way. I have bargained for the continuation of my individuality, and none of your motives can console me for the loss of that; I have it at heart, and I never will abandon it.

_Phil._—It seems that you hold individuality to be so noble, so perfect, so incomparable, that there can be nothing superior to it; you therefore would not like to exchange it for another one, though in that, you could live with greater ease and perfection.

_Thras._—Let my individuality be as it may, it is always myself. It is I—I myself—who want to be. That is the individuality which I insist upon, and not such a one as needs argument to convince me that it may be my own or a better one.

_Phil._—Only look about you! That which cries out—“I, I myself, wish to exist”—that is not yourself alone, but all that has the least vestige of consciousness. Hence this desire of yours, is just that which is not individual, but common rather to all without exception; it does not originate in individuality, but in the very nature of existence itself; it is essential to anybody who lives, nay, it is that through which it is at all; it seems to belong only to the individual because it can become conscious only in the individual. What cries in us so loud for existence, does so only through the mediation of the individual; immediately and essentially it is the _will_ to exist or to live, and this _will_ is one and the same in all of us. Our existence being only the free work of the will, existence can never fail to belong to it, as far, at least, as that eternally dissatisfied will, _can_ be satisfied. The individualities are indifferent to the will; it never speaks of them; though it seems to the individual, who, in himself is the immediate percipient of it, as if it spoke only of his own individuality. The consequence is, that the individual cares for his own existence with so great anxiety, and that he thereby secures the preservation of his kind. Hence it follows that individuality is no perfection, but rather a restriction or imperfection; to get rid of it is not a loss but a gain. Hence, if you would not appear at once childish and ridiculous, you should abandon that care for mere individuality; for childish and ridiculous it will appear when you perceive your own essence to be the universal will to live.

_Thras._—You yourself and all philosophers are childish and ridiculous, and in fact it is only for a momentary diversion that a man of good common sense ever consents to squander away an idle hour with the like of you. I leave your talk for weightier matters.

[The reader will perceive by the positions here assumed that Schopenhauer has a truly speculative stand-point; that he holds self-determination to be the only substantial (or abiding) reality. But while Aristotle and those like him have seized this more definitely as the self-conscious thinking, it is evident that Schopenhauer seizes it only from its immediate side, i. e. as the _will_. On this account he meets with some difficulty in solving the problem of immortality, and leaves the question of conscious identity hereafter, not a little obscure. Hegel, on the contrary, for whom Schopenhauer everywhere evinces a hearty contempt, does not leave the individual in any doubt as to his destiny, but shows how individuality and universality coincide in self-consciousness, so that the desire for eternal existence is fully satisfied. This is the legitimate result that _Philalethes_ arrives at in his last speech, when he makes the individuality a product of the will; for if the will is the essential that he holds it to be, and the product of its activity is individuality, of course individuality belongs eternally to it. At the close of his _Philosophy of Nature_, (Encyclopædia, vol. II.,) Hegel shows how death which follows life in the mere animal—and in man as mere animal—enters consciousness as one of its necessary elements, and hence does not stand opposed to it as it does to animal life. Conscious being (_Spirit_ or _Mind_ as it may be called,) is therefore immortal because it contains already, within itself, its limits or determinations, and thus cannot, like finite things, encounter dissolution through external ones.—ED.]

GOETHE’S THEORY OF COLORS. From an exposition given before the St. Louis Philosophical Society, Nov. 2nd, 1866.

I.—Color arises through the reciprocal action of light and darkness.

(_a._) When a light object is seen through a medium that dims it, it appears of different degrees of yellow; if the medium is dark or dense, the color is orange, or approaches red. Examples: the sun seen in the morning through a slightly hazy atmosphere appears yellow, but if the air is thick with mist or smoke the sun looks red.

(_b._) On the other hand a dark object, seen through a medium slightly illuminated, looks blue. If the medium is very strongly illuminated, the blue approaches a light blue; if less so, then indigo; if still less, the deep violet appears. Examples: a mountain situated at a great distance, from which very few rays of light come, looks blue, because we see it through a light medium, the air illuminated by the sun. The sky at high altitudes appears of a deep violet; at still higher ones, almost perfectly black; at lower ones, of a faint blue. Smoke—an illuminated medium—appears blue against a dark ground, but yellow or fiery against a light ground.

(_c._) The process of bluing steel is a fine illustration of Goethe’s theory. The steel is polished so that it reflects light like a mirror. On placing it in the charcoal furnace a film of oxydization begins to form so that the light is reflected through this dimming medium; this gives a straw color. Then, as the film thickens, the color deepens, passing through red to blue and indigo.

(_d._) The prism is the grand instrument in the experimental field of research into light. The current theory that light, when pure, is composed of seven colors, is derived from supposed actual verifications with this instrument. The Goethean explanation is by far the simplest, and, in the end, it propounds a question which the Newtonian theory cannot answer without admitting the truth of Goethe’s theory.

II.—The phenomenon of refraction is produced by interposing different transparent media between the luminous object and the illuminated one, in such a manner that there arises an apparent displacement of one of the objects as viewed from the other. By means of a prism the displacement is caused to lack uniformity; one part of the light image is displaced more than another part; several images, as it were, being formed with different degrees of displacement, so that they together make an image whose edges are blurred in the line of displacement. If the displacement were perfectly uniform, no color would arise, as is demonstrated by the achromatic prism or lens. The difference of degrees of refraction causes the elongation of the image into a spectrum, and hence a mingling of the edges of the image with the outlying dark surface of the wall, (which dark surface is essential to the production of the ordinary spectrum). Its _rationale_ is the following:

(_a_) The light image refracted by the prism is extended over the dark on one side, while the dark on the other side is extended over it.

(_b_) The bright over the dark produces the blue in different degrees. The side nearest the dark being the deepest or violet, and the side nearest the light image being the lightest blue.

(_c_) On the other side, the dark over light produces yellow in different degrees; nearest the dark we have the deepest color, (orange approaching to red) and on the side nearest the light, the light yellow or saffron tint.

(_d_) If the image is large and but little refracted (as with a water prism) there will appear between the two opposite colored edges a colorless image, proving that the colors arise from the mingling of the light and dark edges, and not from any peculiar property of the prism which should “decompose the ray of light,” as the current theory expresses it. If the latter theory were correct the decomposition would be throughout, and the whole image be colored.

(_e_) If the image is a small one, or it is very strongly refracted, the colored edges come together in the middle, and the mingling of the light yellow with the light blue produces _green_—a new color which did not appear so long as the light ground appeared in the middle.

(_f_) If the refraction is still stronger, the edges of the opposite colors lap still more, and the green vanishes. The Newtonian theory cannot explain this, but it is to be expected according to Goethe’s theory.

(_g_) According to Goethe’s theory, if the object were a dark one instead of a light one, and were refracted on a light surface, the order of colors would be reversed on each edge of the image. This is the same experiment as one makes by looking through a prism at the bar of a window appearing against the sky. Where in the light image we had the yellow colors we should now expect the blue, for now it is dark over light where before it was light over dark. So, also, where we had blue we should now have yellow. This experiment may be so conducted that the current doctrine that violet is refracted the most, and red the least, shall be refuted.

(_h_) This constitutes the _experimentum crucis_. If the prism be a large water prism, and a black strip be pasted across the middle of it, parallel with its axis, so that in the midst of the image a dark shadow intervenes, the spectrum appears inverted in the middle, so that the red is seen where the green would otherwise appear, and those rays supposed to be the least refrangible are found refracted the most.

(_i_) When the two colored edges do not meet in this latter experiment, we have blue, indigo, violet, as the order on one side; and on the other, orange, yellow, saffron; the deeper colors being next to the dark image. If the two colored edges come together the union of the orange with the violet produces the perfect red (called by Goethe “_purpur_”).

(_j_) The best method of making experiments is not the one that Newton employed—that of a dark room and a pencil of light—but it is better to look at dark and bright stripes on grounds of the opposite hue, or at the bars of a window, the prism being held in the hand of the investigator. In the Newtonian form of the experiment one is apt to forget the importance of the dark edge where it meets the light.

[For further information on this interesting subject the English reader is referred to Eastlake’s translation of Goethe’s Philosophy of Colors, published in London.]

THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY. Vol. I. 1867. No. 2.

SECOND PART OF GOETHE’S FAUST. [Translated from Rosenkrantz’s “Deutsche Literatur,” by D. J. Snider.]

Goethe began nothing if the whole of the work did not hover before his mind. By this determinateness of plan he preserved a most persevering attachment to the materials of which he had once laid hold; they were elements of his existence, which for him were immortal, because they constituted his inmost being. He could put off their execution for years, and still be certain that his love for them would return, that his interest in them would animate him anew. Through this depth of conception he preserved fresh to the end his original purpose; he needed not to fear that the fire of the first enthusiasm would go out; at the most different times he could take up his work again with youthful zeal and strength. Thus in the circle of his poetical labors, two conceptions that are in internal opposition to one another, accompanied him through his whole life. The one portrays a talented but fickle man, who, in want of culture, attaches himself to this person, then to that one, in order to become spiritually independent. This struggle carries him into the breadth of life, into manifold relations whose spirit he longs to seize and appropriate; such is Wilhelm Meister. The other is the picture of an absolutely independent personality that has cultivated its lordly power in solitary loftiness, and aspires boldly to subject the world to itself; such is Faust. In the development of both subjects there is a decisive turning-point which is marked in the first by the “Travels;” in the second, by the Second Part of the Tragedy. Up to this point, both in Wilhelm Meister and in Faust, subjective conditions prevail, which gradually purify themselves to higher views and aims. For the one, the betrothal with Natalia closes the world of wild, youthful desire; for the other, the death of Margaret has the same effect. The one steps into civil society and its manifold activity, with the earnest endeavor to comprehend all its elements, to acquire, preserve, and beautify property, and to assist in illuminating and ennobling social relations; the other takes likewise a practical turn, but from the summit of Society, from the stand-point of the State itself. If, therefore, in the apprenticeship and First Part of the Tragedy, on account of the excess of subjective conditions, a closer connection of the character and a passionate pathos are necessary, there appears, on the contrary, in the Travels and Second part of the Tragedy a thoughtfulness which moderates everything—a cool designingness; the particular elements are sharply characterized, but the personages seem rather as supporters of universal aims, in the accomplishment of which their own personality is submerged; the Universal and its language is their pathos, and the interest in their history, that before was so remarkably fascinating, is blunted of its keenness.

