Chapter IV (1)

Philosophers usually begin to construct their systems in full view of their final principle. It would be absurd for one to commence a demonstration if he had no clear idea of what he intended to prove. From the final principle the system must be worked back to the beginning in the Philosopher’s mind before he can commence his demonstration. Usually the order of demonstration which he follows, is not the order of discovery; in such case his system proceeds by external reflections. All mathematical proof is of this order. One constructs his demonstration to lead from the known to the unknown, and uses many intermediate propositions that do not of necessity lead to the intended result. With another theorem in view, they might be used for steps to that, just as well. But there is a certain inherent development in all subjects when examined according to the highest method, that will lead one on to the exhaustive exposition of all that is involved therein. This is called the _dialectic_. This dialectic movement cannot be used as a philosophic instrument, unless one has seen the deepest _aperçu_ of Science; if this is not the case, the dialectic will prove merely destructive and not constructive. It is therefore a mistake, as has been before remarked, to attempt to introduce the beginner of the study of Philosophy at once into the dialectic. The content of Philosophy must be first presented under its sensuous and reflective forms, and a gradual progress established. In this chapter an attempt will be made to approach again the ultimate principle which we have hitherto fixed only in a general manner as _Mind_. We will use the method of external reflection, and demonstrate three propositions: 1. There is an independent being; 2. That being is self-determined; 3. Self-determined being is in the form of personality, i. e. is an _Ego_.

I.

1. Dependent being, implying its complement upon which it depends, cannot be explained through itself, but through that upon which it depends.

2. This being upon which it depends cannot be also a dependent being, for the dependent being has no support of its own to lend to another; all that it has is borrowed. “A chain of dependent beings collapses into one dependent being. Dependence is not converted into independence by mere multiplication.”

3. The dependent, therefore, depends upon the independent, and has its explanation in it. Since all being is of one kind or the other, it follows that all being is independent, or a complemental element of it. Reciprocal dependence makes an independent including whole, which is the _negative unity_.

_Definition._—One of the most important implements of the thinker is the comprehension of “negative unity.” It is a unity resulting from the reciprocal cancelling of elements; e. g. _Salt_ is the negative unity of _acid_ and _alkali_. It is called _negative_ because it negates the independence of the elements within it. In the negative unity _Air_, the elements oxygen and nitrogen have their independence negated.

II.

1. The independent being cannot exist without determinations. Without these, it could not distinguish itself or be distinguished from nought.

2. Nor can the independent being be determined (i. e. limited or modified in any way) from without, or through another. For all that is determined through another is a dependent somewhat.

3. Hence the independent being can be only a self-determined. If self-determined, it can exist through itself.

_Note._

Spinoza does not arrive at the third position, but, after considering the second, arrives at the first one, and concludes, since determination through another makes a somewhat _finite_, that the independent being must be _undetermined_. He does not happen to discover that there is another kind of determination, to-wit, self-determination, which can consist with independence. The method that he uses makes it entirely an accidental matter with him that he discovers what speculative results he does—the dialectic method would lead inevitably to self-determination, as we shall see later. It is Hegel’s _aperçu_ that we have in the third position; with Spinoza the independent being remained an undetermined _substance_, but with Hegel it became a self-determining _subject_. All that Spinoza gets out of his substance he must get in an arbitrary manner; it does not follow from its definition that it shall have modes and attributes, but the contrary. This _aperçu_—that the independent being, i. e. every really existing, separate entity, is self-determined—is the central point of speculative philosophy. What self-determination involves, we shall see next.

III.

1. Self-determination implies that the _constitution_ or _nature_ be self-originated. There is nothing about a self-determined that is created by anything without.

2. Thus self-determined being exists dually—it is (_a_) as _determining_ and (_b_) as _determined_. (_a_) As determining, it is the active, which contains merely the possibility of determinations; (_b_) as determined, it is the passive result—the matter upon which the subject acts.

3. But since both are the same being, each side returns into itself:—(_a_) as determining or active, it acts only upon its own determining, and (_b_) as passive or determined, it is, as result of the former, the self-same active itself. Hence its movement is a movement of self-recognition—a positing of distinction which is cancelled in the same act. (In self-recognition something is made an object, and identified with the subject in the same act.) Moreover, the determiner, on account of its pure generality, (i. e. its having no concrete determinations as yet,) can only be _ideal_—can only exist as the _Ego_ exists in thought; not as a _thing_, but as a _generic_ entity. The passive side can exist only as the self exists in consciousness—as that which is in opposition and yet in identity at the same time. No finite existence could endure this contradiction, for all such must possess a _nature_ or _constitution_ which is self-determined; if not, each finite could negate all its properties and qualities, and yet remain itself—just as the person does when he makes abstraction of all, in thinking of the _Ego_ or pure self.

Thus we find again our former conclusion.—All finite or dependent things must originate in and depend upon independent or absolute being, which must be an _Ego_. The _Ego_ has the form of Infinitude (see chapter II—_the infinite is its own other_).

