No More Learning

5665 (#243) ###########################################

OCTAVE FEUILLET
5665
A LEAP IN THE DARK
From the Romance of a Poor Young Man ›
YES
ESTERDAY I set out on horseback early in the morning to over-
see the felling of some timber in the neighborhood. I was
returning toward four o'clock in the direction of the château,
when at a sharp turn of the road I found myself face to face
with Mademoiselle Marguerite. She was alone. I bowed, and
-
was about to pass, but she stopped her horse.
་
"A beautiful autumn day, monsieur," said she.
"Yes, mademoiselle. You are going to ride? »
"As you see, I am using my last moments of independence,
and even abusing them; for I feel a little troubled by my soli-
tude. But Alain was wanted down there- my poor Mervyn is
lame. You do not wish to replace him, by chance ? »
"With pleasure. Where are you going? "
"Why I had the idea of pushing my ride as far as the
Tower of Elven. " She pointed with the end of her riding-
whip to a dark summit which rose within sight of the road. "I
think," she added, "that you have never made such a pilgrim-
age. "
"It is true. It has often tempted me, but I have put it off
till now, I hardly know why. "
"Well, the Tower is easily found; but it is already late; we
must make a little haste, if you please. "
I turned my horse's head and we set out at a gallop.
As we rode I sought to explain to myself this unexpected
whim, which I could not but think premeditated. I concluded
that time and reflection had weakened in Mademoiselle Mar-
guerite's mind the first impressions made by the calumnies which
had been poured into her ear. She had apparently ended by
doubting Mademoiselle Helouin's veracity, and contrived to offer
me, by chance, under a disguised form, a kind of reparation
which might possibly be due me.
In the midst of the thoughts that besieged me, I attached
slight importance to the particular end we proposed to ourselves
in this strange ride. I had often heard this Tower of Elven
spoken of as one of the most interesting ruins of the country;
and I had never traveled over either of the two roads which lead
from Rennes, or from Jocelyn, toward the sea, without contem-
plating with an eager eye that uncertain mass which one sees
X-355


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5666
OCTAVE FEUILLET
towering upward in the middle of distant heaths like an enor-
mous stone bank; but time and occasion had been wanting to me.
The village of Elven that we traversed, slackening our pace a
little, gave a striking representation of a town of the Middle
Ages. The form of the low dark houses has not changed for
five or six centuries. One thinks himself dreaming when he
sees, through the large gaps, arched and without sashes, which
take the place of windows in the houses, groups of women with
wild eyes, spinning from distaffs in the shadow, and conversing
in low voices in an unknown language. It seemed now as if all
these gray spectres had quitted their monumental slabs to enact
some scene of another age, of which we were to be the sole
living witnesses. The little life that was visible in the single
street of the village bore the same character of antiquity and
faithful representation of a vanished world.
A little distance beyond Elven we took a cross-road, which
led us up a barren hill; we saw from its summit, although at
some distance from us, the feudal ruin overlooking a wooded
height in front of us. The heath where we were, descended
sharply toward marshy meadows surrounded with thick young
woods. We descended the slope and were soon in the woods.
There we took a narrow road, the rough unbroken pavement of
which resounded loudly under our horses' feet. I had ceased for
some time to see the Tower, the locality of which I could not
even conjecture; when it rose out of the foliage a few steps
before us, with the suddenness of an apparition. This Tower is
not decayed; it has preserved its original height, which exceeds
a hundred feet, and the regular layers of granite which compose
its magnificent octagonal structure give it the aspect of a formida-
ble block, cut yesterday by the keenest chisel. Nothing more
imposing, more proud and sombre, can be imagined than this old
donjon, impervious to the effects of time, and alone in these
thick woods. The trees have grown close to its walls, and their
tops reach to the openings for the lower windows. This growth
of vegetation conceals the base of the edifice, and increases its
appearance of fantastic mystery. In this solitude, surrounded by
forests, with this mass of extraordinary architecture in front of
us, it was impossible not to think of enchanted castles where beau-
tiful princesses sleep a hundred years.
"Up to this time," said Mademoiselle Marguerite, to whom I
tried to communicate this idea, "I have seen no more than what