We have seen Faust grow, fragment by fragment, before our eyes. So long as there existed only a First Part, two views arose. The one maintained that it was in this incompleteness what it should be, a wonderful Torso; that this magnificent poem only as a fragment could reflect the World in order to indicate that Man is able to grasp the Universe in a one-sided, incomplete manner only; that as the poet touched the mysteries of the World, but did not give a complete solution, so the Enigmatical, the Prophetic, is that which is truly poetic, infinitely charming, really mystic. This view was considered as genial, particularly because it left to every one free play—in fact, invited every one in his imagination to fill up the outlines; for it could not be defended from a philosophic nor from an artistic standpoint. Knowing seeks not half knowledge, Art aims not at halfness of execution. If Dante in his Divine Comedy had neglected any element of nature or of history, if he had not wrought out all with equal perseverance in corresponding proportion, could it be said that his poem would stand higher without this completion? Or conversely, shall we praise it as a merit that Novalis’ Ofterdingen has remained mere fragments and sketches? This would be the same as if we should admire the Cologne Cathedral less than we now do were it complete. Another view supposed that a Second Part was indeed possible, and the question arose, in what manner shall this possibility be thought? Here again two opposite opinions showed themselves. According to the one, Faust must perish; reconciliation with God would be unbecoming to the northern nature of this Titanic character; the teeth-gnashing defiance, the insatiate restlessness, the crushing doubt, the heaven-deriding fierceness, must send him to hell. In this the spirit of the old legend was expressed as it was at the time of the Reformation—for in the middle ages the redemption of the sinner through the intercession of the Virgin Mary first appeared—as the _Volksbuch_ simply but strikingly narrates it, as the Englishman, Marlowe, has dramatized it so excellently in his Doctor Faustus. But all this was not applicable to the Faust of Goethe, for the poet had in his mind an alteration of the old legend, and so another party maintained that Faust must be saved. This party also asserted that the indication of the poet in the Prologue led to the same conclusion; that God could not lose his bet against the Devil; that the destruction of Faust would be blasphemous irony on Divine Providence. This assertion of the necessity of Faust’s reconciliation found much favor in a time, like ours, which has renounced not indeed the consciousness and recognition of Evil, but the belief in a separate extra-human Devil; which purposes not merely the punishment but also the improvement of the criminal; which seeks even to annul the death penalty, and transfer the atonement for murder to the inner conscience and to the effacing power of the Mind. But how was Poetry to exhibit such a transition from internal strife to celestial peace? Some supposed, as Hinrichs, that since Faust’s despair resulted originally from science, which did not furnish to him that which it had at first promised, and since his childish faith had been destroyed by scepticism, he must be saved through the scientific comprehension of Truth, of the Christian Religion; that speculative Philosophy must again reconcile him with God, with the World, and with himself. They confessed indeed that this process—study and speculation—cannot be represented in poetry, and therefore a Second Part of Faust was not to be expected. Others, especially poets, took Faust in a more general sense; he was to penetrate not only Science but Life in its entirety; the most manifold action was to move him, and the sweat of labor was to be the penance which should bring him peace and furnish the clearness promised by the Lord. Several sought to complete the work—all with indifferent success.

In what manner the poet himself would add a Second Part to the First, what standpoint he himself would take, remained a secret. Now it is unsealed; the poem is unrolled before us complete; with wondering look we stand before it, with a beating heart we read it, and with modest anxiety, excited by a thousand feelings and misgivings, we venture cursorily to indicate the design of the great Master; for years shall pass away before the meaning of the all-comprehensive poem shall be unveiled completely in its details. Still this explanation of particulars in poetry is a subordinate matter. The main tendency of a poem must be seen upon its face, and it would be a sorry work if it did not excite a living interest the first time that it was offered to the enjoyment of a people—if this interest should result from microscopic explanations and fine unravelling of concealed allusions—if enthusiasm should not arise from the poetry as well as from the learning and acuteness of the poet. Such particulars, which are hard to understand, almost every great poem will furnish; latterly, the explanatory observations on epic poems have become even stereotyped; it must be possible to disregard them; through ignorance of them nothing essential must be lost.

The First Part had shown us Faust in his still cell, engaged in the study of all sciences. The results of his investigation did not satisfy the boundless seeker, and as an experiment he bound himself to the Devil to see if the latter could not slake his burning thirst.

Thus he rushed into Life. Earthly enjoyment surrounded him, Love enchained him, Desire drove him to sudden, to bad deeds; in the mad _Walpurgisnach_ he reached the summit of waste worldliness. But deeper than the Devil supposed, Faust felt for his Margaret; he desired to save the unfortunate girl, but he was obliged to learn that this was impossible, but that only endurance of the punishment of crime could restore the harassed mind to peace. The simple story of love held everything together here in a dramatic form. The Prologue in Heaven, the Witch-kitchen, the _Walpurgisnacht_, and several contemplative scenes, could be left out, and there still would remain a theatrical Whole of remarkable effect.

The relation to Margaret—her death—had elevated Faust above everything subjective. In the continuation of his life, objective relations alone could constitute the motive of action. The living fresh breath of the First Part resulted just from this fact, that everything objective, universal, was seized from the point of subjective interest; in the Second Part the Universal, the Objective, stands out prominently; subjective interests appear only under the presupposition of the Objective; the form becomes allegorical.

A story, an action which rounds itself off to completion, is wanting, and therefore the dramatic warmth which pulsates through every scene of the First Part is no longer felt. The unity which is traced through the web of the manifold situations, is the universal tendency of Faust _to create a satisfaction for himself through work_. Mephistopheles has no longer the position of a being superior by his great understanding and immovable coldness, who bitterly mocks Faust’s striving, but he appears rather as a powerful companion who skillfully procures the material means for the aims of Faust, and, in all his activity, only awaits the moment when Faust shall finally acknowledge himself to be satisfied. But the striving of Faust is infinite; each goal, when once reached, is again passed by; nowhere does he rest, not in Society, not in Nature, not in Art, not in War, not in Industry; only the thought of Freedom itself, the presentiment of the happiness of standing with a free people upon a free soil wrung from the sea, thrills the old man with a momentary satisfaction—and he dies. Upon pictures and woodcuts of the middle ages representations of dying persons are found, in which the Devil on one side of the death-bed and angels on the other await eagerly the departing soul to pull it to themselves. Goethe has revived this old idea of a jealousy and strife between the angels and the Devil for Man. Mephistopheles, with his horde of devils, struggles to carry away the soul of Faust to hell, but he forgets himself in unnatural lust, and the angels bear the immortal part of Faust to that height where rest and illumination of the dying begin.

Such an allegorical foundation could not be developed otherwise than in huge masses; the division of each mass in itself, so that all the elements of the thought lying at the bottom should appear, was the proper object of the composition. The First Part could also be called allegorical, in so far as it reflected the universal Essence of Spirit in the Individual; but it could not be said of it in any other sense than of every poem; Allegory in its stricter sense was not to be found; the shapes had all flesh and blood, and no design was felt. In the Second Part everything passes over into the really Allegorical, to which Goethe, the older he grew, seems to have had the greater inclination; the _Xenien_, the _Trilogie der Leidenschaft_, the _Lieder zur Loge_, the _Maskenzüge_, _Epimenides Erwachen_, the cultivation of the Eastern manners, all proceeded from a didactic turn which delighted in expressing itself in gnomes, pictures, and symbolical forms. With wonderful acuteness, Goethe has always been able to seize the characteristic determinations, and unfold them in neat, living language; however, it lies in the nature of such poems that they exercise the reflective faculty more than the heart, and it was easy to foresee that the Second Part of Faust would never acquire the popularity of the First Part; that it would not, as the latter, charm the nation, and educate the people to a consciousness of itself, but that it would always have a sort of esoteric existence. Many will be repelled by the mythological learning of the second and third acts; and the more so, as they do not see themselves recompensed by the dialectic of an action; however, we would unhesitatingly defend the poet against this reproach; a poem which has to compass the immeasurable material of the world, cannot be limited in this respect. What learning has not Dante supposed in his readers? Humbly have we sought it, in order to acquire an understanding of his poem, in the certainty of being richly rewarded; the censure which has been cast upon it for this reason has effected nothing. Indeed, such fault-finders would here forget what the first acknowledged Part of Faust has compelled them to learn. With this difference of plan, the style must also change. Instead of dramatic pathos, because action is wanting, description, explanation, indication, have become necessary; and instead of the lively exchange of dialogue, the lyrical portion has become more prominent, in order to embody with simplicity the elements of the powerful world-life. The descriptions of nature deserve to be mentioned in particular. The most wanton fancy, the deepest feeling, the most accurate knowledge, and the closest observation into the individual, prevail in all these pictures with an indescribable charm. We shall now give a short account of the contents of each act. In a more complete exposition we would point out the places in which the power of the particular developments centers; in these outlines it is our design to confine ourselves to tracing out the universal meaning. To exhibit by single verses and songs the wonderful beauty of the language, particularly in the lyrical portions, would seem to us as superfluous as the effort to prove the existence of a divine Providence by anecdotes of strange coincidences.

The first act brings us into social life; a multitude of shapes pass by us—the most different wishes, opinions and humors are heard; still, a secret unity, which we shall note even more closely, pervades the confused tumult. In a delightful spot, lying upon the flowery sward, we see Faust alone, tormented by deep pangs, seeking rest and slumber. Out of pure pity, indifferent whether the unfortunate man is holy or wicked, elves hover around him and fan him to sleep, in order that the past may be sunk into the Lethe of forgetfulness; otherwise, a continuance of life and endeavor is impossible. The mind has the power to free itself from the past, and throw it behind itself, and treat it as if it had never been. The secret of renewing ourselves perpetually consists in this, that we can destroy ourselves within ourselves, and, as a veritable Phœnix, be resurrected from the ashes of self-immolation. Still, this negative action suffices not for our freedom; the Positive must be united to us; there must arise, with “tremendous quaking,” the sun of new activity and fresh endeavor, whereby the stillness of nightly repose, the evanishment of all thoughts and feelings which had become stable, passes away in refreshing slumber. Faust awakened, feels every pulse of nature beating with fresh life. The glare of the pure sunlight dazzles him—the fall of waters through the chasms of the rock depicts to him his own unrest; but from the sunlight and silvery vapor of the whirlpool there is created the richly colored rainbow, which is always quietly glistening, but is forever shifting: it is Life. After this solitary encouragement to new venture and endeavor, the court of the Emperor receives us, where a merry masquerade is about to take place. But first, from all sides, the prosaic complaints of the Chancellor, the Steward, the Commander-in-Chief, the Treasurer, fall upon the ear of the Emperor; money, the cement of all relations, is wanting to the State; for commerce, for pleasure, for luxury, money is the indispensable basis. At this point, Mephistopheles presses forward to the place of the old court-fool, who has just disappeared, and excites the hope of bringing to light concealed treasure. To the Chancellor this way seems not exactly Christian, the multitude raises a murmur of suspicion, the Astrologer discusses the possibility—and the proposition is adopted. After this hopeful prospect, the masquerade can come off without any secret anxieties disturbing their merriment. The nature of the company is represented in a lively manner. No one _is_ what he _seems_ to be; each has thrown over himself a concealing garment; each knows of the other that he is not that which his appearance or his language indicates; this effort to hide his own being, to pretend and to dream himself into something different from himself—to make himself a riddle to others in all openness, is the deepest, most piquant charm of social interests.

The company will have enjoyment—it unites itself with devotion to the festive play, and banishes rough egotism, whose casual outbreaks the watchful herald sharply reproves; but still, in the heart of every one, there remains some intention, which is directed to the accomplishment of earthly aims. The young Florentine women want to please; the mother wishes her daughter to make the conquest of a husband; the fishermen and bird-catchers are trying their skill; the wood-chopper, buffoons, and parasites, are endeavoring, as well as they can, to make themselves valid; the drunkard forgets everything over his bottle; the poets, who could sing of any theme, drown each other’s voices in their zeal to be heard, and to the satirist there scarcely remains an opportunity for a dry sarcasm. The following allegorical figures represent to us the inner powers which determine social life. First, the Graces appear, for the first demand of society is to behave with decency; more earnest are the Parcæ, the continuous change of duration—still, they work only mechanically; but the Furies, although they come as beautiful maids, work dynamically through the excitement of the passions. Here the aim is to conquer. _Victoria_ is throned high upon a sure-footed elephant, which Wisdom guides with skilful wand, while Fear and Hope go along on each side; between these the Deed wavers until it has reached the proud repose of victory. But as soon as this happens, the quarrelsome, hateful Thersites breaks forth, to soil the glory with his biting sneer. But his derision effects nothing. The Herald, as the regulating Understanding, and as distributive Justice, can reconcile the differences and mistakes which have arisen, and he strikes the scoffer in such a manner that he bursts and turns into an adder and a bat. Gradually the company returns to its external foundation; the feeling of _Wealth_ must secure to it inexhaustible pleasure. But Wealth is two-fold: the earthly, money—the heavenly, poetry. Both must be united in society, if it would not feel weak and weary. The Boy Driver, that is, Poetry, which knows how to bring forth the Infinite in all the relations of life, and through the same to expand, elevate and pacify the heart, is acknowledged by Plutus, the God of common riches, as the one who can bestow that which he himself is too poor to give. In the proud fullness of youth, bounding lightly around with a whip in his hand, the lovely Genius who rules all hearts, drives with horses of winged speed through the crowd. The buffoon of Plutus, lean Avarice, is merrily ridiculed by the women; Poetry, warned by the fatherly love of Plutus, withdraws from the tumult which arises for the possession of the golden treasures. Gnomes, Giants, Satyrs, Nymphs, press on with bacchantic frenzy; earthly desire glows through the company, and it celebrates great Pan, Nature, as its God, as the Giver of powerful Wealth and fierce Lust. A whirling tumult threatens to seize hold of everybody—a huge tongue of flame darts over all; but the majesty of the Emperor, the self-conscious dignity of man, puts an end to the juggling game of the half-unchained Earth-spirit, and restores spiritual self-possession.