_Resumé._ The first chapter states the premises which Kant lays down in his Transcendental Æsthetic, (Kritik der Reinen Vernunft) and draws the true logical conclusions which are positive and not negative, as he makes them. The second chapter gives the Spinozan distinction of the Infinite of the Imagination and Infinite of Reason. The third chapter gives the logical results which Kant should have drawn from his Transcendental Logic. The fourth chapter gives Spinoza’s fundamental position logically completed, and is the great fundamental position of Plato, Aristotle and Hegel, with reference to the Absolute.

Footnote 2:

One cannot but be astonished not to see, in this review of the
principal forms of oriental art, Chinese art at least mentioned. The
reason is, that, according to Hegel, art—the fine arts, properly
speaking—have no existence among the Chinese. The spirit of that
people seems to him anti-artistic and prosaic. He thus characterizes
Chinese art in his philosophy of history: “This race, in general, has
a rare talent for imitation, which is exercised not only in the things
of daily life, but also in art. It has not yet arrived at the
representation of the beautiful as beautiful. In painting, it lacks
perspective and shading. European images, like everything else, it
copies well. A Chinese painter knows exactly how many scales there are
on the back of a carp, how many notches a leaf has; he knows perfectly
the form of trees and the curvature of their branches; but the
sublime, the ideal, and the beautiful, do not belong at all to the
domain of his art and his ability.”—(_Philosophie der Geschichte._)

MUSIC AS A FORM OF ART.
[Read before the St. Louis Art Society, February, 1867.]

I. Upon Art-Criticism.

A work of art is the product of the inspired moment of the artist. It is not to be supposed that he is able to give an account of his work in the terms of the understanding. Hence the artist is not in a strict sense a critic. The highest order of criticism must endeavor to exhibit the unity of the work by showing how the various motives unfold from the central thought. Of course, the artist must be rare who can see his work doubly—first sensuously, and then rationally. Only some Michael Angelo or Goethe can do this. The common artist sees the sensuous form as the highest possible revelation—to him his _feeling_ is higher than the intellectual vision. And can we not all—critics as well as artists—sympathize with the statement that the mere calculating intellect, the cold understanding, “all light and no heat,” can never rise into the realm where art can be appreciated? It is only when we contemplate the truly speculative intellect—which is called “love” by the mystics, and by Swedenborg “Love and wisdom united in a Divine Essence,”—that we demur at this supreme elevation of feeling or sentiment. The art critic must have all the feeling side of his nature aroused, as the first condition of his interpretation; and, secondly, he must be able to dissolve into thought the emotions which arise from that side. If feeling were more exalted than thought, this would be impossible. Such, however, is the view of such critics as the Schlegels, who belong to the romantic school. They say that the intellect considers only abstractions, while the heart is affected by the concrete whole. “Spectres and goitred dwarfs” for the intellect, but “beauty’s rose” for the feeling heart. But this all rests on a misunderstanding. The true art critic does not undervalue feeling. It is to him the essential basis upon which he builds. Unless the work of art affects his feelings, he has nothing to think about; he can go no further; the work, to him, is not a work of art at all. But if he is aroused and charmed by it, if his emotional nature is stirred to its depths, and he feels inspired by those spiritual intimations of Eternity which true art always excites, then he has a content to work upon, and this thinking of his, amounts simply to a recognition in other forms, of this eternal element, that glows through the work of art.

Hence there is no collision between the artist and the critic, if both are true to their ideal.

It certainly is no injury to the work of art to show that it treats in some form the Problem of Life, which is the mystery of the Christian religion. It is no derogation to Beethoven to show how he has solved a problem in music, just as Shakspeare in poetry, and Michael Angelo in painting. Those who are content with the mere feeling, we must always respect if they really have the true art feeling, just as we respect the simple piety of the uneducated peasant. But we must not therefore underrate the conscious seizing of the same thing,—not place St. Augustine or Martin Luther below the simple-minded peasant. Moreover, as our society has for its aim the attainment of an insight into art _in general_, and not the exclusive enjoyment of any particular art, it is all the more important that we should hold by the only connecting link—the only universal element—_thought_. For thought has not only universal _content_, like feeling, but also universal _form_, which feeling has not.

Another reason that causes persons to object to art interpretation, is perhaps that such interpretation reminds them of the inevitable moral appended _ad nauseam_ to the stories that delighted our childhood. But it must be remembered that these morals are put forward as the _object_ of the stories. The art critic can never admit for one moment that it is the object of a work of art simply to be didactic. It is true that all art is a means of culture; but that is not its object. Its object is to combine the idea with a sensuous form, so as to embody, as it were, the Infinite; and any motive external to the work of art itself, is at once felt to be destructive to it.

II. Upon the Interpretation of Art.

1. The Infinite is not manifested _within_ any particular sphere of finitude, but rather exhibits itself in the collision of a Finite with another Finite _without_ it. For a Finite must by its very nature be limited from without, and the Infinite, therefore, not only includes any given finite sphere, but also its negation (or the other spheres which joined to it make up the whole).

2. “Art is the manifestation of the Infinite in the Finite,” it is said. Therefore, this must mean that art has for its province the treatment of the collisions that necessarily arise between one finite sphere and another.

3. In proportion as the collision portrayed by art is comprehensive, and a type of all collisions in the universe, is it a high work of art. If, then, the collision is on a small scale, and between low spheres, it is not a high work of art.

