No More Learning

According to the almost universally received opinion, it is
a merit and an honour for a man to have printed something
merely because he has printed it, and without any regard to
what it is which he has printed, and what may be its result.
They, too, lay claim to the highest rank in the republic of
letters who announce the fact that somebody has printed
something and what that something is; or, as the phrase
goes, who "review" the works of others. It is almost inex-
plicable how such an absurd opinion could have arisen and
taken root when we consider the subject in its true light.
Thus stands the matter: In the latter half of the past
century Reading took the place of some other amusements
which had gone out of fashion. This new luxury demanded,
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THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
from time to time, new fancy goods; for it is of course quite
impossible that one should read over again what one has
read already, or those things which our forefathers have read
before us; just as it would be altogether unbecoming to
appear frequently in fashionable society in the same cos-
tume, or to dress according to the notions of one's grand-
father. The new want gave birth to a new trade, striving
to nourish and enrich itself by purveying the wares now in
demand,--namely, Bookselling. The success of those who
first undertook this trade encouraged others to engage in it,
until, in our own days, it has come to this, that this mode
of obtaining a livelihood is greatly overstocked and the
quantity of these goods produced is much too large in pro-
portion to the consumers. The book-merchant, like the
dealer in any other commodity, orders his goods from the
manufacturer, solely with the view of bringing them to the
market ;. --at times also he buys uncommissioned goods
which have been manufactured only on speculation; and
the Author who writes for the sake of writing is this manu-
facturer. It is impossible to conceive why the book-manu-
facturer should take predecence of any other manufacturer;
he ought rather to feel that he is far inferior to any other
manufacturer, inasmuch as the luxury to which he ministers
is more pernicious than any other. That he find a mer-
chant for his wares may indeed be useful and profitable to
him, but how it should be an honour is not readily discover-
able. Of course, on the judgment of the publisher, which is
only a judgment on the saleableness or unsaleableness of
the goods, no value can be set.
Amid this bustle and pressure of the literary trade, a
happy thought struck some one;--this, namely, out of all
the books which were printed, to make one periodical book,
so that the reader of this book might be spared the trouble
of reading any other. It was fortunate that this last pur-
pose was not completely successful, and that everybody did
not take to reading this book exclusively, since then no
others would have been purchased, and consequently no
others printed; so that this book too, being constantly de-
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR
225
pendent upon other books for the possibility of its own exis-
tence, must likewise have remained unprinted.
He who undertook such a work, which is commonly
called a Literary Journal, Literary Gazette, &c. &c. , had the
advantage of seeing his work increase by the charitable
contributions of many anonymous individuals, and of thus
earning honour and profit by the labour of others. To veil
his own poverty of ideas, he pretended to pass judgment on
the authors whom he quoted,--a shallow pretence to the
thinker who looks below the surface. For either the book
is--as most books are at present--a bad book, printed only
that there might be one more book in the world; and in
this case it ought never to have been written, and is a nul-
lity, and consequently the judgment upon it is a nullity
also;--or, the book is a true Literary Work, such as we
shall presently describe; and then it is the result of a whole
powerful life devoted to Art or Science, and so would re-
quire another whole life as powerful as the first to be em-
ployed in its judgment. On such a work it is not alto-
gether possible to pass a final judgment in a couple of
sheets, within three or six months after its appearance.
How can there be any honour in contributing to such col-
lections? True genius, on the contrary, will rather employ
itself on a connected work, originated and planned out by
itself, than allow the current of its thoughts to be interrupt-
ed by every accident of the day until that interruption is
again broken by some new occurrence. The disposition con-
tinually to watch the thoughts of others, and on these
thoughts, please God, to hang our own attempts at thinking,
--is a certain sign of immaturity, and of a weak and depen-
dent mind. Or does the honour consist in this,--that the
conductors of such works should consider us capable of fill-
ing the office of judge and actually make it over to us? In
reality their opinion goes no deeper than that of a common
unlettered printer,--of the saleableness or unsaleableness of
the goods, and of the outward reputation which may there-
by accrue to their critical establishment
.