Still Mephistopheles keeps the promise which he has made. He succeeds in revivifying the company by fresh sums of money, obtained in conformity with his nature, not by unearthing buried treasures from the heart of the mountains by means of the wishing-rod, but by making paper-money! It is not, indeed, real coin, but the effect is the same, for in society everything rests upon the caprice of acceptance; its own life and preservation are thereby guaranteed by itself, and its authority, here represented by the Emperor, has infinite power. The paper notes, this money stamped by the airy imagination, spread everywhere confidence and lively enjoyment. It is evident that the means of prosperity have not been wanting, nor stores of eatables and drinkables, but a form was needed to set the accumulated materials in motion, and to weave them into the changes of circulation. With delight, the Chancellor, Steward, Commander-in-Chief, Treasurer, report the flourishing condition of the army and the citizens; presents without stint give rise to the wildest luxury, which extends from the nobles of the realm down to the page and fool, and in such joyfulness everybody can unhesitatingly look about him for new means of pleasure. Because the company has its essence in the production of the notes, its internal must strive for the artistic; every one feels best when he, though known, remains unrecognized, and thus a theatrical tendency developes itself. For here the matter has nothing to do with the dramatic as real art, in reference to the egotism which binds the company together. The theatre collects the idle multitude, and it has nothing to do but to see, to hear, to compare, and to judge. Theatrical enjoyment surpasses all other kinds in comfort, and is at the same time the most varied. The Emperor wishes that the great magician, Faust, should play a drama before himself and the court, and show Paris and Helen. To this design Mephistopheles can give no direct aid; in a dark gallery he declares, in conversation with Faust, that the latter himself must create the shapes, and therefore must go to the Mothers. Faust shudders at their names. Mephistopheles gives him a small but important key, with which he must enter the shadowy realm of the Mothers for a glowing tripod, and bring back the same; by burning incense upon it, he would be able to create whatever shape he wished. As a reason why _he_ is unable to form them, Mephistopheles says expressly that he is in the service of big-necked dwarfs and witches, and not of heroines, and that the Heathen have their own Hell, with which he, the Christian and romantic Devil, has nothing to do. And yet he possesses the key to it, and hence it is not unknown to him. And why does Faust shudder at the names of the Mothers? Who are these women who are spoken of so mysteriously? If it were said, the Imagination, _Mothers_ would be an inept expression; if it were said, the Past, Present and Future, Faust’s shuddering could not be sufficiently accounted for, since how should Time frighten him who has already lived through the terrors of Death? From the predicates which are attached to the Mothers, how they everlastingly occupy the busy mind with all the forms of creation; how from the shades which surround them in thousand-fold variety, from the Being which is Nothing, All becomes; how from their empty, most lonely depth the living existence comes forth to the surface of Appearance; from such designations scarcely anything else can be understood by the realm of the Mothers than the world of Pure Thought. This explanation might startle at the first glance, but we need only put Idea for Thought—we need only remember the Idea-world of Plato in order to comprehend the matter better. The eternal thoughts, the Ideas, are they not the still, shadowy abyss, in which blooming Life buds, into whose dark, agitated depths it sends down its roots? Mephistopheles has the key; for the Understanding, which is negative Determination, is necessary in order not to perish in the infinite universality of Thought; it is itself, however, only the Negative, and therefore cannot bring the actual Idea, Beauty, to appearance, but he, in his devilish barrenness, must hand this work over to Faust; he can only recommend to the latter moderation, so as not to lose himself among the phantoms, and he is curious to know whether Faust will return. But Faust shudders because he is not to experience earthly solitude alone, like that of the boundless ocean, when yet star follows star, and wave follows wave; the deepest solitude of the creative spirit, the retirement into the invisible, yet almighty Thought, the sinking into the eternal Idea is demanded of him. Whoever has had the boldness of this Thought—whoever has ventured to penetrate into the magic circle of the Logical, and its world-subduing Dialectic, into this most simple element of infinite formation and transformation, has overcome all, and has nothing more to fear, as the Homunculus afterwards expresses it, because he has beheld the naked essence, because Necessity has stripped herself to his gaze. But it is also to be observed that the tripod is mentioned, for by this there is an evident allusion to subjective Enthusiasm and individual Imagination, by which the Idea in Art is brought out of its universality to the determinate existence of concrete Appearance. Beauty is identical in content with Truth, but its form belongs to the sphere of the Sensuous.—While Faust is striving after Beauty, Mephistopheles is besieged by women in the illuminated halls, to improve their looks and assist them in their love affairs. After this delicate point is settled, no superstition is too excessive, no sympathetic cure too strange—as, for example, a tread of the foot—and the knave fools them until they, with a love-lorn page, become too much for him.—Next the stage, by its decorations, which represents Grecian architecture, causes a discussion of the antique and romantic taste; Mephistopheles has humorously taken possession of the prompter’s box, and so the entertainment goes on in parlor fashion, till Faust actually appears, and Paris and Helen, in the name of the all-powerful Mothers, are formed from the incense which ascends in magic power. The Public indulges itself in an outpouring of egotistical criticism; the men despise the unmanly Paris, and interest themselves deeply in the charms of Helen; the women ridicule the coquettish beauty with envious moralizing, and fall in love for the nonce with the fair youth. But as Paris is about to lead away Helen, Faust, seized with the deepest passion for her wonderful beauty, falls upon the stage and destroys his own work. The phantoms vanish; still the purpose remains to obtain Helen; that is, the artist must hold on to the Ideal, but he must know that it is the Ideal. Faust confuses it with common Actuality, and he has to learn that absolute Beauty is not of an earthly, but of a fleeting, etherial nature.

The second act brings us away from our well-known German home to the bottom of the sea and its mysterious secrets. Faust is in search of Helen; where else can he find her, perfect Beauty, than in Greece? But first he seeks her, and meets therefore mere shapes, which unfold themselves from natural existence, which are not yet actual humanity. Indeed, since he seeks natural Beauty—for spiritual Beauty he has already enjoyed in the heavenly disposition of Margaret—the whole realm of Nature opens upon us; all the elements appear in succession; the rocks upon which the earnest Sphinxes rest, in which the Ants, Dactyls, Gnomes work, give the surrounding ground; the moist waters contain in their bosom the seeds of all things. The holy fire infolds it with eager flame: according to the old legend, Venus sprang from the foam of the sea.—Next we find ourselves at Wittenberg, in the ancient dwelling, where it is easy to see by the cob-webs, dried-up ink, tarnished paper, and dust, that many years have passed since Faust went out into the world. Mephistopheles, from the old coat in which he once instructed the knowledge-seeking pupil, shakes out the lice and crickets which swarm around the old master with a joyful greeting, as also Parseeism makes Ahriman the father of all vermin. Faust lies on his bed, sleeps and dreams the lustful story of Leda, which, in the end, is nothing more than the most decent and hence producible representation of generation. While Mephistopheles in a humorous, and as well as the Devil can, even in an idyllic manner, amuses himself, while he inquires sympathetically after Wagner of the present Famulus, a pupil who, in the meanwhile, has become a Baccalaureate, comes storming in, in order to see what the master is doing who formerly inculcated such wise doctrines, and in order to show what a prodigiously reasonable man he has himself become. A persiflage of many expressions of the modern German Natural Philosophy seems recognizable in this talk. Despising age, praising himself as the dawn of a new life, he spouts his Idealism, by means of which he creates everything, Sun, Moon and Stars, purely by the absoluteness of subjective Thought. Mephistopheles, though the pupil assails him bitterly, listens to his wise speeches with lamb-like patience, and after this refreshing scene, goes into Wagner’s laboratory. The good man has stayed at home, and has applied himself to Chemistry, to create, through its processes, men. To his tender, humane, respectable, intelligent mind, the common way of begetting children is too vulgar and unworthy of spirit. Science must create man; a real materialism will produce him. Mephistopheles comes along just at this time, to whom Wagner beckons silence, and whispers anxiously to him his undertaking, as in the glass retort the hermaphroditic boy, the Homunculus, begins to stir. But alas! the Artificial requires enclosed space. The poor fellow can live only in the glass retort, the outer world is too rough for him, and still he has the greatest desire to be actually born. A longing, universal feeling for natural life sparkles from him with clear brilliancy, and cousin Mephistopheles takes him along to the classic _Walpurgisnacht_, where Homunculus hopes to find a favorable moment. Mephistopheles is related to the little man for this reason, because the latter is only the product of nature, because God’s breath has not been breathed into him as into a real man.

After these ironical scenes, the fearful night of the Pharsalian Fields succeeds, where the antique world terminated its free life. This plain, associated with dark remembrances and bloody shadows, is the scene of the Classical _Walpurgisnacht_. Goethe could choose no other spot, for just upon this battle-field the spirit of Greek and Roman antiquity ceased to be a living actuality. As an external reason, it is well known that Thessaly was to the ancients the land of wizards, and especially of witches, so that from this point of view the parallel with the German Blocksberg is very striking. Faust, driven by impatience to obtain Helen, is in the beginning sent from place to place to learn her residence, until Chiron takes him upon the neck which had once borne that most loving beauty, and with a passing sneer at the conjectural troubles of the Philologist, tells him of the Argonauts, of the most beautiful man, of Hercules, until he stops his wild course at the dwelling of the prophetic Manto, who promises to lead Faust to Helen on Olympus. Mephistopheles wanders in the meanwhile among Sphinxes, Griffons, Sirens, etc. To him, the Devil of the Christian and Germanic world, this classic ground is not at all pleasing; he longs for the excellent Blocksberg of the North, and its ghostly visages; with the Lamiæ indeed he resolves to have his own sport, but is roguishly bemocked; finally, he comes to the horrible Phorcyads, and after their pattern he equips himself with one eye and a tusk for his own amusement; that is, he becomes the absolutely Ugly, while Faust is wooing the highest Beauty. In the Christian world the Devil is also represented as fundamentally ugly and repulsive; but he can also, under all forms, appear as an angel of light. In the Art-world, on the contrary, he can be known only as the Ugly. In all these scenes there is a mingling of the High and the Low, of the Horrible and the Ridiculous, of vexation and whimsicality, of the Enigmatical and the Perspicuous, so that no better contradictions could be wished for a _Walpurgisnacht_. The Homunculus on his part is ceaselessly striving to come to birth, and betakes himself to Thales and Anaxagoras, who dispute whether the world arose in a dry or wet way. Thales leads the little man to Nereus, who, however, refuses to aid the seeker, partly because he has become angry with men, who, like Paris and Ulysses, have always acted against his advice, and partly because he is about to celebrate a great feast. Afterwards they go to Proteus, who at first is also reticent, but soon takes an interest in Homunculus, as he beholds his shining brilliancy, for he feels that he is related to the changing fire, and gives warning that as the latter can become everything, he should be careful about becoming a man, for it is the most miserable of all existences. In the meanwhile, the Peneios roars; the earth-shaking Seismos breaks forth with a loud noise; the silent and industrious mountain-spirits become wakeful. But always more clearly the water declares itself as the womb of all things; the festive train of the Telchines points to the hoary Cabiri; bewitchingly resound the songs of the Sirens; Hippocamps, Tritons, Nereids, Pselli and Marsi arise from the green, pearl-decked ground; the throne of Nereus and Galatea arches over the crystalline depths; at their feet the eager Homunculus falls to pieces, and all-moving Eros in darting flames streams forth. Ravishing songs float aloft, celebrating the holy elements, which the ever-creating Love holds together and purifies. Thales is just as little in the right as Anaxagoras; together, both are right, for Nature is kindled to perpetual new life by the marriage of Fire and Water.