4. But whether the collision presented be of a high order or of a low order, it bears a general resemblance to every other collision—the Infinite is always like itself in all its manifestations. The lower the collision, the more it becomes merely symbolical as a work of art, and the less it adequately presents the Infinite.

Thus the lofty mountain peaks of Bierstadt, which rise up into the regions of clearness and sunshine, beyond the realms of change, do this, only because of a force that contradicts gravitation, which continually abases them. The contrast of the high with the low, of the clear and untrammelled with the dark and impeded, symbolizes, in the most natural manner, to every one, the higher conflicts of spirit. It strikes a chord that vibrates, unconsciously perhaps, but, nevertheless, inevitably. On the other hand, when we take the other extreme of painting, and look at the “Last Judgment” of Michael Angelo, or the “Transfiguration” of Raphael, we find comparatively no ambiguity; there the Infinite is visibly portrayed, and the collision in which it is displayed is evidently of the highest order.

5. Art, from its definition, must relate to Time and Space, and in proportion as the grosser elements are subordinated and the spiritual adequately manifested, we find that we approach a form of art wherein the form and matter are both the products of spirit.

Thus we have arts whose matter is taken from (_a_) _Space_, (_b_) _Time_, and (_c_) _Language_ (the product of Spirit).

Space is the grossest material. We have on its plane, I. Architecture, II. Sculpture, and III. Painting. (In the latter, color and perspective give the artist power to represent distance and magnitude, and internality, without any one of them, in fact. Upon a piece of ivory no larger than a man’s hand a “Heart of the Andes” might be painted.) In Time we have IV. Music, while in Language we have V. Poetry (in the three forms of Epic, Lyric, and Dramatic) as the last and highest of the forms of Art.

6. An interpretation of a work of art should consist in a translation of it into the form of science. Hence, first, one must seize the general content of it—or the collision portrayed. Then, secondly, the form of art employed comes in, whether it be Architecture, Sculpture, Painting, Music, or Poetry. Thirdly, the relation which the content has to the form, brings out the superior merits, or the limits and defects of the work of art in question. Thus, at the end, we have universalized the piece of art—digested it, as it were. A true interpretation does not destroy a work of art, but rather furnishes a guide to its highest enjoyment. We have the double pleasure of immediate sensuous enjoyment produced by the artistic execution, and the higher one of finding our rational nature mirrored therein so that we recognize the eternal nature of Spirit there manifested.

7. The peculiar nature of music, as contrasted with other arts, will, if exhibited, best prepare us for what we are to expect from it. The less definitely the mode of art allows its content to be seized, the wider may be its application. Landscape painting may have a very wide scope for its interpretation, while a drama of Goethe or Shakspeare definitely seizes the particulars of its collision, and leaves no doubt as to its sphere. So in the art of music, and especially instrumental music. Music does not portray an object directly, like the plastic arts, but it calls up the internal feeling which is caused by the object itself. It gives us, therefore, a reflection of our impressions excited in the immediate contemplation of the object. Thus we have a reflection of a reflection, as it were.

Since its material is Time rather than Space, we have this contrast with the plastic arts: Architecture, and more especially Sculpture and Painting, are obliged to select a special moment of time for the representation of the collision. As Goethe shows in the Laocoon, it will not do to select a moment at random, but that point of time must be chosen in which the collision has reached its height, and in which there is a tension of all the elements that enter the contest on both sides. A moment earlier, or a moment later, some of these elements would be eliminated from the problem, and the comprehensiveness of the work destroyed. When this proper moment is seized in Sculpture, as in the Laocoon, we can see what has been before the present moment, and easily tell what will come later. In Painting, through the fact that coloring enables more subtle effects to be wrought out, and deeper internal movements to be brought to the surface, we are not so closely confined to the “supreme moment” as in Sculpture. But it is in Music that we first get entirely free from that which confines the plastic arts. Since its form is time, it can convey the whole movement of the collision from its inception to its conclusion. Hence Music is superior to the Arts of Space, in that it can portray the internal creative process, rather than the dead results. It gives us the content in its whole process of development in a _fluid_ form, while the Sculptor must fix it in a _frigid_ form at a certain stage. Goethe and others have compared Music to Architecture—the latter is “frozen Music”; but they have not compared it to Sculpture nor Painting, for the reason that in these two arts there is a possibility of seizing the form of the individual more definitely, while in Architecture and Music the point of repose does not appear as the human form, but only as the more general one of self-relation or harmony. Thus quantitative ratios—mathematical laws—pervade and govern these two forms of Art.

8. Music, more definitely considered, arises from vibrations, producing waves in the atmosphere. The cohesive attraction of some body is attacked, and successful resistance is made; if not, there is no vibration. Thus the feeling of victory over a foreign foe is conveyed in the most elementary tones, and this is the distinction of _tone_ from _noise_, in which there is the irregularity of disruption, and not the regularity of self-equality.