I am aware that what I have now said may seem very
oa
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THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
paradoxical. All of us who are connected in any way with
Knowledge, which in this connexion may be termed Litera-
ture, grow up in the notion that literary industry is a bless-
ing,--an advantage,--an honourable distinction of our culti-
vated and philosophical age; and but few have power to see
through its supposed advantages and resolve them into
their essential nothingness. The only apparent reason
which can be adduced in defence of such perverted industry
is, in my opinion, this:--that thereby an extensive literary
public is kept alive, roused to attention, and, as it were,
held together; so that, should anything of real value and
importance be brought before it, this public shall be found
already existing, and not have to be first called together.
But I answer, that, in the first place, the means appear
much too extensive for the end contemplated,--it seems too
great a sacrifice that many generations should spend their
time upon nothing, in order that some future generation
may be enabled to occupy itself with something;--and
further, it is by no means true that a public is only kept
alive by this perverse activity; it is at the same time per-
verted, vitiated, and ruined for the appreciation of anything
truly valuable. Much that is excellent has made its appear-
ance in our age,--I shall instance only the Kantian Philo-
sophy,--but this very activity of the literary market has
destroyed, perverted, and degraded it, so that its spirit has
fled, and now only a ghost of it stalks about which no one
can venerate.
The Literary History of our own day shows the real
thinker how writing for writing's sake may be honoured and
applauded. A few Authors only excepted, our Literary Men
have in their own writings borne worse testimony against
themselves than any one else could have given against
them; and no even moderately well-disposed person would
be inclined to consider the writers of our day so shallow,
perverse, and spiritless, as the majority show themselves in
their works. The only way to retain any respect for the age,
any desire to influence it, is this,--to assume that those who
proclaim their opinions aloud are inferior men, and that
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR.
227
only among those who keep silence some may be found
who are capable of teaching better things.
Thus, when I speak of the Literary Vocation, it is not the
Literary Trade of the age which I mean, but something
quite other than that
.
I have already set forth the Idea of the Author when dis-
tinguishing it from that of the Oral Teacher of Progressive
Scholars. Both have to express and communicate the Idea
in language: the latter, for particular individuals by whose
capacity for receiving it he must be guided; the former,
without regard to any individual and in the most perfect
form which can be given to it in his age.
The Author must embody the Idea,--he must therefore
be a partaker of the Idea. All Literary Works are either
works of Art or of Science. Whatever may be the subject
of a work of the first class, it is evident that since it has no
direct significance of its own, and thus teaches the reader
nothing, it can only awaken the Idea itself within him and
furnish it with a fitting embodiment; otherwise it would be
but an empty play of words and have no real meaning. What-
ever may be the subject of a scientific work, the Author of such
a work must not conceive of Knowledge in a mere histori-
cal fashion, and only as received from others;--he must for
himself have spiritually penetrated to the Idea of Know-
ledge on some one of its sides, and produce it in a self-crea-
tive, new, and hitherto unknown form. If he be but a link
in the chain of historical tradition, and can do no more than
hand down to others the knowledge which he himself has
received, and only in the form in which it already exists in
some work whence he has obtained it,--then let him leave
others in peace to draw from this fountain whence he al-
so has drawn. What need is there of his officious inter-
meddling? To do over again that which has been done
already, is to do nothing; and no man who possesses com-
mon honesty and conscientiousness will allow himself to in-
dulge in such idleness. Can the Age, then, furnish him with
no occupation which is suited to his powers, that he must
thus employ himself in doing what he ought not to do? It
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? 228
THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR,
is not necessary that he should write an entirely new work in
any branch of Knowledge, but only a better work than any
hitherto existing. He who cannot do this should absolutely
not write;--it is a crime--a want of honesty to do so, which
at the most can only be excused by his thoughtlessness and
utter want of any true understanding of the vocation which
he assumes.