The difference between this _Walpurgisnacht_ and the one in the First Part lies in the fact, that the principle of the latter is the relation of Spirit to God. In the Christian world the first question is, what is the position of man towards God; therefore there appear forms which are self-contradictory, lacerated spiritually, torn in pieces by the curse of condemnation to all torture. Classic Life has for its basis the relation to Nature; the mysterious Cabiri were only the master-workmen of Nature. Nature finds in man her highest goal; in his fair figure, in the majesty of his form she ends her striving; and therefore the contradictions of the classic _Walpurgisnacht_ are not so foreign to Mephistopheles, who has to do with Good and Bad, that he does not feel his contact with them, but still they are not native to him. The general contradiction which we meet with, and which also in Mephistopheles expresses itself by the cloven foot at least, is the union of the human and animal frame; the human is at first only half existent, on earth in Sphinxes, Oreads, Sirens, Centaurs; in water, in Hippocamps, Tritons, Nymphs, Dorids, etc. For the fair bodies of the latter still share the moist luxuriance of their element. Thus Nature expands itself in innumerable creations in order to purify itself in man, in the self-conscious spirit, in order to pacify and shut off in him the infinite impulse to formation, because it passes beyond him to no new form. He is the embodied image of God. The inclosed Homunculus, with his fiery trembling eagerness to pass over into an independent actuality, is, as it were, the serio-comic representation of this tendency, until he breaks the narrow glass, and now is what he should be, the union of the elements, for this is Eros according to the most ancient Greek conception, as we still find even in the Philosophers.

In the third act Goethe has adhered to the old legend, according to which, Faust, by means of Mephistopheles, obtained Helen as a concubine, and begat a son, Justus Faustus. Certainly, the employment of this feature was very difficult; and still, even in our days, a poet, L. Bechstein, in his Faust, has been wrecked upon this rock. He has Helen marry Faust; they beget a child; but finally, when Faust makes his will, and turns away unlovingly from wife and child, it is discovered that the Grecian Helen, who in the copperplates is also costumed completely in the antique manner, is a German countess of real flesh and blood, who has been substituted by the Devil; an undeceiving which ought to excite the deepest sympathy. Goethe has finely idealized this legend; he has expressed therein the union of the romantic and classic arts. The third act, this Phantasmagory, is perhaps the most perfect of all, and executed in the liveliest manner. As noble as is the diction of the first and second acts, especially in the lyrical portions, it is here nevertheless by far surpassed. Such a majesty and simplicity, such strength and mildness, unity and variety, in so small a space, are astonishing. First resounds the interchange of the dignity of Æschylus and Sophocles, with the sharp-steeled wit of Aristophanes; then is heard the tone of the Spanish romances, an agreeable, iambic measure, a sweet, ravishing melody; finally, new styles break forth, like the fragments of a prophecy; ancient and modern rhythms clash, and the harmony is destroyed.—Helen returns, after the burning of Troy, to the home of her spouse, Menelaus; the stewardess, aged, wrinkled, ugly, but experienced and intelligent, Phorcyas, receives her mistress in the citadel by command. Opposed to Beauty, as was before said, Mephistopheles can only appear as ugliness, because in the realm of beautiful forms, the Ugly is the Wicked. There arises a quarrel between the graceful, yet pretentious youth of the Chorus, and world-wise, yet stubborn Old Age. Helen has to appease it, and she learns with horror from Phorcyas that Menelaus is going to sacrifice her.—Still, (as on the one hand Grecian fugitives, after the conquest of Constantinople, instilled everywhere into German Life the taste for classic Beauty, and as, on the other hand, one of the Ottomans in Theophania—like Faust—won a Helen, and thereby everywhere arose a striving after the appropriation of the Antique,) the old stewardess saves her, and bears her through the air together with her beautiful train, to the Gothic citadel of Faust, where the humble and graceful behavior of the iron men towards the women, in striking contrast to their hard treatment on the banks of the Eurotas, at once wins the female heart. The watchman of the tower, Lynceus, lost in wondering delight over the approaching beauty, forgets to announce her, and has brought upon himself a heavy punishment; but Helen, the cause of his misdemeanor, is to be judge in his case, and she pardons him.

Faust and all his vassals do homage to the powerful beauty, in whom the antique pathos soon disappears. In the new surroundings, in the mutual exchange of quick and confiding love, the sweet rhyme soon flows from their kissing lips. An attack of Menelaus interrupts the loving courtship; but Valor, which in the battle for Beauty and favor of the ladies, seeks its highest honor and purport, is unconquerable, and the swift might of the army victoriously opposes Menelaus. Christian chivalry protects the jewel of beauty which has fled to it for safety, against all barbarism pressing on from the East.—Thus the days of the lovers pass rapidly away in secret grottoes amid pastoral dalliance; as once Mars refreshed himself in the arms of Venus, so in the Middle Ages knights passed gladly from the storm of war to the sweet service of women in quiet trustfulness. Yet the son whom they beget, longs to free himself from this idle, Arcadian life. The nature of both the mother and the father drives him forward, and soon consummates the matter. Beautiful and graceful as Helen, the insatiate longing for freedom glows in him as in Faust. He strikes the lyre with wonderful, enchanting power; he revels wildly amid applauding maidens; he rushes from the bottom of the valley to the tops of the mountains, to see far out into the world, and to breathe freely in the free air. His elastic desire raises him, a second Icarus, high in the clouds; but he soon falls dead at the feet of the parents, while an aureola, like a comet, streaks the Heavens. Thus perished Lord Byron. He is a poet more romantic than Goethe, to whom, however, Art gave no final satisfaction, because he had a sympathy for the sufferings of nations and of mankind, which called him pressingly to action. His poems are full of this striving. In them he weeps away his grief for freedom. Walter Scott, who never passed out of the Middle Ages, is read more than Byron. But Byron is more powerful than he, because the Idea took deeper root, and that demoniacal character concentrated in itself all the struggles of our agitated time. Divine poesy softened not the wild sorrow of his heart, and the sacrifice of himself for the freedom of a beloved people and land could not reproduce classic Beauty. The fair mother, who evidently did not understand the stormy, self-conscious character of her son, sinks after him into the lower world. As everything in this phantasmagory is allegorical, I ask whether this can mean anything else than that freedom is necessary for beauty, and beauty also for freedom? Euphorion is boundless in his striving; the warnings of the parents avail not. He topples over into destruction. But Helen, i.e. Beauty, cannot survive him, for all beauty is the expression of freedom, of independence, although it does not need to know the fact. Only Faust, who unites all in himself, who strives to reach beyond Nature and Art, Present and Past, that is, the knowing of the True, survives her; upon her garments, which expand like a cloud, he moves forth. What remains now, since the impulse of spiritual Life, the clarification of Nature in Art, the immediate spiritual Beauty, have vanished? Nothing but Nature in her nakedness, whose choruses of Oreads, Dryads and Nymphs swarm forth into the mountains, woods and vineyards, for bacchantic revelry; an invention which belongs to the highest effort of all poetry. It is a great kindness in the Devil, when Phorcyas at last discloses herself as Mephistopheles, and where there is need, offers herself as commentator.

The life of Art, of Beauty, darkens like a mist; upon the height of the mountain, Faust steps out of the departing cloud, and looks after it as it changes to other forms. His restless mind longs for new activity. He wants to battle with the waters, and from them win land; that is, the land shall be his own peculiar property, since he brings it forth artificially. As that money which he gave to the Emperor was not coined from any metal, but was a product of Thought; as that Beauty which charmed him was sought with trouble, and wrung from Nature, and as he, seizing the sword for the protection of Beauty, exchanged Love for the labor of chivalry,—so the land, the new product of his endeavor, not yet is, but he will first create it by means of his activity. A war of the Emperor with a pretender gives him an opportunity to realize his wish. He supports the Emperor in the decisive battle. Mephistopheles is indifferent to the Right and to freedom; the material gain of the war is the principal thing with him; so he takes along the three mighty robbers, Bully, Havequick and Holdfast. (See 2d Samuel, 23: 8.) The elements must also fight—the battle is won—and the grateful Emperor grants the request of Faust to leave the sea-shore for his possession. The State is again pacified by the destruction of the pretender; a rich booty in his camp repays many an injury; the four principal offices promise a joyful entertainment; but the Church comes in to claim possession of the ground, capital and interest, in order that the Emperor may be purified from the guilt of having had dealings with the suspicious magician. Humbly the Emperor promises all; but as the archbishop demands tithe from the strand of the sea which is not yet in existence, the Emperor turns away in great displeasure. The boundless rapacity of the Church causes the State to rise up against it. This act has not the lyrical fire of the previous ones; the action, if the war can thus be called, is diffuse; the battle, as broad as it is, is without real tension; the three robbers are allegorically true, if we look at the meaning which they express, but are in other respects not very attractive. In all the brilliant particulars, profound thoughts, striking turns, piquant wit, and wise arrangement, there is still wanting the living breath, the internal connection to exhibit a complete picture of the war. And still, from some indications, we may believe that this tediousness is designed, in order to portray ironically the dull uniformity, the spiritual waste of external political life, and the littleness of Egotism. For it must be remembered that the war is a civil war—the genuine poetic war, where people is against people, falls into Phantasmagory. The last scene would be in this respect the most successful. The continued persistency of the spiritual lord to obtain in the name of the heavenly church, earthly possessions, the original acquiescence of the Emperor, but his final displeasure at the boundless shamelessness of the priest, are excellently portrayed, and the pretentious pomp of the Alexandrine has never done better service.