Again, in the obedience of the whole musical structure to its fundamental scale-note, we have something like the obedience of Architecture to Gravity. In order to make an exhibition of Gravity, a pillar is necessary; for the solid wall does not isolate sufficiently the function of support. With the pillar we can have exhibited the effects of Gravity drawing down to the earth, and of the support holding up the shelter. The pillar in classic art exhibits the equipoise of the two tendencies. In Romantic or Gothic Architecture it exhibits a preponderance of the aspiring tendency—the soaring aloft like the plant to reach the light—a contempt for mere gravity—slender pillars seeming to be let down from the roof, and to draw up something, rather than to support anything. On the other hand, in Symbolic Architecture, (as found in Egypt) we have the overwhelming power of gravity exhibited so as to crush out all humanity—the Pyramid, in whose shape Gravity has done its work. In Music we have continually the conflict of these two tendencies, the upward and downward. The Music that moves upward and shows its ground or point of repose in the octave above the scale-note of the basis, corresponds to the Gothic Architecture. This aspiring movement occurs again and again in chorals; it—like all romantic art—expresses the Christian solution of the problem of life.

III. Beethoven’s Sonata in C sharp minor.
(_Opus 27, No._ 2.)

The three movements of this sonata which Beethoven called a _fantasie-sonata_, are not arranged in the order commonly followed. Usually sonatas begin with an _allegro_ or some quick movement, and pass over to a slow movement—an _adagio_ or _andante_—and end in a quick movement. The content here treated could not allow this form, and hence it commences with what is usually the second movement. Its order is 1. _Adagio_, 2. _Allegretto_, 3. _Finale_ (presto agitato).

(My rule with reference to the study of art may or may not be interesting to others; it is this:—always to select a masterpiece, so recognized, and keep it before me until it yields its secret, and in its light I am able to see common-place to be what it really is, and be no longer dazzled by it. It requires faith in the commonly received verdict of critics and an immense deal of patience, but in the end one is rewarded for his pains. Almost invariably I find immediate impressions of uncultured persons good for nothing. It requires long familiarity with the best things to learn to see them in their true excellence.)

This sonata is called by the Austrians the “Moonlight Sonata,” and this has become the popular name in America. It is said to have been written by Beethoven when he was recovering from the disappointment of his hopes in a love-episode that had an unfortunate termination. (See Marx’s “L. v. Beethoven, Leben und Schaffen.” From this magnificent work of Art-Criticism, I have drawn the outlines of the following interpretation.) The object of his affection was a certain young countess, Julia Guicciardi; and it appears from Beethoven’s letter to a friend at the time (about 1800) that the affection was mutual, but their difference in rank prevented a marriage. When this sonata appeared (in 1802) it was inscribed to her.

_Adagio._

The first movement is a soft, floating movement, portraying the soul musing upon a memory of what has affected it deeply. The surrounding is dim, as seen in moonlight, and the soul is lit up by a reflected light—a glowing at the memory of a bliss that is past. It is not strange that this has been called the Moonlight Sonata, just for this feeling of borrowed light that pervades it. As we gaze into the moon of memory, we almost forget the reflection, and fancy that the sun of immediate consciousness is itself present. But anon a flitting cloudlet (a twinge of bitter regret) obscures the pale beam, or a glance at the landscape—not painted now with colors as in the daytime, but only _clare-obscure_—brings back to us the sense of our separation from the day and the real. Sadly the soft gliding movement continues, and distant and more distant grows the prospect of experiencing again the remembered happiness. Only for a passing moment can the throbbing soul realize in its dreams once more its full completeness, and the plaintive minor changes to major; but the spectral form of renunciation glides before its face, and the soul subsides into its grief, and yields to what is inevitable. Downward into the depths fall its hopes; only a sepulchral echo comes from the bass, and all is still. Marx calls this “the song of the renouncing soul.” It is filled with the feeling of separation and regret; but its slow, dreamy movement is not that of stern resolution, which should accompany renunciation. Accordingly we have

_Allegretto._

The present and real returns; we no longer dwell on the past; “We must separate; only this is left.” In this movement we awake from the dream, and we feel the importance of the situation. Its content is “Farewell, then;” the phrase expressing this, lingers in its striving to shake off the grasp and get free. The hands will not let go each other. The phrase runs into the next and back to itself, and will not be cut off. In the trio there seems to be the echoing of sobs that come from the depth of the soul as the sorrowful words are repeated. The buried past still comes back and holds up its happy hours, while the shadows of the gloomy future hover before the two renunciants!

This movement is very short, and is followed by the

_Finale_ (_Presto agitato_).

“No grief of the soul that can be conquered except through action,” says Goethe—and Beethoven expresses the same conviction in the somewhat sentimental correspondence with the fair countess. This third movement depicts the soul endeavoring to escape from itself; to cancel its individualism through contact with the real.

The first movement found the being of the soul involved with another—having, as it were, lost its essence. If the being upon which it depends reflects it back by a reciprocal dependence, it again becomes integral and independent. This cannot be; hence death or renunciation. But renunciation leaves the soul recoiling upon its finitude, and devoid of the universality it would have obtained by receiving its being through another which reciprocally depended upon it. Hence the necessity of Goethe’s and Beethoven’s solution—the soul must find surcease of sorrow through action, through will, or practical self-determination. _Man becomes universal in his deed._

How fiercely the soul rushes into the world of action in this _Finale!_ In its impetuosity it storms through life, and ever and anon falls down breathless before the collision which it encounters in leaping the chasms between the different spheres. In its swoon of exhaustion there comes up from the memory of the past the ghost of the lost love that has all the while accompanied him, though unnoticed, in his frantic race. Its hollow tones reverberate through his being, and he starts from his dream and drowns his memory anew in the storm of action. At times we are elevated to the creative moment of the artist, and feel its inspiration and lofty enthusiasm, but again and again the exhausted soul collapses, and the same abysmal crash comes in at the bass each time. The grimmest loneliness, that touches to the core, comes intruding itself upon our rapture. Only in the contest with the “last enemy” we feel at length that the soul has proved itself valid in a region where distinctions of rank sunder and divide no more.