He must express the Idea in language, in a generally in-
telligible manner, in a perfect form. The Idea must there-
fore have become in him so clear, living, and independent,
that it already clothes itself to him in words; and, penetrat-
ing to the innermost spirit of his language, frames from
thence a vesture for itself by its own inherent power. The
Idea itself must speak, not the Author. His will, his indi-
viduality, his peculiar method and art, must disappear from
his page, so that only the method and art of his Idea may
live the highest life which it can attain in his language and
in his time. As he is free from the obligation under which the
Oral Teacher lies,--to accommodate himself to the capacities
of others,--so he has not this apology to plead before him-
self. He has no specific reader in view,--he himself must
mould his reader and lay down to him the law which he
must obey. There may be printed productions addressed
only to a certain age and a certain circle,--we shall see
afterwards under what conditions such writings may be
necessary; but these do not belong to the class of essentially
Literary Works of which we now speak, but are printed dis-
courses,--printed because the circle to which they are ad-
dressed cannot be brought together.
In order that in this way the Idea may in his person be-
come master of his language, it is necessary that he shall
first have acquired a mastery over that language. The Idea
does not rule the language directly, but only through him as
possessor of the language. This indispensable mastery of
the Author over his language is only acquired by prepara-
tory exercises, long continued and persevered in, which are
studies for future works but have no essential value in
themselves,--which the conscientious Scholar writes indeed,
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR
229
but will never allow to be printed. It requires, I say, long
and persevering exercise; but, happily, these conditions mu-
tually promote each other;--as the Idea becomes more
vivid language spontaneously appears, and as facility of
expression is increased the Idea flows forth in greater
clearness.
These are the first and most necessary conditions of all
true Authorship. The Idea itself,--that of expressing his
Idea in true and appropriate language,--is that which lives,
and alone lives in him within whom the presentiment has
arisen that he may one day send forth a Literary Work;--
it is this which animates him in his preparations and
studies for that work, as well as in the future completion of
his design.
By this Idea he is inspired with a dignified and sacred
conception of the Literary calling. The work of the Oral
Teacher is, in its immediate application, only a work for the
time, modified by the degree of culture possessed by those
who are entrusted to his care. Only in so far as he can
venture to suppose that he is moulding future Teachers
worthy of their calling, who, in their turn, will train others
for the same task, and so on without end, can he regard
himself as working for Eternity. But\the work of the
Author is in itself a. work for Eternity. Even should future
ages transcend the Knowledge which is revealed in his
work, still in that work he has not recorded his knowledge
alone, but also the fixed and settled character of a certain
age in its relation to Knowledge; and this will preserve its
interest so long as the human race endures. Independent
of all vicissitude and change, his pages speak in every age
to all men who are able to realize his thought; and thus
continue their inspiring, elevating, and ennobling work, even
to the end of time.
The Idea, in this its acknowledged sacredness, moves him,
--and it alone moves him. He does not believe that he
has attained anything until he has attained all,--until his
work stands before him in the purity and perfectness which
he has striven to attain. Devoid of love for his own person,
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? 230
THE NATURE OP THE SCHOLAR
faithfully devoted to the Idea by which he is constantly
guided, he recognises with certain glance, and in its true
character, every trace of his former nature which remains in
his expression of the Idea, and unceasingly strives to free
himself from it. So long as he is not conscious of this abso-
lute freedom and purity, he has not attained his end, but
still works on. In such an age as we have already de-
scribed, in which the communication of Knowledge has
greatly increased, and has even fallen into the hands of
some who are better fitted for any other occupation than
for this, it may be necessary for bini to give some prelimi-
nary account of his labours;--other modes of communica-
tion, too, that of the Teacher for instance, may present
themselves to him; but he will never put forth these occa-
sional writings for anything else than what they are,--pre-
liminary announcements adapted to a certain age and cer-
tain circumstances; he will never regard them as finished
works, destined for immortality.
The Idea alone urges him forward;--nothing else. All
personal regards have disappeared from his view. I do not
speak of his own person,--of his having entirely forgotten
himself in his vocation;--this has been already sufficiently
set forth. The personality of others has no more weight
with him than his own when opposed to the truth and the
Idea. I do not mention that he will not encroach upon the
rights of other Scholars or Authors in their civic or personal
relations: that is altogether below his dignity who has to do
only with realities;--it is also below the dignity of these dis-
courses to make mention of that . But this I will remark,
that he will not allow himself to be restrained, by forbear-
ance towards any person whatever, from demolishing error
and establishing truth in its place. The worst insult that
can be offered, even to a half-educated man, is to suppose
that he can be offended by the exposure of an error which
he has entertained or the proclamation of a truth which
has escaped his notice. From this bold and open profession
of truth, as he perceives it, without regard to any man, he
will suffer nothing to lead him astray, not even the politely
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? OF THE SCHOLAB AS AUTHOR. 231
expressed contempt of the so-called fashionable world, which
can conceive of the Literary Vocation only by analogy with
its own social circles, and would impose the etiquette of the
Court upon the conduct of the Scholar.