In the fifth act we behold a wanderer, who is saved from shipwreck, and brought to the house of an aged couple, Philemon and Baucis. He visits the old people, eats at their frugal table, sees them still happy in their limited sphere, but listens with astonishment to them, as they tell of the improvements of their rich neighbor, and they express the fear of being ousted by him. Still, they pull the little bell of their chapel to kneel and pray with accustomed ceremony in presence of the ancient God.—The neighbor is Faust. He has raised dams, dug canals, built palaces, laid out ornamental gardens, educated the people, sent out navies. The Industry of our time occupies him unceasingly; he revels in the wealth of trade, in the turmoil of men, in the commerce of the world. That those aged people still have property in the middle of his possessions is extremely disagreeable to him, for just this little spot where the old mossy church stands, the sound of whose bell pierces his heart, where the airy lindens unfold themselves to the breeze, he would like to have as a belvedere to look over all his creations at a glance. Like a good man whose head is always full of plans, he means well to the people, and is willing to give them larger possessions where they can quietly await death, and he sends Mephistopheles to treat with them. But the aged people, who care not for eating and drinking, but for comfort, will not leave their happy hut; their refusal brings on disputes, and the dwelling, together with the aged couple and the lindens, perishes by fire in this conflict between the active Understanding and the poetry of Feeling, which, in the routine of pious custom, clings to what is old. Faust is vexed over the turn which affairs have taken, particularly over the loss of the beautiful lindens, but consoles himself with the purpose to build in their stead a watch-tower. Then before the palace, appear in the night, announcing death, four hoary women, Starvation, Want, Guilt and Care, as the Furies who accompany the external prosperity of our industrial century. Still, Care can only press through the key-hole of the chamber of the rich man, and places herself with fearful suddenness at his side. The Negative of Thought is to be excluded by no walls. But Faust immediately collects himself again; with impressive clearness he declares his opinion of life, of the value of the earthly Present; Care he hates, and does not recognize it as an independent existence. She will nevertheless make herself known to him at the end of his life, and passes over his face and makes him blind. Still, Faust expresses no solicitude, though deprived of his eyes by Care; no alteration is noticed in him, he is bent only upon his aims; the energy of his tension remains uniform: Spirit, Thought, is the true eye; though the external one is blinded, the internal one remains open and wakeful. The transition from this point to the conclusion is properly this: that from the activity of the finite Understanding, only a Finite can result. All industry, for whose development Mephistopheles is so serviceable, as he once was in war, cannot still the hunger of Spirit for Spirit. Industry creates only an aggregate of prosperity, no true happiness. Our century is truly great in industrial activity. But it should only be the means, the point of entrance for real freedom, which is within itself the Infinite. And Faust has to come to this, even on the brink of the grave. Mephistopheles, after this affair with Care, causes the grave of the old man to be dug by the shaking Lemures. Faust supposes, as he hears the noise of the spades, that his workmen are busily employed. Eagerly he talks over his plans with Mephistopheles, and at last he glows at the good fortune of standing upon free ground with a free people. Daily he feels that man must conquer Freedom and Life anew, and the presentiment that the traces of his uninterrupted striving would not perish in the Ages, is the highest moment of his whole existence. This confession of satisfaction kills him, and he falls to the earth dead. After trying everything, after turning from himself to the future of the race, after working unceasingly, he has ripened to the acknowledgement that the Individual only in the Whole, that Man only in the freedom of humanity can have repose. Mephistopheles believes that he has won his bet, causes the jaws of Hell to appear, and commands the Devils to look to the soul of Faust. But Angels come, strewing roses from above; the roses, the flowers of Love, cause pain where they fall; the Devils and Mephistopheles himself complain uproariously. He lashes himself with the falling roses, which cling to his neck like pitch and brimstone, and burn deeper than Hell-fire. First, he berates the Angels as hypocritical puppets, yet, more closely observed, he finds that they are most lovely youths. Only the long cloaks fit them too modestly, for, from behind particularly, the rascals had a very desirable look. While he is seeking out a tall fellow for himself, and is plunged wholly in his pederastic lust, the Angels carry away the immortal part of Faust to Heaven. Mephistopheles now reproaches himself with the greatest bitterness, because he has destroyed, through so trivial a desire, the fruits of so long a labor. This _reductio ad absurdum_ of the Devil must be considered as one of the happiest strokes of humor. The holy innocence of the Angels is not for him; he sees only their fine bodies; his lowness carries him into the Unnatural and Accidental, just where his greatest interest and egotism come in play. This result will surprise most people; but if they consider the nature of the Devil, it will be wholly satisfactory; in all cunning he is at last bemocked as a fool, and he destroys himself through himself.

In conclusion, we see a woody, rocky wilderness, settled with hermits. It is not Heaven itself, but the transition to the same, where the soul is united to perfect clearness and happiness. Hence we find the glowing devotion and repentance of the _Pater ecstaticus_, the contemplation of the _Pater profundus_, the wrestling of the _Pater serapticus_, who, taking into his eyes the holy little boys because their organs are too weak for the Earth, shows them trees, rocks, waterfalls. The Angels bring in Faust, who, as Doctor Marianus, in the highest and purest cell, with burning prayer to the approaching queen of Heaven, seeks for grace. Around Maria is a choir of penitents, among whom are the Magna Peccatrix, the Mulier Samaritana, and Maria Ægyptiaca. They pray for the earthly soul; and one of the penitents, once called Margaret, kneeling, ventures a special intercession. The Mater Gloriosa appoints Margaret to lead the soul of Faust to higher spheres, for he shall follow her in anticipation. A fervent prayer streams from the lips of Doctor Marianus; the Chorus mysticus concludes with the assurance of the certainty of bliss through educating, purifying love. Aspiration, the Eternal feminine, is in Faust, however deeply he penetrates into every sphere of worldly activity. The analogy between Margaret and the Beatrice of Dante is here undeniable; also, the farther progress of Faust’s life we must consider similar, as he, like Dante, grows in the knowledge and feeling of the Divine till he arrives at its complete intuition; Dante beholds the Trinity perfectly free and independent, without being led farther by anybody. From this point of view, that the poet wanted to exhibit reconciliation as becoming, as a product of infinite growth, is found the justification of the fact that he alludes so slightly to God the Father, and to Christ the Redeemer, and, instead, brings out so prominently the worship of the Virgin, and the devotion of Woman. Devotion has a passive element which finds its fittest poetical support in women. These elements agree also very well with the rest of the poem, since Goethe, throughout the entire drama, has preserved the costume of the Middle Ages; otherwise, on account of the evident Protestant tendency of Faust, it would be difficult to find a necessary connection with the other parts of the poem.

As regards the history of Faust in itself, dramatically considered, the first four acts could perhaps be entirely omitted. The fifth, as it shows us that all striving, if its content is not religion, (the freedom of the Spirit,) can give no internal satisfaction, as it shows us that in the earnest striving after freedom, however much we may err, still the path to Heaven is open, and is only closed to him who does not strive, would have sufficiently exhibited the reconciliation. But Goethe wants to show not only this conclusion, which was all the legend demanded of him, but also the becoming of this result. Faust was for him and through him for the nation, and indeed for Europe, the representative of the world-comprehending, self-conscious internality of Spirit, and therefore he caused all the elements of the World to crystallize around this centre. Thus the acts of the Second Part are pictures, which, like frescoes, are painted beside one another upon the same wall, and Faust has actually become what was so often before said of him, a perfect manifestation of the Universe.

If we now cast a glance back to what we said in the beginning, of the opposition between the characters of Wilhelm Meister and Faust, that the former was _the determined from without_, the latter _the self-determining from within_, we can also seize this opposition so that Meister is always in pursuit of Culture, Faust of Freedom. Meister is therefore always desirous of new impressions, in order to have them work upon himself, extend his knowledge, complete his character. His capacity and zeal for Culture, the variety of the former, the diligence of the latter, forced him to a certain tameness and complaisance in relation to others. Faust on the contrary will himself work. He will possess only what he himself creates. Just for this reason he binds himself to the Devil, because the latter has the greatest worldly power, which Faust applies unsparingly for his own purposes, so that the Devil in reality finds in him a hard, whimsical, insatiate master. To Wilhelm the acquaintance of the Devil would indeed have been very interesting from a moral, psychological and æsthetic point of view, but he never would have formed a fraternity with him. This _autonomia_ and _autarkia_ of Faust have given a powerful impulse to the German people, and German literature. But if, in the continuation of Faust, there was an expectation of the same Titanic nature, it was disappointed. The monstrosity of the tendencies however, does not cease; a man must be blind not to see them. But in the place of pleasure, after the catastrophe with Margaret, an active participation in the world enters; a feature which Klinger and others have retained. But Labor in itself can still give no satisfaction, but its content, too, must be considered. Or rather, the external objectivity of Labor is indifferent; whether one is savant, artist, soldier, courtier, priest, manufacturer, merchant, etc., is a mere accident; whether he wills Freedom or not, is not accidental, for Spirit is in and for itself, free. With the narrow studio, in fellowship with Wagner, Faust begins; with Trade, with contests about boundaries, with his look upon the sea, which unites the nations, he ends his career.

In the World, Freedom indeed realizes itself, but as absolute, it can only come to existence in God.

It is therefore right when Goethe makes the transition from civil to religious freedom. Men cannot accomplish more than the realization of the freedom of the nations, for Mankind has its concrete existence only in the nations; if the nations are free, it is also free. Faust must thus be enraptured by this thought in the highest degree. But with it, he departs from the world—Heaven has opened itself above him. But, though Heaven sheds its grace, and lovingly receives the striving soul which has erred, still it demands repentance and complete purification from what is earthly. This struggle, this wrestling of the soul, I find expressed in the most sublime manner in the songs of the hermits and the choruses, and do not know what our time has produced superior in spiritual power, as well as in unwavering hope, though I must confess that I am not well enough versed in the fertile modern lyric literature of Pietism, to say whether such pearls are to be found in it.

Moreover, it is evident that the pliable Meister, and the stubborn Faust, are the two sides which were united in Goethe’s genius. He was a poet, and became a courtier; he was a courtier, and remained a poet. But in a more extensive sense this opposition is found in all modern nations, particularly among the Germans. They wish to obtain culture, and therefore shun no kind of society if they are improved. But they wish also to be free. They love culture so deeply that they, perhaps, for a while, have forgotten freedom. But then the Spirit warns them. They sigh, like Faust, that they have sat so long in a gloomy cell over Philosophy, Theology, etc. With the fierceness of lions, they throw all culture aside for the sake of freedom, and in noble delusion form an alliance—even with the Devil.

A CRITICISM OF PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS. [Translated from the German of J. G. Fichte, by A. E. Kroeger.]

[NOTE. Below we give to our readers the translation of another Introduction to the Science of Knowledge, written by Fichte immediately after the one published in our previous number. Whereas that first Introduction was written for readers who have as yet no philosophical system of their own, the present one is intended more particularly for those who have set philosophical notions, of which they require to be disabused.—EDITOR.]

I believe the first introduction published in this Journal to be perfectly sufficient for unprejudiced readers, i. e. for readers who give themselves up to the writer without preconceived opinions, who, if they do not assist him, also do not resist him in his endeavors to carry them along. It is otherwise with readers who have already a philosophical system. Such readers have adopted certain maxims from their system, which have become fundamental principles for them; and whatsoever is not produced according to these maxims, is now pronounced false by them without further investigation, and without even reading such productions: it is pronounced false, because it has been produced in violation of their universally valid method. Unless this class of readers is to be abandoned altogether—and why should it be?—it is, above all, necessary to remove the obstacle which deprives us of their attention; or, in other words, to make them distrust their maxims.

Such a preliminary investigation concerning the _method_, is, above all, necessary in regard to the Science of Knowledge, the whole structure and significance whereof differs utterly from the structure and significance of all philosophical systems which have hitherto been current. The authors of these previous systems started from some conception or another; and utterly careless whence they got it, or out of what material they composed it, they then proceeded to analyze it, to combine it with others, regarding the origin whereof they were equally unconcerned; and this their argumentation itself is their philosophy. Hence their philosophy consists in _their own_ thinking. Quite different does the Science of Knowledge proceed. That which this Science makes the object of its thinking, is not a dead conception, remaining passive under the investigation, and receiving life only from it, but is rather itself living and active; generating out of itself and through itself cognitions, which the philosopher merely observes in their genesis. His business in the whole affair is nothing further than to place that living object of his investigation in proper activity, and to observe, grasp and comprehend this its activity as a Unit. He undertakes an experiment. It is his business to place the object in a position which permits the observation he wishes to make; it is his business to attend to all the manifestations of the object in this experiment, to follow them and connect them in proper order; but it is not his business to _cause_ the manifestations in the object. That is the business of the object itself: and he would work directly contrary to his purpose if he did not allow the object full freedom to develop itself—if he undertook but the least interference in this, its self-developing.