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5667
we now see; but if you wish to wake the fairy princess, we can
enter. For all I know, there may be in the neighborhood a
shepherd or shepherdess who is furnished with a key.
Let us
fasten our horses and seek for them-you for the shepherd and
I for the shepherdess. "
The horses were accordingly fastened in a little inclosure near
the ruin, and we separated for a moment to search around the
Tower. But we had the vexation to meet neither shepherd nor
shepherdess. Our desire to see the interior naturally increased.
with all the force of attraction of forbidden fruit, and we crossed
a bridge thrown over the moat, at a venture. To our great satis-
faction, the massive door of the donjon was not shut; we needed
only to push it open in order to enter a corner, dark and incum-
bered with rubbish, which was probably the place for the body-
guard in former times. From thence we passed into a vast
circular hall, the chimney-piece of which still showed, on its
coat of arms, the besants of the crusade; a large open window,
traversed by the symbolic cross, plainly cut in the stone, lighted
distinctly the lower part of this room, and the
eye failed to
pierce the uncertain shadows of the lofty broken roof. At the
sound of our steps an invisible flock of birds flew out from the
darkness, shaking down upon us the dust of centuries.
On mounting up the granite steps ranged one above the
other round the hall, into the embrasure of the window, we
could overlook the deep moat and the ruined parts of the for-
tress; but we had noticed on our entrance a flight of steps cut in
the thick wall, and we felt a childish impatience to push our
discoveries further. We therefore undertook to ascend this rude
staircase. I led the way, and Mademoiselle Marguerite followed
bravely, holding up her long skirts as well as she could. From
the top of the flat roof the view was vast and delicious. The
soft tints of twilight were creeping over the ocean of half-golden
autumn foliage, the dark marshes, and the green mossy ground
near us, and the distant ranges of hills mingling with and cross-
ing each other.
other. As we gazed down upon this melancholy land-
scape, infinite in extent, we felt the peace of solitude, the silence
of evening, the sadness of the past, descend into our hearts.
This charm was increased, for me at least, by the presence of
a beloved being: all who have loved will comprehend this. This
hour even of mutual contemplation and emotion, of pure and
profound enjoyment, was without doubt the last that would be


## p. 5668 (#246) ###########################################

5668
OCTAVE FEUILLET
given me to pass near her and with her, and I clung to it with
a sad earnestness. For Marguerite, I know not what passed
within her; she was seated on the ledge of the parapet, gazing
silently at the distance. I heard only the sound of her quick-
ened breath.
I do not know how long we remained thus. When the mists
spread over the low meadows and the far-off hills became indis-
tinct in the increasing darkness, Marguerite rose.
"Let us go,"
said she, in a low voice, as if the curtain had fallen on some
regretted pageant; "it is finished! » She began to descend the
staircase and I followed her.
We attempted to leave the Tower, but to our great surprise
we found the door closed. Apparently the young keeper, igno-
rant of our presence, had turned the key while we were on the
roof. Our first impression was that of gayety. It now actually
was an enchanted castle! I made vigorous efforts to break the
enchantment; but the enormous bolt of the old lock was solidly
fastened in the granite, and I was compelled to give up the at-
tempt to unfasten it. I then attacked the door itself; the mass-
ive hinges and the oak panels, banded with iron, resisted all my
strength. Two or three pieces of rough stone which I found.
amongst the rubbish, and which I threw against this insuperable
obstacle to our egress, had no other result than to shake the roof,
fragments of which fell at my feet. Mademoiselle Marguerite
would not allow me to pursue an enterprise so evidently hope-
less, and not without danger. I ran to the window, and shouted
for help, but nobody replied. During the next ten minutes I
repeated these cries constantly, with the same lack of success.
We then employed the remaining daylight in exploring minutely
the interior of the castle, but we could discover no place of
egress except the door, as solid as the wall to us, and the great
window, thirty feet above the bottom of the moat.
Night had fallen over the country, and darkness invaded the
ruin. Rays of moonlight penetrated the window, and fell upon
the stone steps beneath it. Mademoiselle Marguerite had gradu-
ally lost all appearance of sprightliness; she ceased to reply to
the conjectures, reasonable or otherwise, with which I endeavored
to dispel her anxiety. She sat in the shadow of the window,
silent and immovable; I was in the full light of the moon on
the step nearest the window, at intervals sending forth a cry of
distress. But in truth, the more uncertain the success of my