Here I close these Lectures. If a thought of mine have
entered into any now present, and shall abide there as a
guide to higher truth, perhaps it may sometimes awaken
the memory of these lectures and of me,--and only in this
way do I desire to live in your recollection.
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? THE VOCATION OF MAN.
Ha
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? PREFACE.
Whatever in the more recent Philosophy is useful beyond the
limits of the schools will form the contents of this work, set forth
in that order in which it would naturally present itself to unscien-
tific thought. The more profound arguments by which the subtle
objections and extravagances of over-refined minds are to be met,
whatever is but the foundation of other Positive Science,--and
lastly, whatever belongs to Pedagogy in its widest sense, that is,
to the deliberate and arbitrary Education of the Human Kace,--
shall remain beyond the limits of our task. These objections are
not made by the natural understanding;--Positive Science it leaves to Scholars by profession; and the Education of the Human
Race, in so far as that depends upon human effort, to its appointed
Teachers and Statesmen.
This book is therefore not intended for philosophers by profes-
sion, who will find nothing in it that has not been already set forth in other writings of the same author. It ought to be intelli-
gible to all readers who are able to understand a book at all. To
those who wish only to repeat, in somewhat varied order, certain
phrases which they have already learned by rote, and who mistake
this business of the memory for understanding, it will doubtless be
found unintelligible.
It ought to attract and animate the reader, and to elevate him
from the world of sense into a region of transcendental thought;--
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? 230
PREFACE.
at least the author is conscious that he has not entered upon his
task without such inspiration. Often, indeed, the fire with which
we commence an undertaking disappears during the toil of execu-
tion; and thus, at the conclusion of a work, we are in danger of
doing ourselves injustice upon this point.
In short, whether the
author has succeeded in attaining his object or not, can be deter-
mined only by the effect which the work shall produce on the
readers to whom it is addressed, and in this the author has no
voice.
I must, however, remind my reader that the "I" who speaks in
this book is not the author himself; but it is his earnest wish that
the reader should himself assume this character, and that he should
not rest contented with a mere historical apprehension of what is
here said, but that during reading he should really and truly hold
converse with himself, deliberate, draw conclusions and form reso-
lutions, like his imaginary representative, and thus, by his own la-
bour and reflection, develope and build up within himself that
mode of thought the mere picture of which is presented to him in
the book.
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? BOOK I.
DOUBT.
I BELIEVE that I am now acquainted with no inconsiderable
part of the world that surrounds me, and I have certainly
employed sufficient labour and care in the acquisition of this
knowledge. I have put faith only in the concurrent testi-
mony of my senses, only in repeated and unvarying experi-
ence ;--what I have beheld, I have touched--what I have
touched, I have analyzed;--I have repeated my observations
again and again; I have compared the various phenomena
with each other; and only when I could understand their
mutual connexion, when I could explain and deduce the one
from the other, when I could calculate the result beforehand,
and the observation of the result had proved the accuracy of
my calculations, have I been satisfied. Therefore I am now
as well assured of the accuracy of this part of my knowledge
as of my own existence; I walk with a firm step in these
understood spheres of my world, and do actually every
moment venture welfare and life itself on the certainty of
my convictions.
But--what am I myself, and what is my vocation?
Superfluous question! It is long since I have been com-
pletely instructed upon these points, and it would take
much time to repeat all that I have heard, learned, and
believed concerning them.
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? 238
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
And in what way then have I attained this knowledge,
which I have this dim remembrance of acquiring? Have
I, impelled by a burning desire of knowledge, toiled on
through uncertainty, doubt and contradiction ? --have I,
when any belief was presented to me, withheld my assent
until I had examined and reexamined, sifted and compared
it,--until an inward voice proclaimed to me, irresistibly and
without the possibility of doubt,--" Thus it is--thus only--
as surely as thou livest and art! "--No! I remember no such
state of mind. Those instructions were bestowed on me
before I sought them, the answers were given before I had
put the questions. I heard, for I could not avoid doing so,
and what was taught me remained in my memory just as
chance had disposed it;--without examination and without
interest I allowed everything to take its place in my mind.