The philosopher of the first mentioned sort, on the contrary, does just the reverse. He produces a product of art. In working out his object he only takes into consideration its matter, and pays no attention to an internal self-developing power thereof. Nay, this power must be deadened before he undertakes his work, or else it might resist his labor. It is from the dead matter, therefore, that he produces something, and solely by means of his own power, in accordance with his previously resolved-upon conception.

While thus in the Science of Knowledge there are two utterly distinct series of mental activity—that of the Ego, which the philosopher observes, and that of the observations of the philosopher—all other philosophical systems have only _one_ series of thinking, viz: that of the thoughts of the philosopher, for his object is not introduced as thinking at all.

One of the chief grounds of so many objections to and misunderstandings of the Science of Knowledge lies in this: that these two series of thinking have not been held apart, or that what belonged to the one has been taken to belong to the other. This error occurred because Philosophy was held to consist only of one series. The act of one who produces a work of art is most certainly—since his object is not active—the appearance itself; but the description of him who has undertaken an experiment, is not the appearance itself, but the conception thereof.[1]

After this preliminary remark, the further application whereof we shall examine in the course of our article, let us now ask: how does the Science of Knowledge proceed to solve its problem?

The question it will have to answer, is, as we well know, the following: Whence comes the system of those representations which are accompanied by the feeling of necessity? Or, how do we to come claim objective validity for what is only subjective? Or, since objective validity is generally characterized as _being_, how do we come to accept a being? Now, since this question starts from a reflection that returns into itself—starts from the observation, that the immediate object of consciousness is after all merely consciousness itself,—it seems clear enough that the question can speak of no other being than of a being for us. It would be indeed a complete contradiction, to mistake it for a question concerning some being which had no relation to our consciousness. Nevertheless, the philosophers of our philosophical age are of all things most apt to plunge into such absurd contradictions.

The proposed question, how is a being for us possible? abstracts itself from all being; i. e. it must not be understood, as if the question posited a not-being; for in that case the conception of being would only be negated, but not abstracted from. On the contrary, the question does not entertain the conception of being at all, either positively or negatively. The proposed question asks for the ground of the predicate of being, whether it be applied positively or negatively; but all ground lies beyond the grounded, i. e. is opposed to it. The answer must, therefore, if it is to be an answer to this question, also abstract from all being. To maintain, _a priori_, in advance of an attempt, that such an abstraction is impossible in the answer, because it is impossible in itself, would be to maintain likewise, that such an abstraction is impossible in the question; and hence, that the question itself is not possible, and that the problem of a science of metaphysics, as the science which is to solve the problem of the ground of being for us, is not a problem for human reason.

That such an abstraction, and hence such a question, is contrary to reason, cannot be proven by objective grounds to those who maintain its possibility; for the latter assert that the possibility and necessity of the question is grounded upon the highest law of reason—that of self-determination, (Practical legislation,) under which all other laws of reason are subsumed, and from which they are all derived, but at the same time determined and limited to the sphere of their validity. They acknowledge the arguments of their opponents willingly enough, but deny their application to the present case; with what justice, their opponents can determine only by placing themselves upon the basis of this highest law, but hence, also, upon the basis of an answer to the disputed question, by which act they would cease to be opponents. Their opposition, indeed, can only arise from a subjective defect—from the consciousness that they never raised this question, and never felt the need of an answer to it. Against this their position, no objective grounds can, on the other hand, be made valid, by those who insist on an answer to the question; for the doubt, which raises that question, is grounded upon previous acts of freedom, which no demonstration can compel from any one.

III.

Let us now ask: Who is it that undertakes the demanded abstraction from all being? or, in which of the two series does it occur? Evidently, in the series of philosophical argumentation, for another series does not exist.

That, to which the philosopher holds, and from which he promises to explain all that is to be explained, is the consciousness, the subject. This subject he will, therefore, have to comprehend free from all representation of being, in order first to show up in it the ground of all being—of course, for itself. But if he abstracts from all being of and for the subject, nothing pertains to it but an acting. Particularly in relation to being is it the acting. The philosopher will, therefore, have to comprehend it in its acting, and from this point the aforementioned double series will first arise.

The fundamental assertion of the philosopher, as such, is this: as soon as the Ego is for itself, there necessarily arises for it at the same time an external being; the ground of the latter lies in the former; the latter is conditioned by the former. Self-consciousness and consciousness of a Something which is not that Self, is necessarily united; but the former is the conditioning and the latter the conditioned. To prove this assertion—not, perhaps, by argumentation, as valid for a system of a being in itself, but by observation of the original proceeding of reason, as valid for reason—the philosopher will have to show, firstly, how the Ego is and becomes for itself; and secondly, that this its own being for itself is not possible, unless at the same time there arises for it an external being, which is not it.

The first question, therefore, would be: how is the Ego for itself? and the first postulate: think thyself! construe the conception of thyself, and observe how thou proceedest in this construction.

The philosopher affirms that every one who will but do so, must necessarily discover that in the thinking of that conception, his activity, as intelligence, returns into itself, makes itself its own object.

If this is correct and admitted, the manner of the construction of the Ego, the manner of its being for itself, (and we never speak of another being,) is known; and the philosopher may then proceed to prove that this act is not possible without another act, whereby there arises for the Ego an external being.

It is thus, indeed, that the Science of Knowledge proceeds. Let us now consider with what justice it so proceeds.

IV.

First of all: what in the described act belongs to the philosopher, as philosopher, and what belongs to the Ego he is to observe? To the Ego nothing but the return to itself; everything else to the description of the philosopher, for whom, as mere fact, the system of all experience, which in its genesis the Ego is now to produce under his observation, has already existence.

The Ego returns _into itself_, is the assertion. Has it not then already being in advance of this return into itself, and independently thereof? Nay, must it not already be for itself, if merely for the possibility of making itself the object of its action? Again, if this is so, does not the whole philosophy presuppose what it ought first to explain?

I answer by no means. First through this act, and only by means of it—by means of an acting upon an acting—does the Ego _originally_ come to be _for itself_. It is only _for the philosopher_ that it has previous existence as a fact, because the philosopher has already gone through the whole experience. He must express himself as he does, to be but understood, and he can so express himself, because he long since has comprehended all the conceptions necessary thereunto.

Now, to return to the observed Ego: what is this its return into itself? Under what class of modifications of consciousness is it to be posited? It is no _comprehending_, for a comprehending first arises through the opposition of a non-Ego, and by the determining of the Ego in this opposition. Hence it is a mere _contemplation_. It is therefore not consciousness, not even self-consciousness. Indeed, it is precisely because this act alone produces no consciousness, that we proceed to another act, through which a non-Ego originates for us, and that a progress of philosophical argumentation and the required deduction of the system of experience becomes possible. That act only places the Ego in the possibility of self-consciousness—and thus of all other consciousness—but does not generate real consciousness. That act is but a part of the whole act of the intelligence, whereby it effects its consciousness; a part which only the philosopher separates from the whole act, but which is not originally so separated in the Ego.

But how about the philosopher, as such? This self-constructing Ego is none other than his own. He can contemplate that act of the Ego only in himself, and, in order to contemplate it, must realize it. He produces that act arbitrarily and with freedom.

But—this question may and has been raised—if your whole philosophy is erected upon something produced by an act of mere arbitrariness, does it not then become a mere creature of the brain, a pure imaginary picture? How is the philosopher going to secure to this purely subjective act its objectivity? How will he secure to that which is purely empirical and a moment of time—i. e. the time in which the philosopher philosophizes—its originality? How can he prove that his present free thinking in the midst of the series of his representations does correspond to the necessary thinking, whereby he first became for himself, and through which the whole series of his representations has been started?

I answer: this act is in its nature objective. I am for myself; this is a fact. Now I could have thus come to be for myself only through an act, for I am free; and only through this thus determined act, for only through it do I become for myself every moment, and through every other act something quite different is produced. That acting, indeed, is the very conception of the Ego; and the conception of the Ego is the conception of that acting; both conceptions are quite the same; and that conception of the Ego can mean and can not be made to mean anything, but what has been stated. _It is so_, because _I make it so_. The philosopher only makes clear to himself what he really thinks and has ever thought, when he thinks or thought _himself_; but that he does think himself is to him immediate fact of consciousness. That question, concerning the objectivity is grounded on the very curious presupposition that the Ego is something else than its own thought of itself, and that something else than this thought and outside of it—God may know what they do mean!—is again the ground of it, concerning the actual nature of which outside something they are very much troubled. Hence if they ask for such an objective validity of the thought, or for a connection between this object and the subject, I cheerfully confess that the Science of Knowledge can give them no instruction concerning it. If they choose to, they may themselves enter, in this or any other case, upon the discovery of such a connection, until they, perhaps, will recollect that this Unknown which they are hunting, is, after all, again their thought, and that whatsoever they may invent as its ground, will also be their thought, and thus _ad infinitum_; and that, indeed, they cannot speak of or question about anything without at the same time thinking it.

Now, in this act, which is arbitrary and in time, for the philosopher as such, but which is for the Ego—which he constructs, by virtue of his just deduced right, for the sake of subsequent observations and conclusions—necessarily and originally; in this act, I say, the philosopher looks at himself, and immediately contemplates his own acting; he knows what he does, because _he does it_. Does a consciousness thereof arise in him? Without doubt; for he not only contemplates, but _comprehends_ also. He comprehends his act, as an _acting generally_, of which he has already a conception by virtue of his previous experience; and as this _determined_, into itself _returning_ acting, as which he contemplates it in himself. By this characteristic determination he elevates it above the sphere of _general acting_.

_What_ acting may be, can only be _contemplated_, not developed from and through conceptions; but that which this contemplation contains is _comprehended_ by the mere opposition of pure _being_. Acting is not being, and being is not acting. Mere conception affords no other determination for each link; their real essence is only discovered in contemplation.

Now this whole procedure of the philosopher appears to _me_, at least, very possible, very easy, and even natural; and I can scarcely conceive how it can appear otherwise to my readers, and how they can see in it anything mysterious and marvellous. Every one, let us hope, can think _himself_. He will also, let us hope, learn that by being required to thus think himself he is required to perform an act, dependent upon his own activity, an internal act; and that if he realizes this demand, if he really affects himself through self-activity, he also most surely _acts_ thus. Let us further hope that he will be able to distinguish this kind of acting from its _opposite_, the acting whereby he thinks external objects, and that he will find in the latter sort of thinking the thinking and the thought to be opposites, (the activity, therefore, tending upon something distinct from itself,) while in the former thinking both were one and the same, (and hence the activity a return into itself.) He will comprehend, it is to be hoped, that—since the thought of himself arises _only_ in this manner, (an opposite thinking producing a quite different thought)—the thought of himself is nothing but the thought of this act, and the word Ego nothing but the designation of this act—that Ego and an _into itself returning activity_ are completely identical conceptions. He will understand, let us hope, that if he but for the present problematically presupposes with transcendental Idealism that all consciousness rests upon and is dependent upon self-consciousness, he must also _think_ that return into itself as preceding and conditioning all other acts of consciousness; indeed as the primary act of the subject; and, since there is nothing for him which is not in his consciousness, and since everything else in his consciousness is conditioned by this act, and therefore cannot condition the act in the same respect,—as an act, utterly unconditioned and hence absolute _for him_; and he will thus further understand, that the _above problematical presupposition_ and this _thinking of the Ego as originally posited through itself_, are again quite identical; and that hence transcendental Idealism, if it proceeds systematically, can proceed in no other manner than it does in the Science of Knowledge.