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OCTAVE FEUILLET
5669
efforts became, the more an irresistible feeling of joyfulness seized
upon me.
I saw suddenly realized the endless and almost impos-
sible dream of lovers;
was alone in a desert with the woman
whom I loved! For long hours there were only she and I in the
world, only her life and mine! I thought of all the marks of
sweet protection, of tender respect, that I should have the right
and the duty to lavish upon her; I pictured her fears calmed,
her confidence, her sleep; I said to myself that this fortunate
night, if it did not give me the love of this dear girl, would at
least assure to me her most lasting esteem.
And then, as I abandoned myself with all the egotism of
passion to my secret ecstasy, some reflection of which was per-
haps painted on my face, I was suddenly roused by these words,
addressed to me in a tone of affected tranquillity:- "Monsieur
le Marquis de Champcey, have there been many cowards in your
family before you? "
I rose, but fell back again upon my stone seat, turning a
stupefied look in the direction where I saw the vague outline of
the young girl. One idea alone occurred to me, a terrible idea
that fear and anxiety had affected her brain- that she was
becoming crazy.
"Marguerite! " I cried, without knowing even that I spoke.
This word completed her irritation, doubtless.
"My God! How odious he is!
Oh, what a coward! Yes, I
repeat it, what a coward! »
The truth began to dawn upon me. I descended one of the
steps. "Pray, what is the matter? " said I, coldly.
"It is you," she cried with vehemence, "you who have bribed
this man or this child-to imprison us in this tower. To-mor-
row I shall be lost-dishonored in public opinion- and I can
belong only to you: such is your calculation, is it not? But this
plan, I assure you, will not succeed better than the others. You
know me very imperfectly if you think I shall not prefer dis-
honor, a convent, death-all-to the disgrace of uniting my
hand, my life, to yours. And when this infamous ruse had suc-
ceeded, when I had had the weakness-as certainly I shall not
have to give you my person, and what is of more importance
to you, my fortune, in return for this beautiful stroke of policy
-what kind of man are you, to wish for wealth and a wife,
acquired at such a price as this? Ah, thank me still, monsieur,
for not yielding to your wishes: they are imprudent, believe me,
――――


## p. 5670 (#248) ###########################################

5670
OCTAVE FEUILLET
for if ever shame and public derision shall drive me into your
arms, I should have so much contempt for you that I should
break your heart! Yes, were it as hard, as cold as stone, I
should draw tears of blood from it. "
"Mademoiselle," said I, with all the calmness I could assume,
"I beg you to recover yourself, your reason. I assure you, upon
my honor, that you insult me. Will you please to reflect? Your
suspicions have no probable foundation. I could not possibly
have arranged the base treachery of which you accuse me, and
how have I given you the right to believe me capable of it? "
"All that I know of you gives me this right," cried she, cut-
ting the air with her riding-whip. "I will tell you for once what
has been in my soul for a long time. You came to our house
under a borrowed name and character. We were happy, we were
tranquil, my mother and I. You have brought us trouble, dis-
order, anxiety, to which we were before strangers. In order to
attain your end, to repair the loss of your fortune, you have
usurped our confidence. -you have been reckless of our repose-
you have played with our purest, truest, most sacred feelings.
You have broken our hearts without pity. That is what you
have done or wished to do, it matters little which. I am very
weary of it all, I assure you. And when, at this hour, you come
and pledge me your honor as a gentleman, I have the right not
to believe it -and I do not believe it! ”
—
-――――――
-
I was beside myself; I seized both her hands in a transport
of vehemence which controlled her. "Marguerite, my poor child,
listen! I love you, it is true, and never did love more ardent,
more disinterested, more holy, enter into the heart of a man.
But you also, you love me; you love me, unfortunate, and you
kill me! You speak of a bruised and broken heart. Ah, what
have you done with mine? But it is yours; I leave it with you.
As to my honor, I will keep it it is untouched. I will force
you to acknowledge it. And upon this honor, I swear to you
that if I die, you will weep for me; that if I live, never,—
adored as you are- were you on your knees before me
will I marry you till you are as poor as I, or I as rich as you!
And now pray; ask God for miracles-it is time! "
never
I pushed her away from the embrasure of the window; I
sprung upon the upper step. For I had conceived a desperate
plan, and I executed it with the precipitation of actual madness.
As I have before said, the tops of the beeches and oaks growing
-