This solution is not quite so satisfactory as could be desired. If we would realize the highest solution, we must study the Fifth Symphony, especially its second movement.

IV. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony,
(_Part II._)

Marx finds in this symphony the problem so often treated by Beethoven—the collision of freedom with fate. “Through night to day, through strife to victory!” Beethoven, in his conversation with Schindler, speaking of the first “motive” at the beginning, said, “Thus Fate knocks at the door.” This knocking of Fate comes in continually during the first movement. “We have an immense struggle portrayed. Life is a struggle—this seems to be the content of this movement.” The soul finds a solution to this and sings its pæan of joy.

In the second movement (_andante_) we have an expression of the more satisfactory solution of the Problem of Life, which we alluded to when speaking of the Sonata above.

It (“The storm-tossed soul”) has in that consoling thought reached the harbor of infinite rest—infinite rest in the sense of an “activity which is a true repose.”

The soul has found this solution, and repeats it over to assure itself of its reality (1, 1, 1, 7, 1, 2, 1—these are the notes which express it). Then it wishes to make the experience of the universality of this solution—it desires to try its validity in all the spheres where Fate ruled previously. It sets out and ascends the scale three steps at a time (5, 1, 1, 2, 3—1, 3, 3, 4, 5) it reaches 5 of the scale, and ought to reach 8 the next time. It looks up to it as the celestial sun which Gothic Architecture points toward and aspires after. Could it only get there, it would find true rest! But its command of this guiding thought is not yet quite perfect—it cannot wield it so as to fly across the abyss and reach that place of repose without a leap—a “mortal leap.” For the ascent by threes has reached a place where another three would bring it to 7 of the scale—the point of absolute unrest; to step four, is to contradict the rhythm or method of its procedure. It pauses, therefore, upon 5—it tries the next three thoughtfully twice, and then, hearing below once more the mocking tones of Fate, it springs over the chasm and clutches the support above, while through all the spheres there rings the sound of exultation.

But to reach the goal by a leap—to have no bridge across the gulf at the end of the road—is not a satisfactory solution of the difficulty. Hence we have a manifold endeavor—a striving to get at the true method, which wanders at first in the darkness, but comes at length to the light; it gets the proper form for its idea, and gives up its unwieldy method of threes (1, 2, 3—3, 4, 5), and ascends by the infinite form of 1, 3, 5—3, 5, 8—5, 8, 3, &c., which gives it a complete access to, and control over, all above and below.

The complete self-equipoise expressed in that solution which comes in at intervals through the whole, and the bold application of the first method, followed by the faltering when it comes to the defect—the grand exultation over the final discovery of the true method—all these are indescribably charming to the lover of music almost the first time he listens to this symphony, and they become upon repetition more and more suggestive of the highest that art can give.

THE ALCHEMISTS.
[“Remarks upon Alchemy and the Alchemists, showing that the
Philosopher’s Stone was a Symbol.”—Published by James Miller, New York,
1867.]