How then could I persuade myself that I possessed any
real knowledge upon these matters? If I know that only
of which I am convinced, which I have myself discovered,
myself experienced, then I cannot truly say that I possess
even the slightest knowledge of my vocation;--I know only
what others assert they know about it, and all that I am
really sure of is,--that I have heard this or that said upon
the subject.
Thus, while I have inquired for myself, with the most
anxious care, into comparatively trivial matters, I have re-
lied wholly on the care and fidelity of others in things of
the weightiest importance. I have attributed to others an
interest in the highest affairs of humanity, an earnestness
and an exactitude, which I have by no means discovered in
myself. I have esteemed them indescribably higher than
myself. ,
Whatever truth they really possess, whence can they have
obtained it but through their own reflection? And why
may not I, by means of the same reflection, discover the like
truth for myself, since I too have a being as well as they?
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
23! )
How much have I hitherto undervalued and slighted my-
self!
It shall be no longer thus. From this moment I will
enter on my rights and assume the dignity that belongs to
me. Let all foreign aids be cast aside! I will examine for
myself. If any secret wishes concerning the result of my
inquiries, any partial leaning towards certain conclusions,
stir within me, I forget and renounce them; and I will
accord them no influence over the direction of my thoughts.
I will perform my task with firmness and integrity;--I will
honestly accept the result whatever it may be. What I find
to be truth, let it sound as it may, shall be welcome to me.
I will know. With the same certainty with which I am as-
sured that this ground will support me when I tread on it,
that this fire will burn me if I approach too near it, will I
know what I am, and what I shall be. And should it prove
impossible for me to know this, then I will know this much
at least, that I cannot know it. Even to this conclusion of
my inquiry will I submit, should it approve itself to me as
the truth. I hasten to the fulfilment of my task.
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? 240
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
I seize on Nature in her rapid and unresting
flight, detain her for an instant, hold the present moment
steadily in view, and reflect--upon this Nature by means of
which my thinking powers have hitherto been developed
and trained to those researches that belong to her domain.
I am surrounded by objects which I am compelled to
regard as separate, independent, self-subsisting wholes. I
behold plants, trees, animals. I ascribe to each individual
certain properties and attributes by which I distinguish it
from others; to this plant, such a form; to another, another;
to this tree, leaves of such a shape; to another, others differ-
ing from them.
Every object has its appointed number of attributes,
neither more nor less. To every question, whether it is this
or that, there is, for any one who is thoroughly acquainted
it, a decisive Yes possible, or a decisive No,--so that there
is an end of all doubt or hesitation on the subject. Every-
thing that exists is something, or it is not this something;
--is coloured, or is not coloured;--has a certain colour, or
has it not;--may be tasted, or may not;--is tangible, or is
not;--and so on, ad infinitum.
Every object posseses each of these attributes in a defi-
nite degree. Let a measure be given for any particular
attribute which is capable of being applied to the object;
then we may discover the exact extent of that attribute,
which it neither exceeds nor falls short of. I measure the
height of this tree; it is defined, and it is not a single line
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
241
higher or lower than it is. I consider the green of its
leaves; it is a definite green, not the smallest shade darker
or lighter, fresher or more faded than it is; although I may
have neither measure nor expression for these qualities. I
turn my eye to this plant; it is at a definite stage of growth
between its budding and its maturity, not in the smallest
degree nearer or more remote from either than it is. Every-
thing that exists is determined throughout; it is what it is, and
nothing else. 1
Not that I am unable to conceive of an object as floating
unattached between opposite determinations. I do certainly
conceive of indefinite objects; for more than half of my
thoughts consist of such conceptions. I think of a tree in
general. Has this tree fruit or not, leaves or not; if it has,
what is their number? --to what order of trees does it be-
long ? --how large is it ? --and so on. All these questions
remain unanswered, and my thought is undetermined in
these respects; for I did not propose to myself the thought
of any particular tree, but of a tree generally. But I deny'
actual existence to such a tree in thus leaving it undefined.