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OCTAVE FEUILLET
5671
in the moat reached the level of the window. With the aid of
my bent riding-whip, I drew toward me the extremity of the
nearest branches; I seized them on a venture, and leaped into
I heard above my head my name,
space;
«< Maximilian! " uttered
suddenly, with a distracted cry. The branches to which I was
clinging bent with their whole length toward the abyss; then
there was a crashing sound; the tree broke under my weight, and
I fell heavily to the ground.
The muddy nature of the earth lessened the violence of the
shock, for though I was wounded, I was not killed.
One of my
arms had struck against the sloping masonry of the tower, and I
suffered such sharp pain in it that I fainted. I was roused by
Marguerite's frightened voice: -"Maximilian! Maximilian! For
pity's sake! In the name of the good God, speak to me! For-
give me! "
I rose, I saw her in the opening of the window in the full
moonlight, with her head bare, her hair disheveled, her hand.
grasping the arm of the cross, and her eyes earnestly fixed upon
the ground below.
"Fear nothing," said I to her. "I am not hurt. Only be
patient for an hour or two. Give me time to go to the château;
it is the surest. Be certain that I will keep your secret—that I
will save your honor as I have saved mine. "
I scrambled out of the moat with difficulty, and went to mount
my horse.
I suspended my left arm, which was wholly useless
and very painful, with my handkerchief. Thanks to the light of
the moon, I easily found my way back, and an hour later I reached
the château. I was told Dr. Desmarests was in the saloon. I
went in at once, and found there some dozen persons, whose
countenances wore an expression of anxiety and alarm.
"Doctor," said I gayly, on entering, "my horse took fright at
his own shadow and threw me on the road, and I am afraid my
left arm is sprained. Will you see it? ”
"How, sprained! " said M. Desmarests, after unfastening the
handkerchief. "Your arm is broken, my poor boy. "
Madame Laroque gave a little cry, and approached me.
"This is, then, a night of misfortune," said she.
I feigned surprise. "What else has happened? " I cried.
"Mon Dieu! I fear some accident has happened to my
daughter. She went out on horseback at three o'clock, and it is
now eight, and she has not yet returned. "


## p. 5672 (#250) ###########################################

5672
OCTAVE FEUILLET
"Mademoiselle Marguerite? Why, I saw her-"
« How? Where? At what time? Forgive me, monsieur; it
is the egotism of a mother. "
"I saw her about five o'clock, on the road. We met. She
told me she thought of riding as far as the Tower of Elven. "
"The Tower of Elven! She must be lost in the woods. We
ought to go there promptly. Let orders be given. "
M. de Bévallan at once ordered horses to be brought out. I
affected a wish to join the cavalcade, but Madame Laroque and
the doctor positively prohibited it, and I allowed myself to be
easily persuaded to seek my bed, of which, in truth, I felt great
need.
Dr. Desmarests, after having applied a first dressing to my
injured arm, took a seat in the carriage with Madame Laroque,
who went to the village of Elven, to await there the result of
the diligent search that M. de Bévallan would direct in the
neighborhood of the Tower.
It was nearly ten o'clock when Alain came to announce to me
that Mademoiselle Marguerite was found. He recounted the his-
tory of her imprisonment, without omitting any details, save, be it
understood, those which the young girl and I would alone know.
The account of the adventure was soon confirmed by the doctor,
then by Madame Laroque herself.
I had the satisfaction to see
that no suspicion of the exact truth entered the mind of any one.
I have passed the night in repeating, with the most fatiguing
perseverance, and with the oddest complications of fever and
dreams, my dangerous leap from the old tower window. I can-
not become accustomed to it. At each instant the sensation of
falling through space rises to my throat, and I awake-breath-
less.