We have referred in a previous article to the transition of Religion into Speculative Philosophy. The Mystics who present this phase of thought, “express themselves, not in those universal categories that the Spirit of the race has formed in language for its utterance, but they have recourse to symbols more or less ambiguous, and of insufficient universality to stand for the Archetypes themselves.” The Alchemists belong to this phase of spirit, and we propose to draw from the little book named at the head of our article, some of the evidences of this position. It is there shown that instead of the transmutation of metals, the regeneration of man was in view. Those much-abused men agreed that “The highest wisdom consists in this,” (quoting from the Arabic author, Alipili,) “for man to know himself, because in him God has placed his eternal Word, by which all things were made and upheld, to be his Light and Life, by which he is capable of knowing all things, both in time and eternity.” While they claim explicitly to have as object of their studies the mysteries of Spirit, they warn the reader against taking their remarks upon the metals in a literal sense, and speak of those who do so, as being in error. They describe their processes in such a way as to apply to man alone; pains seem to have been taken to word their descriptions so as to be utterly absurd when applied to anything else. In speaking of the “Stone,” they refer to three states, calling them black, white and red; giving minute descriptions of each, so as to leave no doubt that man is represented, first, as in a “fallen condition;” secondly, in a “repenting condition;” and thirdly, as “made perfect through grace.” This subordination of the outer to the inner, of the body to the soul, is the constantly recurring theme. Instead of seeking a thing not yet found—which would be the case with a stone for the transmutation of metals, they agree in describing the “Stone” as already known. They refer constantly to such speculative doctrines as “Nature is a whole everywhere,” showing that their subject possesses universality. This metal or mineral is described thus: “Minerals have their roots in the air, their heads and tops in the earth. Our Mercury is aërial; look for it, therefore, in the air and the earth.” The author of the work from which we quote the passage, says by way of comment: “In this passage ‘Minerals’ and ‘our Mercury’ refer to the same thing, and it is the subject of Alchemy, the Stone; and we may remember that Plato is said to have defined or described _Man_ as a growth having his root in the air, his tops in the earth. Man walks indeed upon the surface of the earth, as if nothing impeded his vision of heaven; but he walks nevertheless at the bottom of the atmosphere, and between these two, his _root_ in air, he must work out his salvation.” A great number of these “Hermetic writers” established their reputation for wit and wisdom by discoveries in the practical world, and it is difficult to believe that such men as Roger Bacon, Van Helmont, Ramond Lulli, Jerome Cardan, Geber, (“The Wise”), Avicenna, Albertus Magnus, Thomas Aquinas, and others not inferior, could have deceived themselves as the modern theory implies, viz: that they were searching a chemical recipe for the manufacture of gold. The symbolic form of statement was esteemed at that time as the highest form of popular exposition for the Infinite and the religious problems concerning God, the Soul and the Universe. It seems that those writers considered such words as “God,” “Spirit,” “Heaven,” and words of like deep import, as not signifying the thing intended only so far as the one who used them, comprehended them. Thus, if God was spoken of by one who sensuously imaged Him, here was idolatry, and the second commandment was broken. To the Platonist, “God” was the name of the Absolute Universal, and hence included _subject_ as well as _object_ in thinking. Hence if one objectified God by conceiving Him, he necessarily limited God, or rather, had no real knowledge of Him. Said Sextus, the Pythagorean: “Do not investigate the name of God, because you will not find it. For everything which is called by a name, receives its appellation from that which is more worthy than itself, so that it is one person that calls, and another that hears. Who is it, therefore, that has given a name to God? _God_, however, is not a name for God, but an indication of what we conceive of him.” From such passages we can see why the Alchemists called this “Ineffable One,” _Mercury_, _Luna_, _Sol_, _Argent vive_, _Phœbus_, _Sulphur_, _Antimony_, _Elixir_, _Alcahest_, _Salt_, and other whimsical names, letting the predicates applied determine the nature of what was meant. If a writer, speaking of “Alcahest,” should say that it is a somewhat that rises in the east, and sets in the west, gives light to the earth, and causes the growth of plants by its heat, &c., we should not misunderstand his meaning—it would be giving us the nature of the thing without the common name. Every one attaches some sort of significance to the words “Life,” “God,” “Reason,” “Instinct,” &c., and yet who comprehends them? It is evident that in most cases the word stands for the thing, and hence when one speaks of such things by name, the hearer yawns and looks listless, as if he thought: “Well, I know all about that—I learned that when a child, in the Catechism.” The Alchemists (and Du Fresnoy names nearly a thousand of these prolific writers) determined that no one should flatter himself that he knew the nature of the subject before he saw the predicates applied. Hence the strange names about which such spiritual doctrines were inculcated. “If we have concealed anything,” says Geber, “ye sons of learning, wonder not, for we have not concealed it from you, but have delivered it in such language as that it may be hid from evil men, and that the unjust and vile might not know it. But, ye sons of Truth, search, and you shall find this most excellent gift of God, which he has reserved for you.”

EDITORIALS.

ORIGINALITY.

It is natural that in America more than elsewhere, there should be a popular demand for originality. In Europe, each nation has, in the course of centuries, accumulated a stock of its own peculiar creations. America is sneered at for the lack of these. We have not had time as yet to develop spiritual capital on a scale to correspond to our material pretensions. Hence, we, as a people, feel very sensitive on this point, and whenever any new literary enterprise is started, it is met on every hand by inquiries like these: “Is it original, or only an importation of European ideas?” “Why not publish something indigenous?” It grows cynical at the sight of erudition, and vents its spleen with indignation: “Why rifle the graves of centuries? You are no hyena! Does not the spring bring forth its flowers, and every summer its swarms of gnats? Why build a bridge of rotten coffin planks, or wear a wedding garment of mummy wrappage? Why desecrate the Present, by offering it time-stained paper from the shelves of the Past?”

In so far as these inquiries are addressed to our own undertaking, we have a word to offer in self-justification. We have no objection to originality of the right stamp. An originality which cherishes its own little idiosyncrasies we despise. If we must differ from other people, let us differ in having a wide cosmopolitan culture. “All men are alike in possessing defects,” says Goethe; “in excellencies alone, it is, that great differences may be found.”

What philosophic originality may be, we hope to show by the following consideration:

It is the province of Philosophy to dissolve and make clear to itself the entire phenomena of the world. These phenomena consist of two kinds: _first_, the products of nature, or immediate existence; _second_, the products of spirit, including what modifications man has wrought upon the former, and his independent creations. These spiritual products may be again subdivided into _practical_ (in which the _will_ predominates)—the institutions of civilization—and _theoretical_ (in which the _intellect_ predominates)—art, religion, science, &c. Not only must Philosophy explain the immediate phenomena of nature—it must also explain the mediate phenomena of spirit. And not only are the institutions of civilization proper objects of study, but still more is this theoretic side that which demands the highest activity of the philosopher.