Everything that actually exists has its determinate number
of all the possible attributes of actual existence, and each of
these in a determinate measure, as surely as it actually exists,
although I may admit my inability thoroughly to exhaust
all the properties of any one object, or to apply to them any
standard of measurement.
But Nature pursues her course of ceaseless change, and
while I yet speak of the moment which I sought to detain
before me, it is gone, and all is changed; and in like man-
ner, before I had fixed my observation upon it, all was
otherwise. It had not always been as it was when I ob-
served it:--it had become so.
Why then, and from what cause, had it become so? Why
had Nature, amid the infinite variety of possible forms, as-
sumed in this moment precisely these and no others?
For this reason, that they wore preceded by those preI a
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? 242
cisely which did precede them, and by no others; and be-
cause the present could arise out of those and out of no
other possible conditions. Had anything in the preceding
moment been in the smallest degree different from what it
was, then in the present moment something would have been
different from what it is. And from what cause were all
things in that preceding moment precisely such as they were?
For this reason, that in the moment preceding that, they
were such as they were then. And this moment again was
dependent on its predecessor, and that on another, and so on
without limit. In like manner will Nature, in the succeed-
ing moment, be necessarily determined to the particular
forms which it will then assume--for this reason, that in
the present moment it is determined exactly as it is; and
were anything in the present moment in the smallest
degree different from what it is, then in the succeeding mo-
ment something would necessarily be different from what
it will be. And in the moment following that, all things
will be precisely as they will be, because in the immediately
previous moment they will be as they will be; and so will
its successor proceed forth from it, and another from that,
and so on for ever.
Nature proceeds throughout the whole infinite series of
her possible determinations without outward incentive; and
the succession of these changes is not arbitrary, but follows
strict and unalterable laws. Whatever exists in Nature,
necessarily exists as it does exist, and it is absolutely impos-
sible that it should be otherwise. I enter within an un-
broken chain of phenomena, in which every link is deter-
mined by that which has preceded it, and in its turn deter-
mines the next; so that, were I able to trace backward the
causes through which alone any given moment could have come into actual existence, and to follow out the conse-
quences which must necessarily flow from it, I should then
be able, at that moment, and by means of thought alone, to
discover all possible conditions of the universe, both past
and future;--past, by interpreting the given moment;
future, by foreseeing its results. Every part contains the
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
243
whole, for only through the whole is each part what it is,
hut through the whole it is necessarily what it is.
What is it then which I have thus arrived at? If I
review my positions as a whole, I find their substance to be this:--that in every stage of progress an antecedent is
necessarily supposed, from which and through which alone
the present has arisen; in every condition a previous condi-
tion, in every existence another existence; and that from
nothing, nothing whatever can proceed.
Let me pause here a little, and develope whatever is con-
tained in this principle, until it become perfectly clear to
me! For it may be that on my clear insight into this point
may depend the success of my whole future inquiry.
Why, and from what cause, I had asked, are the deter-
minate forms of objects precisely such as they are at this
moment. I assumed without farther proof, and without the
slightest inquiry, as an absolute, immediate, certain and un-
alterable truth, that they had a cause;--that not through
themselves, but through something which lay beyond them,
they had attained existence and reality. I found their
existence insufficient to account for itself, and I was com-
pelled to assume another existence beyond them, as a neces-
sary condition of theirs. But why did I find the existence of
these qualities and determinate forms insufficient for itself 1
why did I find it to be an incomplete existence? What was
there in it which betrayed to me its insufficiency? This,
without doubt:--that, in the first place, these qualities do
not exist in and for themselves,--they are qualities of some-
thing else, attributes of a substance, forms of something
formed; and the supposition of such a substance, of a some-
thing to support these attributes,--of_a subslratum-for them,
to use the phraseology of the Schools,--is a necessary con-
dition of the conceivableness of such qualities. Further,
before I can attribute a definite quality to such a sub-
stratum, I must suppose for it a condition of repose, and of
cessation from change,--a pause in its existence. Were I
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? 244
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
to regard it as in a state of transition, then there could be
no definite determination, but merely an endless series of
changes from one state to another. The state of determi-
nation in a thing is thus a state and expression of mere
passivity; and a state of mere passivity is in itself an in-
complete existence. Such passivity itself demands an
activity to which it may be referred, by which it can be
explained, and through which it first becomes conceivable;
--or, as it is usually expressed,--which contains within it the
ground of this passivity.