## p. 5673 (#251) ###########################################

5673
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
(1762-1814)
BY EDWARD FRANKLIN BUCHNER
N THE 18th of August, 1791, a manuscript work entitled 'An
Attempt at a Critique of all Revelation was laid before
Immanuel Kant by a young man twenty-nine years of age,
Johann Gottlieb Fichte. This irresistible letter of introduction, com-
posed by Fichte in four weeks, turned his life of effort and failure
into the channel it had been vainly seeking, and thus profoundly
modified the intellectual and political development of Western Europe
in the nineteenth century.
JOHANN G. FICHTE
The early childhood of Fichte, who was
a descendant of a Swedish soldier of the
army of Gustavus Adolphus, left by the
fortunes of war within the bounds of Sax-
ony, was passed in herding geese and in a
reverie, looking into vacancy. Born at
Rammenau in Upper Lusatia, on May 19th,
1762, as the son of a weaver, he was by
accident removed from the bondage of
parental poverty and transferred to the
favor of a wealthy patron, thereby receiv-
ing the benefits of the celebrated seminary
at Schulpforte. He entered the University
of Jena at the age of eighteen, and pursued
the study of theology for three years. His passion for influencing men
was checked by poverty, whose buffetings he endured seven years
longer. The outcome of a last short tutorship at Warsaw paved the
way for a visit to the aged sage at Königsberg. Kant's initial cool-
ness to the young stranger soon gave place to a genial influence. It
secured a publisher for the above-mentioned essay. Appearing in 1792,
the work placed its anonymous author, when he became known, in the
first rank of philosophical thinkers. The blind alley Fichte had been
treading for years suddenly opened into a broad highway. Some
months after his marriage, Fichte began in May 1794 a pronounced.
career as a professor at Jena. In the few succeeding years he dis-
played keen, prolific literary qualities, and rapidly brought to its first
maturity one of the world's greatest systems of reflective thinking.



## p. 5674 (#252) ###########################################

5674
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
By the darling wish of his mother, Fichte was destined for the
ministry; but the fate of his young manhood closed the way to the
pulpit after his uncompleted theological studies. He came in touch
with his age through the vocation of an educator. His career as a
teacher may be divided into four periods. He was a bold pedagogue,
as a tutor, in various places and in connection with diverse topics
from 1784 to 1793; often lecturing to parents at the end of each week
on the faults they committed in training their children. At Jena he
began the career of an ideal university educator, handling the most
abtruse themes in a lucid manner, and winning ardent disciples. His
literary activity during these years matured his exposition and de-
fense of philosophical science. These are contained in 'Foundations
of the Whole Theory of Science' (1794), 'Introductions to the Theory
of Science' (1797), and a 'System of Ethics' (1798),— his masterpieces
of this period. His unique and somewhat stormy term of usefulness,
which brought forth the Sunday lectures to the student body, con-
tained in the elevating Vocation of the Scholar,' was cut short in
1799 by an accusation of atheism from the Saxon government. The
keen metaphysician was incapable of receiving and of adroitly hand-
ling the delicate charge; and an acceptance by the Saxe-Weimar court
of a resignation threatened by his intense, unpractical nature, left
Fichte an atheist" outcast. The Prussian government alone did not
confiscate the journal in which his views were published, and he
entered Berlin, whose gates extended a welcome to the ablest ex-
pounder of the Kantian philosophy. He here continued his lecturing
and literary activities, except in the summer of 1805, when he taught
in the University at Erlangen.
'The Vocation of Man' (1800) and The Way to a Blessed Life'
(1805-6) are the most important works of the Berlin period, and indi-
cate the ethical and religious directions taken by his reflections. The
fortunes of war in 1806 drove him and his King out of Germany for
safety. The return in 1807 placed him in the midst of the dangers of a
foreign occupancy in the Prussian capital. The bravery of the heroic
teacher appeared in his public demand that the national losses should
be recovered by education. He became one of the organizers of
a new university in Berlin in 1809, its rector for two years, and
one of its most distinguished professors until his death in 1814. His
educational career closed with attention to public and practical affairs,
as it had begun with the theoretical foundations of life.
In Fichte the usual order of an impersonal system of thought is
reversed. His philosophy is nothing apart from his own life. Both
radiated from self-activity and crystallized in it. Externally regarded,
his character was impetuous, selfish, -in short, that of a supreme
ruler, often bringing him into stormy conflict with his friends and