To examine the thoughts of man—to unravel them and make them clear—must constitute the earliest employment of the speculative thinker; his first business is to comprehend the thought of the world; to dissolve for himself the solutions which have dissolved the world before him. Hence, the prevalent opinion that it is far higher to be an “original investigator” than to be engaged in studying the thoughts of others, leaves out of view the fact that the thoughts of other men are just as much objective phenomena to the individual philosopher as the ground he walks on. They need explanation just as much. If I can explain the thoughts of the profoundest men of the world, and make clear wherein they differed among themselves and from the truth, certainly I am more original than they were. For is not “original” to be used in the sense of _primariness_, of approximation to the absolute, universal truth? He who varies from the truth must be secondary, and owe his deflections to somewhat alien to his being, and therefore be himself subordinate thereto. Only the Truth makes Free and Original. How many people stand in the way of their own originality! If an absolute Science should be discovered by anybody, we could all become absolutely original by mastering it. So much as I have mastered of science, I have dissolved into me, and have not left it standing alien and opposed to me, but it is now my own.

Our course, then, in the practical endeavor to elevate the tone of American thinking, is plain: we must furnish convenient access to the deepest thinkers of ancient and modern times. To prepare translations and commentary, together with original exposition, is our object. Originality will take care of itself. Once disciplined in Speculative thought, the new growths of our national life will furnish us objects whose comprehension shall constitute original philosophy without parallel. Meanwhile it must be confessed that those who set up this cry for originality are not best employed. Their ideals are commonplace, and their demand is too easily satisfied with the mere whimsical, and they do not readily enough distinguish therefrom the excellent.

CONTENTS OF THE JOURNAL.

Thus far the articles of this journal have given most prominence to art in its various forms. The speculative content of art is more readily seen than that of any other form, for the reason that its sensuous element allows a more genial exposition. The critique of the Second Part of Faust, by Rosencrantz, published in this number, is an eminent example of the effect which the study of Speculative Philosophy has upon the analytical understanding. Is not the professor of logic able to follow the poet, and interpret the products of his creative imagination? The portion of Hegel’s Æsthetics, published in this number, giving, as it does, the historical groundwork of art, furnishes in a genial form an outline of the Philosophy of History. Doubtless the characteristics of the Anglo-Saxon mind make it difficult to see in art what it has for such nations as the Italians and Germans; we have the reflective intellect, and do not readily attain the standpoint of the creative imagination.

STYLE.

In order to secure against ambiguity, it is sometimes necessary to make inelegant repetitions, and, to give to a limiting clause its proper degree of subordination, such devices as parentheses, dashes, etc., have to be used to such a degree as to disfigure the page. Capitals and italics are also used without stint to mark important words. The adjective has frequently to be used substantively, and, if rare, this use is marked by commencing it with a capital.

There are three styles, which correspond to the three grades of intellectual culture. The sensuous stage uses simple, categorical sentences, and relates facts, while the reflective stage uses hypothetical ones, and marks relations between one fact and another; it introduces antithesis. The stage of the Reason uses the disjunctive sentence, and makes an assertion exhaustive, by comprehending in it a multitude of interdependencies and exclusions. Thus it happens that the style of a Hegel is very difficult to master, and cannot be translated adequately into the sensuous style, although many have tried it. A person is very apt to blame the style of a deep thinker when he encounters him for the first time. It requires an “expert swimmer” to follow the discourse, but for no other reason than that the mind has not acquired the strength requisite to grasp in one thought a wide extent of conceptions.

THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.
Vol. I. 1867. No. 3.

THE MONADOLOGY.
[Translated from the French of LEIBNITZ, by F. H. HEDGE.]

1. The Monad, of which we shall here speak, is merely a simple substance entering into those which are compound; simple, that is to say, without parts.

2. And there must be simple substances, since there are compounds; for the compound is only a collection or aggregate of simples.

3. Where there are no parts, neither extension, nor figure, nor divisibility is possible; and these Monads are the veritable Atoms of Nature—in one word, the Elements of things.

4. There is thus no danger of dissolution, and there is no conceivable way in which a simple substance can perish naturally.

5. For the same reason, there is no way in which a simple substance can begin naturally, since it could not be formed by composition.

6. Therefore we may say that the Monads can neither begin nor end in any other way than all at once; that is to say, they cannot begin except by creation, nor end except by annihilation; whereas that which is compounded, begins and ends by parts.

7. There is also no intelligible way in which a Monad can be altered or changed in its interior by any other creature, since it would be impossible to transpose anything in it, or to conceive in it any internal movement—any movement excited, directed, augmented or diminished within, such as may take place in compound bodies, where there is change of parts. The Monads have no windows through which anything can enter or go forth. It would be impossible for any accidents to detach themselves and go forth from the substances, as did formerly the Sensible Species of the Schoolmen. Accordingly, neither substance nor accident can enter a Monad from without.

8. Nevertheless Monads must have qualities—otherwise they would not even be entities; and if simple substances did not differ in their qualities, there would be no means by which we could become aware of the changes of things, since all that is in compound bodies is derived from simple ingredients, and Monads, being without qualities, would be indistinguishable one from another, seeing also they do not differ in quantity. Consequently, a _plenum_ being supposed, each place could in any movement receive only the just equivalent of what it had had before, and one state of things would be indistinguishable from another.