This contemplation of himself, which is required of the philosopher, in his realization of the act, through which the Ego arises for him, I call _intellectual contemplation_. It is the immediate consciousness that I act and what I act; it is that through which I know something, because I do it. That there is such a power of intellectual contemplation cannot be demonstrated by conceptions, nor can conception show what it is. Every one must find it immediately in himself, or he will never learn to know it. The requirement that we ought to show _it_ what it is by argumentation, is more marvellous than would be the requirement of a blind person, to explain to him, without his needing to use sight, what colors are.

But it can be certainly proven to everyone in his own confessed experience, that this intellectual contemplation does occur in every moment of his consciousness. I can take no step, cannot move hand or foot, without the intellectual contemplation of my self-consciousness in these acts; only through this contemplation do I know that _I_ do it, only through it do I distinguish my acting and in it myself from the given object of my acting. Everyone who ascribes an activity to himself appeals to this contemplation. In it is the source of life, and without it is death.

But this contemplation never occurs alone, as a complete act of consciousness, as indeed sensuous contemplation also never occurs alone nor completes consciousness; both contemplations must be _comprehended_. Not only this, but the intellectual contemplation is also always connected with a _sensuous_ contemplation. I cannot find myself acting without finding an object upon which I act, and this object in a sensuous contemplation which I comprehend; nor without sketching an image of what I intend to produce by my act, which image I also comprehend. Now, then, how do I know and how can I know what I intend to produce, if I do not immediately contemplate myself in this sketching of the image which I intend to produce, i. e. in this sketching of the conception of my _purpose_, which sketching is certainly an act. Only the totality of this condition in uniting a given manifold completes consciousness. I become conscious only of the conceptions, both of the object upon which I act, and of the purpose I intend to accomplish; but I do not become conscious of the contemplations which are at the bottom of both conceptions.

Perhaps it is only this which the zealous opponents of intellectual contemplation wish to insist upon; namely, that that contemplation is only possible in connection with a sensuous contemplation; and surely the Science of Knowledge is not going to deny it. But this is no reason why they should deny intellectual contemplation. For with the same right we might deny sensuous contemplation, since it also is possible only in connection with intellectual contemplation; for whatsoever is to become _my_ representation must be related to me, and the consciousness (I) occurs only through intellectual contemplation. (It is a remarkable fact of our modern history of philosophy, that it has not been noticed as yet how all that may be objected to intellectual contemplation can also be objected to sensuous contemplation, and that thus the arguments of its opponents turn against themselves.)

But if it must be admitted that there is no immediate, isolated consciousness of intellectual contemplation, how does the philosopher arrive at a knowledge and isolated representation thereof? I answer, doubtless in the same manner in which he arrives at the isolated representation of sensuous contemplation, by drawing a conclusion from the evident facts of consciousness. This conclusion runs as follows: I propose to myself, to think this or that, and the required thought arises; I propose to myself, to do this or that, and the representation that it is being done arises. This is a fact of consciousness. If I look at it by the light of the laws of mere sensuous consciousness, it involves no more than has just been stated, i. e. a sequence of certain representations. I become conscious only of this _sequence_, in a series of time movements, and only such a time sequence can I assert. I can merely state—I know that if I propose to myself a certain thought, with the characteristic that it is to have existence, the representation of this thought, with the characteristic that it really has existence, follows; or, that the representation of a certain manifestation, as one which ought to occur, is immediately followed in time by the representation of the same manifestation as one which really did occur. But I can, on no account, state that the first representation contains the _real_ ground of the second one which followed; or, that by thinking the first one the second one _became real_ for me. I merely remain passive, the placid scene upon which representations follow representations, and am, on no account, the active principle which produces them. Still I constantly assume the latter, and cannot relinquish that assumption without relinquishing my self. What justifies me in it? In the sensuous ingredients I have mentioned, there is no ground to justify such an assumption; hence it is a peculiar and immediate consciousness, that is to say, a contemplation, and not a sensuous contemplation, which views a material and permanent being, but a contemplation of a pure activity, which is not permanent but progressive, not a being but a life.

The philosopher, therefore, discovers this intellectual contemplation as fact of consciousness, (for him it is a fact; for the original Ego a fact and act both together—a deed-act,) and he thus discovers it not immediately, as an isolated part of his consciousness, but by distinguishing and separating what in common consciousness occurs in unseparated union.

Quite a different problem it is to explain this intellectual contemplation, which is here presupposed as fact, in its _possibility_, and by means of this explanation to defend it against the charge of deception and deceptiveness, which is raised by dogmatism; or, in other words, to prove the _faith_ in the reality of this intellectual contemplation, from which faith transcendental idealism confessedly starts—by a something still higher; and to show up the interest which leads us to place faith in its reality, or in the system of Reason. This is accomplished by showing up the _Moral Law_ in us, in which the Ego is characterized as elevated through it above all the original modifications, as impelled by an absolute, or in itself, (in the Ego,) grounded activity; and by which the Ego is thus discovered to be an absolute Active. In the consciousness of this law, which doubtless is an immediate consciousness, and not derived from something else, the contemplation of self-activity and freedom is grounded. _I am given to myself through myself as something, which is to be active in a certain manner; hence, I am given to myself through myself as something active generally; I have the life in myself, and take it from out of myself. Only through this medium of the Moral Law do I see_ MYSELF; _and if I see myself through that law, I necessarily see myself as self-active_; and it is thus that there arises in a consciousness—which otherwise would only be the consciousness of a sequence of my representations—the utterly foreign ingredient of an _activity of myself_.

This intellectual contemplation is the only stand-point for all Philosophy. From it all that occurs in consciousness may be explained, but only from it. Without self-consciousness there is no consciousness at all; but self-consciousness is only possible in the way we have shown, i. e. I am only active. Beyond it I cannot be driven; my philosophy then becomes altogether independent of all arbitrariness, and a product of stern necessity; i. e. in so far as necessity exists for free Reason; it becomes a product of _practical_ necessity. I _can_ not go beyond this stand-point, because conscience says I _shall_ not go beyond it; and thus transcendental idealism shows itself up to be the only moral philosophy—the philosophy wherein speculation and moral law are intimately united. Conscience says: I _shall_ start in my thinking from the pure Ego, and shall think it absolutely self-active; not as determined by the things, but as determining the things.

The conception of activity which becomes possible only through this intellectual contemplation of the self-active Ego, is the only one which unites both the worlds that exist for us—the sensuous and the intelligible world. Whatsoever is opposed to my activity—and I must oppose something to it, for I am finite—is the sensuous, and whatsoever is to arise through my activity is the intelligible (moral) world.

I should like to know how those who smile so contemptuously whenever the words “intellectual contemplation” is mentioned, think the consciousness of the moral law; or how they are enabled to entertain such conceptions as those of Virtue, of Right, &c., which they doubtless do entertain. According to them there are only two contemplations _a priori_—Time and Space. They surely form these conceptions of Virtue, &c., in Time, (the form of the inner sense,) but they certainly do not hold them to be time itself, but merely a certain filling up of time. What is it, then, wherewith they fill up time, and get a basis for the construction of those conceptions? There is nothing left to them but Space; and hence their conceptions of Virtue, Right, &c., are perhaps quadrangular and circular; just as all the other conceptions which they construct, (for instance, that of a tree or of an animal,) are nothing but limitations of Space. But they do not conceive their Virtue and their Right in this manner. What, then, is the basis of their construction? If they attend properly, they will discover that this basis is activity in general, or freedom. Both of these conceptions of virtue and right are to them certain limitations of their general activity, exactly as their sensuous conceptions are limitations of space. How, then, do they arrive at this basis of their construction? We will hope that they have not derived activity from the dead permanency of matter, nor freedom from the mechanism of nature. They have obtained it, therefore, from immediate contemplation, and thus they confess a third contemplation besides their own two.

It is, therefore, by no means so unimportant, as it appears to be to some, whether philosophy starts from a fact or from a deed-act, (i. e. from an activity, which presupposes no object, but produces it itself, and in which, therefore, the _acting_ is immediately _deed_.) If philosophy starts from a fact, it places itself in the midst of being and finity, and will find it difficult to discover therefrom a road to the infinite and super-sensuous; but if it starts from a deed-act, it places itself at once in the point which unites both worlds and from which both can be overlooked at one glance.

[Translators frequently use the term “intuition” for what I have here called “contemplation;” “Deed-Act” is my rendering of “That-Handlung.” A. E. K.]

Footnote 1:

NOTE. The same mistaking of one series of thinking in transcendental idealism for the other series, lies at the basis of the assertion, that besides the system of idealism, another realistic system is also possible as a logical and thorough system. The realism, which forces itself upon all, even the most decided idealist, namely, the assumption that things exist independently and outside of us, is involved in the idealistic system itself; and is moreover explained and deduced in that system. Indeed, the deduction of an objective truth, as well in the world of appearances as in the world of intellect, is the only purpose of all philosophy.

It is the philosopher who says in _his own_ name: everything that is _for_ the Ego is also _through_ the Ego. But the Ego itself, in that philosopher’s philosophy says: as sure as I am I, there exists outside of me a something, which exists _not_ through me. The philosopher’s idealistic assertion is therefore met by the realistic assertion of the Ego in the same one system; and it is the philosopher’s business to show from the fundamental principle of his philosophy how the Ego comes to make such an assertion. The philosopher’s stand-point is the purely speculative; the Ego’s stand-point in his system is the realistic stand-point of life and science; the philosopher’s system is Science of Knowledge, whilst the Ego’s system is common Science. But common Science is comprehensible only through the Science of Knowledge, the realistic system comprehensible only through the idealistic system. Realism forces itself upon us; but it has in itself no known and comprehensible ground. Idealism furnishes this ground, and is only to make realism comprehensible. Speculation has no other purpose than to furnish this comprehensibility of all reality, which in itself would otherwise remain incomprehensible. Hence, also, Idealism can never be a mode of thinking, but can only be _speculation_.

NOTES ON MILTON’S LYCIDAS. BY ANNA C. BRACKETT.

Every work of art, whether in sculpture, painting, or music, must have a definite content; and only in having such has it any claim to be so called. This content must be spiritual; that is, it must come from the inner spirit of the artist, and translate itself by means of the work into spirit in the spectator or listener. Only in the recognition of this inner meaning which lives behind the outside and shimmers through it, can consist the difference between the impression made on me by the sight of a beautiful painting, and that produced on an inferior animal, as the retina of his eye paints with equal accuracy the same object. For what is this sense of beauty which thrills through me, while the dog at my side looks at the same thing and sees nothing in seeing all which the eye can grasp? Is it not the response in me to the informing spirit behind all the outward appearance?

But if this sense of beauty stops in passive enjoyment, if the sense of sight or of hearing is simply to be intoxicated with the feast spread before it, we must confess that our appreciation of beauty is a very sensuous thing. Content though some may be, simply to enjoy, in the minds of others the fascination of the senses only provokes unrest. We say with Goethe: “I would fain understand that which interests me in so extraordinary a manner;” for this work of art, the product of mind, touches me in a wonderful way, and must be of universal essence. Let me seek the reason, and if I find it, it will be another step towards “the solvent word.”

Again, in a true work of art this content must be essentially _one_; that is, one profound thought to which all others, though they may be visible, must be gracefully subordinate; otherwise we are lost in a multiplicity of details, and miss the unity which is the sole sign of the creative mind.