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JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
5675
associates. So too his metaphysical speculations incrusted themselves
in harsh egoistic forms, and were defended by the heavy artillery of
German logic. But within the man there was a spirit of docility and
reverence, and within the system a throbbing heart. What the
French Revolution was in theory and blood, that was Fichte in
thought and practice - an apotheosis of the human will. His struct-
ures were erected from within. This unyielding independence and
moral integrity were his earliest traits. A story is told that he threw
his first story-book into a brook because it unduly attracted his at-
tention from his studies, and buried his pain at its loss under an
unmurmuring sense of right.
Fichte's first intellectual conclusion was in favor of determinism.
He became entrapped in the web of cause and effect, from which
his acquaintance with the Kantian philosophy soon released him.
He entertained, with enthusiasm, a belief in man's freedom, and
resolved to give his energies to an extension of Kant's teachings.
He moved onward in a direction all his own, and soared into an
abstruse realm, searching for that great principle which should unify
both knowledge and conduct. In this way he perfected the results
of the Kantian thought which were disconnected. The principle
became the "ego. " All the standards of truth and virtue he found
in the secrets of personal consciousness. All the contrarieties con-
tained in experience, such as objects and thought, knowledge and
volitions, were removed by deducing them strictly and logically from
the activities of one and the same "ego. " This "ego" does not exist
before it puts forth activity, but its being arises in its doing. All
the forms of intelligence and of the world were derived from this
primal principle. These exist in order that we may do our duty.
Action is the mark and end of our existence. In order to act, and
that duty may triumph over external and internal nature, the will
must be free. This one principle of freedom as activity and activity
as freedom, in the light of absolute reason, ran through his life, both
theoretical and practical, in such a manner as to make him "the
doughtiest man that ever lived. " His method and thinking are a
climax. There have never been any Fichteans.
The stately solitariness of Fichte the philosopher stands in bold
contrast with Fichte the national hero of Germany. A philosopher
never goes to war, and seldom becomes involved in the administra-
tion of practical affairs. Fichte's hardened and dignified spirit, how-
ever, was touched at the sight of his country's humiliation in the
hands of the French conqueror. In 1804 he presented, in a series of
public lectures appearing under the title Characteristics of the Pres-
ent Age,' a terrible arraignment of the degenerate movements of
his time, from the standpoint of pure reason. In the third winter


## p. 5676 (#254) ###########################################

5676
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
following came the inspiring balm to all smarting wounds in the
famous Sunday evening 'Addresses to the German Nation. ' Such stir-
ring language had not been spoken to the people since the thunders
of Luther. French spies, wearing dull ears within the lecture-room,
and hostile troops, noisily tramping without, never suspected the
glowing patriotism for the Fatherland which lay concealed in the
utterances of the hero. To have delivered those 'Addresses' within
French ear-shot was a work of the highest heroism. The prophet of
German unity burst forth with the fire of thoughtful eloquence, and
roused his morally dead age to an activity which hurled back the
Napoleonic achievements into the victor's teeth. The effects of these
discourses are visible to-day in Germany's better system of education,
which grew out of Fichte's recommendation. Again, in 1813, Fichte
wished to accompany the soldiers and encourage them by his oratory
in the camp -
a desire denied a second time by his King. The soli-
tary thinker of 1795 descended from his transcendental pedestal and
gave himself to public affairs. He ended his life on the 27th of Jan-
uary, 1814, stricken by a fever contracted from devotion to his noble
wife, who had become infected with disease in her charitable attend-
ance upon the wounded soldiers in the Berlin hospitals.
-
Fichte's fame rests not a little on his eloquent service to a nation
bowed down in defeat. He must be reckoned among those who
effected the moral and religious regeneration of a people. He labored
with both intellect and heart to bring about a morality purer than
that which flourished on the stalk of selfish and debased sentiments.
His age had reached, in his eyes, the condition of "completed sinful-
ness. »
He deviated from historical Christianity in his exposition of
religion, but never forsook the qualities of the human spirit as man-
ifested in its cravings for a life of happiness bound up with the
Infinite mind. He called loudly to humanity to work out its great
destiny in the light of freedom and in a consciousness of growing
perfection. In this way the strong character of an ideal educator, a
profound philosopher, a fiery patriot, and a lucid, prolific writer
wrought itself into the making of a foremost nation of modern times,
leaving to the world a heritage the result of deep insight, noble feel-
ing, and strenuous effort. Another thought-master had lived among
men.
Edward J. Buchver
{