9. Moreover, each Monad must differ from every other, for there are never two beings in nature perfectly alike, and in which it is impossible to find an internal difference, or one founded on some intrinsic denomination.

10. I take it for granted, furthermore, that every created being is subject to change—consequently the created Monad; and likewise that this change is continual in each.

11. It follows, from what we have now said, that the natural changes of Monads proceed from an internal principle, since no external cause can influence the interior.

12. But, besides the principle of change, there must also be a detail of changes, embracing, so to speak, the specification and the variety of the simple substances.

13. This detail must involve multitude in unity or in simplicity: for as all natural changes proceed by degrees, something changes and something remains, and consequently there must be in the simple substance a plurality of affections and relations, although there are no parts.

14. This shifting state, which involves and represents multitude in unity, or in the simple substance, is nothing else than what we call Perception, which must be carefully distinguished from _apperception_, or consciousness, as will appear in the sequel. Here it is that the Cartesians have especially failed, making no account of those perceptions of which we are not conscious. It is this that has led them to suppose that spirits are the only Monads, and that there are no souls of brutes or other Entelechies. It is owing to this that they have vulgarly confounded protracted torpor with actual death, and have fallen in with the scholastic prejudice, which believes in souls entirely separate. Hence, also, ill affected minds have been confirmed in the opinion that the soul is mortal.

15. The action of the internal principle which causes the change, or the passage from one perception to another, may be called Appetition. It is true, the desire cannot always completely attain to every perception to which it tends, but it always attains to something thereof, and arrives at new perceptions.

16. We experience in ourselves the fact of multitude in the simple substance, when we find that the least thought of which we are conscious includes a variety in its object. Accordingly, all who admit that the soul is a simple substance, are bound to admit this multitude in the Monad, and Mr. Boyle should not have found any difficulty in this admission, as he has done in his dictionary—Art. Rorarius.

17. Besides, it must be confessed that Perception and its consequences are inexplicable by mechanical causes—that is to say, by figures and motions. If we imagine a machine so constructed as to produce thought, sensation, perception, we may conceive it magnified—the same proportions being preserved—to such an extent that one might enter it like a mill. This being supposed, we should find in it on inspection only pieces which impel each other, but nothing which can explain a perception. It is in the simple substance, therefore—not in the compound, or in machinery—that we must look for that phenomenon; and in the simple substance we find nothing else—nothing, that is, but perceptions and their changes. Therein also, and therein only, consist all the internal acts of simple substances.

18. We might give the name of Entelechies to all simple substances or created Monads, inasmuch as there is in them a certain completeness (perfection), (ἔχουσι τὸ ἔντελες). There is a sufficiency (αὐτάρκεια) which makes them the sources of their own internal actions, and, as it were, incorporeal automata.

19. If we choose to give the name of soul to all that has perceptions and desires, in the general sense which I have just indicated, all simple substances or created Monads may be called souls. But as sentiment is something more than simple perception, I am willing that the general name of Monads and Entelechies shall suffice for those simple substances which have nothing but perceptions, and that the term souls shall be confined to those whose perceptions are more distinct, and accompanied by memory.

20. For we experience in ourselves a state in which we remember nothing, and have no distinct perception, as when we are in a swoon or in a profound and dreamless sleep. In this state the soul does not differ sensibly from a simple Monad; but since this state is not permanent, and since the soul delivers herself from it, she is something more.

21. And it does not by any means follow, in that case, that the simple substance is without perception: that, indeed, is impossible, for the reasons given above; for it cannot perish, neither can it subsist without affection of some kind, which is nothing else than its perception. But where there is a great number of minute perceptions, and where nothing is distinct, one is stunned, as when we turn round and round in continual succession in the same direction; whence arises a vertigo, which may cause us to faint, and which prevents us from distinguishing anything. And possibly death may produce this state for a time in animals.

22. And as every present condition of a simple substance is a natural consequence of its antecedent condition, so its present is big with its future.

23. Then, as on awaking from a state of stupor, we become conscious of our perceptions, we must have had perceptions, although unconscious of them, immediately before awaking. For each perception can have no other natural origin but an antecedent perception, as every motion must be derived from one which preceded it.

24. Thus it appears that if there were no distinction—no relief, so to speak—no enhanced flavor in our perceptions, we should continue forever in a state of stupor; and this is the condition of the naked Monad.

25. And so we see that nature has given to animals enhanced perceptions, by the care which she has taken to furnish them with organs which collect many rays of light and many undulations of air, increasing their efficacy by their union. There is something approaching to this in odor, in taste, in touch, and perhaps in a multitude of other senses of which we have no knowledge. I shall presently explain how that which passes in the soul represents that which takes place in the organs.

26. Memory gives to the soul a kind of consecutive action which imitates reason, but must be distinguished from it. We observe that animals, having a perception of something which strikes them, and of which they have previously had a similar perception, expect, through the representation of their memory, the recurrence of that which was associated with it in their previous perception, and incline to the same feelings which they then had. For example, when we show dogs the cane, they remember the pain which it caused them, and whine and run.

27. And the lively imagination, which strikes and excites them, arises from the magnitude or the multitude of their previous perceptions. For often a powerful impression produces suddenly the effect of long habit, or of moderate perceptions often repeated.