Nor need we always be anxious as to whether the artist consciously meant to say thus and so. Has there ever lived a true artist who has not “builded better than he knew”? If this were not so, all works of art would lose their significance in the course of time. Are the half-uttered meanings of the statues of the Egyptian gods behind or before us to-day? Do they not perplex us with prophecies rather than remembrances as we wander amazed among them through the halls of the British Museum? A whole nation striving to say the one word, and dying before it was uttered! Have we heard it clearly yet?

The world goes on translating as it gains new words with which to carry on the work. It is not so much the artist that is before his age as the divine afflatus guiding his hand which leads not only the age but him. Through that divine inspiration he speaks, and he says mysterious words which perhaps must wait for centuries to be understood. In that fact lies his right to his title; in that, alone, lies the right of his production to be called a work of art.

Doubtless all readers are familiar with Dr. Johnson’s criticisms on Milton’s Lycidas, and these we might pass by without comment, for it would evidently be as impossible for Dr. Johnson’s mind to comprehend or be touched by the poetry of Lycidas as for a ponderous sledge-hammer to be conscious of the soft, perfume-laden air through which it might move. The monody is censured by him because of its irregularly recurring rhymes, and in the same breath we are told that it is so full of art that the author could not have felt sorrow while writing it. We know how intricately the rhymes are woven in Milton’s sonnets, where he seems to have taken all pains to select the most difficult arrangements, and to carry them through without deviation, and we say only that the first criticism contradicts the last. But some more appreciative critics, while touched by the beauty, repeat the same, and say there is “more poetry than sorrow” in the poem. More poetry than sorrow! Sorrow is the grand key note, and strikes in always over and through all the beauty and poetry like a wailing chord in a symphony, that is never absent long, and ever and anon drowns out all the rest. Sorrow, pure and simple, is the thread on which all the beautiful fancies are strung. It runs through and connects them all, and there is not a paragraph in the whole poem that is not pierced by it. It is the occasion, the motive, the inner inspiration, and the mastery over it is the conclusion of all. Around it, the constant centre, group themselves all the lovely pictures, and they all face it and are subordinate to it.

The soul of the poet is so tossed by the immediate sorrow that it surrenders itself entirely to it, and so, losing its will, is taken possession of by whatever thought, evoked by the spell of association, rises in his mind; as when he speaks of Camus and St. Peter. Ever and anon the will makes an effort to free itself and to determine its own course, but again and again the wave of sorrow sweeps up, and the vainly struggling will goes down before it.

Nothing lay closer to Milton’s heart than the interests of what he believed the true church; and nothing touched him more than the abuses which were then prevalent in the church of England. In the safe harbor of his father’s country home, resting on his oars before the appointed time for the race in which he was to give away all his strength and joy, surrounded and inspired by the fresh, pure air from the granite rocks of Puritanism, all his growing strength was gathering its energies for the struggle. This just indignation and honest protest must find its way in the poem through the grief that sweeps over him, and which, because so deep, touches and vivifies all his deepest thoughts. But even that strong under current of conviction has no power long to steady him against the wave of sorrow which breaks above his head, none the less powerful because it breaks in a line of white and shivers itself into drops which flash diamond colors in the warm and pure sunlight of his cultured imagination. More poetry than sorrow? Then there is more poetry in Lycidas than in any other poem of the same length in our language.

It would be impossible here to go through the poem with the close care to all little points which is necessary to enable one fully to comprehend its exquisite beauty and finish. It is like one of Beethoven’s symphonies, where at first we are so occupied with the one grand thought that we surrender ourselves entirely to it, and think ourselves completely satisfied. But as we appropriate that more and more fully, within and around it wonderful melodies start and twine, and this experience is repeated again and again till the music seems almost infinite in its content. Let us, then, briefly go over the burden of the monody, our chief effort being to show how perfectly at one it is throughout, how natural the seemingly abrupt changes,—only pausing now and then to speak of some special beauty which is so marked that one cannot pass it by in silence. If we succeed in showing a continued and natural thought in the whole and a satisfactory solution for the collision which gives rise to the poem, our end will have been accomplished.

Milton begins in due order by giving, as prelude, his reason for singing. But he has written only seven full lines before, in the eighth, the key-note is struck by the force of sorrow, which, after saying “Lycidas is dead,” lingers on the strain and repeats, to heighten the grief, “dead ere his prime.” The next line, the ninth, is still more pathetic in its echoing repetition and its added cause for mourning. (In passing, let us say that the effect is greatly increased in reading this line if the first word be strongly emphasized.) Because he hath not left his peer, all should sing for him. No more excuse is needed. Sorrow pleases itself in calling up the neglected form, and then passionately turns to the only solace that it can have—“Some melodious tear.”

This, of course, brings the image of the Muses, and as that thought comes, once more we have a new attempt at a formal beginning in the second paragraph (line 15). First, is the invocation, and then, recurring to the first thought, Milton says it is peculiarly appropriate for _him_ to sing of Lycidas. Why? Because they had been so long together, and as the thought of happier things arises, the sweet memories, linked by the chain of association, come thronging so tumultuously that he forgets himself in reverie. The music, at first slow and sweet, grows more and more strong and rapid till even the rustic dance-measure comes in merrily. Most naturally here the key-note is again struck by the force of contrast, and the despair of the sorrow that wakes from the forgetfulness of pleasant dreams to the consciousness of loss, strikes as rapidly its minor chords till it seems as if hope were entirely lost.

Nothing is more unreasonable than this despair of sorrow. Tossed in its own wild passion, it sees nothing clearly, and seeking for some adequate cause, heaps blindly unmerited reproaches on anything, on all things. So, recoiling before its power, stung with its pain, the poet turns reproachfully to the nymphs, blaming them for their negligence. But before the words are fairly uttered he realizes his folly. Lycidas was beloved by them, but if Calliope could not save even her own son, how powerless are they against the step of inevitable fate! This strikes deep down in the thunder of the bass notes, and the thought comes which perhaps cannot be more powerfully expressed than by the old Hebrew refrain, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” After all, why seek for anything, even for fame? Man’s destiny is ruled by irresponsible necessity. Life is worth nothing, and would it not be better, instead of “scorning delights and living laborious days,” to yield one’s self to the pleasures of the passing moment? “All is vanity and vexation of spirit.” When any soul reaches this point, it seems as if help must come from outside of itself or it will go irrevocably down. Sorrow, despair, are always represented by darkness. Is it an accident that the celestial notes which first strike through the descending bass, come from the god of light, Phœbus Apollo? Clear, and sweet, and sudden, they cleave the closing shadows, the sunlight comes in again, and the music climbs up and grows serenely steady.

Relieved from this Inferno the soul comes once more to self-consciousness, and in its effort to guide itself, what more natural than that it should recur to the idea expressed in the fiftieth line, and attempt to make something like order by carrying out that idea. Reason takes command, and the strain flows smoothly, till, by the exercise of her power, the true cause of the misfortune is recognized and a just indignation (line 100) takes its place. But in yielding to this, the immediate feeling regains possession, reason resigns her sway, and the soul is set afloat again on the uncertain sea of association. See how sudden and sweet the transition from fiery reproach and invective to the gentlest tenderness, in line 102. It begins with a thunder peal and dies out in a wail of affection, expressed by the one word “sacred.” This forms the connection between this paragraph and the next, a delicate yet perfect link, for as all his love overflows in that one word, the old happier days come up again; and where should these memories carry him but to the university where they had found so much common pleasure and inspiration. Here the sorrow, before entirely personal, becomes wider as the singer feels that others grieve with him for lost talent and power.

Were they not both destined for the church for which their university studies were only a preparation? Most naturally the subtle chain of association brings up the thought of the great apostle with the keys of heaven and hell. How sorely the church needed true teachers! The earnest spirit that was ready to assail every form of wrong, eagerly followed out the thought which was in the future to burn into its very life. From line 113 to line 131 notice the succession of feelings. A sense of irreparable loss—indignation—mark the _three_ words, “creep,” “intrude,” and “climb,” no one of which could be spared. Then comes disgust, expressed by “Blind mouths.” Ruskin, in his “Kings’ Treasures,” very happily observes that no epithet could be more sweeping than this, for as the office of a bishop is to oversee the flock, and that of a pastor to feed it, the utter want of all qualification for the sacred office is here most forcibly expressed. Contempt follows; then pity for those who, desiring food, are fed only with wind; detestation of the secret and corrupt practices of the Romish church; and finally hope, coming through the possible execution of Archbishop Laud, whose death, it seemed to the young Puritan, was the only thing needed to bring back truth, simplicity and safety. Drifting with these emotions the singer has followed the lead of his fancies, and just as before, when light came with healing for his despair, Hope recalls him to himself, till he returns again in line 132, as in line 85, to the regular style of his poem. He is as one who, waking from wildering dreams, collects his fugitive thoughts, and tries to settle them down for the necessary routine of the day. A more regular and plainly accented strain, recognized as heard before, comes into the music, as he pleases himself in fancying that the sad consolation is still left him of ornamenting the hearse. It is useless to speak of the exquisite finish of these lines, or of how often one word, as “fresh” for instance, in line 138, calls up before the mind such pictures that one lingers and lingers over the passage, as the poet’s fancy in vain effort lingered, striving to forget his sorrow. This strain comes in like some of the repeating melodies in the second part of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, where it seems as if the soul had found a new, sweet thought, and was turning it over and over as loth to pause, and as in sudden hope of some relief through its potency. But the heavy key-note strikes again through it all, in line 154, with a crash that drowns all the sweetness and beauty. We hear the rush of the cruel, insatiate sea, as its waves dash against the shore of the stormy Hebrides, and the conflict of wave and wind takes possession of us. What thought is more desolate than that of a solitary human form, tossed hither and thither in the vast immensity of ocean! Perhaps, even now, it floats by “the great vision of the guarded mount.” It seems to the poet that all should turn toward England in her sorrow, and it pains him to think of St. Michael’s steadfast eyes gazing across the waves of the bay toward “Namancos and Bayona’s hold.” “Rather turn hither and let even your heavenly face relax with human grief, and ye, unheeding monsters of the deep, have pity and bear him gently over the roughening waves.” This he says because he feels his own impotence. All the love he bears Lycidas cannot serve him now; he is lost, and helpless, and alone, and uncared for. By opposition here, the light strikes in once more, and now with a clearer, fuller glow than at either previous time. At first (line 76) it came in the form of trust in “all-judging Jove”; then (line 130) in hope, through belief in impersonal justice; now it takes the form of Christian faith. The music mounts higher and higher into celestial harmonies, losing entirely its original character, and sounds like a majestic choral of triumph and peace.

This properly ends the poem with line 185. There is nothing more to be said. The tendency is all upward, and the collisions are overcome. One knows that here, and here for the first time, have we reached a movement that is self-sustained. There is no more danger of being carried off our basis by any wave of despairing sorrow. The soul has found a solution at last, and it knows that it is a trustworthy one.

The music is finished; but now, that nothing may be wanting for perfect effect, we have the scenery added, and this in such word-painting as has never been surpassed. Who could ever weary of line 187—“While the still morn went out with sandals gray,”—either for its melody or for its subtle appeal to our senses of hearing and sight? And the slowly growing and dying day! Who else has ever so “touched the tender stops” of imagination?

But these woods and pastures are too full of haunting memories; we seek for newer ones, where the soul, relieved from the associations which perpetually call up the loss of the human and now lifeless embodiment of spirit, shall be free to think only of the eternal holding and possessing which can be sundered by no accident of time or space.

ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS. [Translated from the French of M. Ch. Bénard, by J. A. Martling.]