## p. 5677 (#255) ###########################################

JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
5677
IN
PERORATION OF THE ADDRESSES TO THE GERMAN NATION'
Ν THESE addresses the memory of your forefathers speaks to
you. Think that with my voice there are mingled the voices
of your ancestors from the far-off ages of gray antiquity, of
those who stemmed with their own bodies the tide of Roman
domination over the world, who vindicated with their own blood
the independence of those mountains, plains, and streams which
under you have been suffered to fall a prey to the stranger.
They call to you:-"Take ye our place; hand down our memory
to future ages, honorable and spotless as it has come down to
you, as you have gloried in it and in your descent from us.
Hitherto our struggle has been deemed noble, great, and wise;
we have been looked upon as the consecrated and inspired ones
of a divine world-plan. Should our race perish with you, then
will our honor be changed into dishonor, our wisdom into folly.
For if Germany were ever to be subdued to the Empire, then
had it been better to have fallen before the ancient Romans than
before their modern descendants. We withstood those and tri-
umphed; these have scattered you like chaff before them. But
as matters now are with you, seek not to conquer with bodily
weapons, but stand firm and erect before them in spiritual dig-
nity. Yours is the greater destiny,- to found an empire of mind
and reason; to destroy the dominion of rude physical power as
the ruler of the world. Do this, and ye shall be worthy of your
descent from us. "
With these voices mingle the spirits of your later fathers, of
those who fell in the second struggle for freedom of religion and
of faith. "Save our honor too," they call. "To us it had not be-
come wholly clear what we fought for; besides our just deter-
mination to suffer no outward power to control us in matters of
conscience, we were also impelled by a higher spirit, which never
wholly unveiled itself to our view. To you this spirit is no longer
veiled, if you have vision for the spiritual world; - it now re-
gards you with high clear aspect. The confused and intricate
mixture of sensuous and spiritual impulses shall no longer be
permitted to govern the world. Mind alone, pure from all ad-
mixture of sense, shall assume the guidance of human affairs.
In order that this spirit should have liberty to develop itself, and
rise to independent existence, our blood was shed. It lies with
you to give a meaning and a justification to the sacrifice, by


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JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
establishing this spirit in its destined supremacy. Should this
result not ensue, as the ultimate end of all the previous develop-
ment of our nation, then were our struggles but a vain and for-
gotten farce, and the freedom of mind and conscience for which
we fought an empty word, since neither mind nor conscience
should any longer have a place among us. '
>>
The races yet unborn plead with you. "Ye were proud
of your forefathers," they cry, "and proudly ranked yourselves
in a noble line of men. See that with you the chain is not
broken. Act so that we also may be proud of you; and through
you, as through a spotless medium, claim our descent from the
same glorious source. Be not you the cause of making us revile
our ancestry as low, barbarous, and slavish; of causing us to
hide our origin or to assume a foreign name and a foreign
parentage, in order that we may not be, without further in-
quiry, cast aside and trodden under foot. According as the next
generation which proceed from you shall be, so shall be your
future fame: honorable, if this shall bear honorable witness to
you; beyond measure ignominious, if ye have not an unblem-
ished posterity to succeed you, and leave it to your conqueror to
write your history. Never has a victor been known to have
either the inclination or the means of passing a just judgment on
the subdued. The more he degrades them, the better does he
justify his own position. Who can know what great deeds, what
excellent institutions, what noble manners of many nations of
antiquity may have passed away into oblivion, because their suc-
ceeding generations have been enslaved, and have left the con-
queror in his own way and without contradiction to tell their
story ? »
Even the stranger in foreign lands pleads with you, in so far
as he understands himself, and knows aright his own interest.
Yes! there are in every nation minds who can never believe that
the great promises to the human race of a kingdom of law, of
reason, of truth, are vain and idle delusions, and who therefore
cherish the conviction that the present iron age is but a step
towards a better state. These, and with them all the after-ages
of humanity, trust in you. Many of them trace their lineage
from us; others have received from us religion and all other
culture. Those plead with us by the common soil of our Father-
land, the cradle of their infancy, which they have left to us
free; these, by the culture which they have accepted from us as