What I found myself compelled to suppose was thus by
no means that the various and successive determinations of
Nature themselves produce each other,--that the present
determination annihilates itself, and, in the next moment,
when it no longer exists, produces another, which is dif-
ferent from itself and not contained in it, to fill its place:--
this is wholly inconceivable. The mere determination pro-
duces neither itself nor anything else.
What I found myself compelled to assume in order to
account for the gradual origin and the changes of those
determinations, was an active power, peculiar to the object,
and constituting its essential nature.
And how, then, do I conceive of this power ? --what is its
nature, and the modes of its manifestation 1 This only,--
that under these definite conditions it produces, by its own
energy and for its own sake, this definite effect and no
other;--and that it produces this certainly and infallibly.
This principle of activity, of independent and spontaneous
development, dwells in itself alone, and in nothing beyond
itself, as surely as it is power--power which is not im-
pelled or set in motion, but which sets itself in motion.
The cause of its having developed itself precisely in this
manner and no other, lies partly in itself--because it is this
particular power and no other; and partly in the circum-
stances under which it developes itself. Both these,--the
inward determination of a power by itself, and its outward
determination by circumstances,--must be united in order
to produce a change. The latter, the circumstances, the
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? BOOK L DOUBT.
245
passive condition of things,--can of itself produce no change,
for it has within it the opposite of all change,--inert exist-
ence. The former, the power,--is wholly determined, for
only on this condition is it conceivable; but its determina-
tion is completed only through the circumstances under
which it is developed. I can conceive of a power, it can
have an existence for me, only in so far as I can perceive an
effect proceeding from it; an inactive power,--which should
yet be a power and not an inert thing,--is wholly inconceiv-
able. Every effect, however, is determined; and--since the
effect is but the expression, but another mode of the activity
itself,--the active power is determined in its activity; and
the ground of this determination lies partly in itself, be-
cause it cannot otherwise be conceived of as a particular
and definite power;--partly out of itself, because its own
determination can be conceived of only as conditioned by
something else.
A flower has sprung out of the earth, and I infer from
thence a formative power in Nature. Such a formative
power exists for me only so far as this flower and others,
plants generally, and animals exist for me:--I can describe this power only through its effects, and it is to me
no more than the producing cause of such effects,--the
generative principle of flowers, plants, animals, and organic
forms in general (1 will go further, and maintain that a
flower, and this particular flower, could arise in this place
only in so far as all other circumstances united to make it
possible. But by the union of all these circumstances for
its possibility, the actual existence of the flower is by no
means explained; and for this I am still compelled to as-
sume a special, spontaneous, and original power in Nature, and indeed a jlpwer-producing power; for another power of
Nature might, under the same circumstances, have pro-
duced something entirely different. --I have thus attained
to the following view of the Universe.
When I contemplate all things as one whole, one Nature,
there is but one power,--when I regard them as separate
existences, there are many powers--which develope them-
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? 2-4-6 THE VOCATION OF MAN.
selves according to their inward laws, and pass through all
the possible forms of which they are capable; and all objects
in Nature are but those powers under certain determinate
forms. The manifestations of each individual power of
Nature are determined, become what they are, partly by
its own essential character, and partly through the mani-
festations of all the other powers of Nature with which it is
connected; but it is connected with them all--for Nature is one connected whole. They are, therefore, unalterably de-
termined ;--while its essential character remains what it is,
and while it continues to manifest itself under these parti-
cular circumstances, its manifestations must necessarily be
what they are;--and it is absolutely impossible that they
should be in the smallest degree different from what they
are.
In every moment of her duration Nature is one connected
whole; in every moment each individual part must be what
it is, because all the others are what they are; and you
could not remove a single grain of sand from its place,
without thereby, although perhaps imperceptibly to you,
changing something throughout all parts of the immeasur-
able whole.