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5679
the pledge of a higher good,- to maintain for their sakes the
proud position which has hitherto been ours, to guard with jealous
watchfulness against even the possible disappearance from the
great confederation of a newly arisen humanity of that member
which is to them more important than all others; or that when
they shall need our counsel, our example, our co-operation in the
pursuit and attainment of the true end of this earthly life, they
shall not look around for us in vain.
All ages, all the wise and good who have ever breathed the
air of this world of ours, all their thoughts and aspirations
towards a higher good,-mingle with these voices and encompass
you about and raise suppliant hands towards you; Providence
itself, if we may venture so to speak, and the Divine plan in the
creation of a human race,- which indeed exists only that it may
be understood of men, and by men be wrought into reality,-
plead with you to save their honor and their existence. Whether
those who have believed that humanity must ever advance in a
course of ceaseless improvement, and that the great ideas of its
order and worth were not empty dreams but the prophetic an-
nouncement and pledge of their future realization; — whether
those, or they who have slumbered on in the sluggish indolence
of a mere vegetable or animal existence, and mocked every as-
piration towards a higher world, have had the right,- this is the
question upon which it has fallen to your lot to furnish a last
and decisive answer. The ancient world, with all its nobility
and greatness, has fallen-through its own unworthiness and
through the might of your forefathers. If there has been truth
in that which I have spoken to you in these addresses, then
it is you to whom, out of all other modern nations, the germs of
human perfection are especially committed, and on whom the
foremost place in the onward advance towards their develop-
ment is conferred. If you sink to nothing in this your peculiar
office, then with you the hopes of humanity for salvation out of
all its evils are likewise overthrown. Hope not, console not your-
selves with the vain delusion that a second time, after the
destruction of an ancient civilization, a new culture will arise
upon the ruins of the old from a half-barbaric people. In ancient
times such a people existed, fully provided with all the requisites
for their mission; they were well known to the cultivated nation,
and were described in its literature; and that nation itself, had it
been able to suppose the case of its own downfall, might have
--


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JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
discovered the means of renovation in this people. To us also
the whole surface of the earth is well known, and all the nations.
who dwell upon it. Do we know one of all the ancestral tribes
of modern Europe, of whom like hopes may be entertained?
I think that every man who does not give himself up to vis-
ionary hopes and fancies, but desires only honest and searching
inquiry, must answer this question, No! There is then no way
of escape: if ye sink, humanity sinks with you, without hope of
future restoration.
CHARACTERISTICS OF THE AGE
From The Characteristics of the Present Age'
IN
N so far as this age admits the possibility of some of the knowl-
edge which lies beyond the confines of the mere science of
the physical world, although it does so in a somewhat incon-
sequential manner, and only because such things are also present
in experience, and on account of such experience are taught in
the schools, it becomes its highest wisdom to doubt of everything,
and in no matter to take a part either on the one side or the
other. In this neutrality, this immovable impartiality, this incor-
ruptible indifference to all truth, it places its most excellent and
perfect wisdom; and the charge of having a system appears to it
as a disgrace by which the reputation of a man is irretrievably
destroyed. Such scientific cobwebs are only devised in order that
young people of the lower classes, who have no opportunity of
seeing the great world, may by amusing themselves with them
develop their capacities for active life. For this purpose every
opinion and every proposition, affirmative as well as negative, are
equally available; and it is a contemptible blunder to mistake jest
for earnest, and to interest oneself for any side of such a con-
troversy as if it were something of importance.
With respect to the influence which it exerts upon Nature
and its employment of her powers and products, such an age
looks everywhere only to the immediately and materially useful,
-to that, namely, which is serviceable for dwelling, clothing,
and food, to cheapness, convenience, and-where it attains its
highest point-to fashion; but that higher dominion over Nature,
whereby the majestic image of man as a race is stamped upon
its opposing forces,-I mean the dominion of ideas, in which the


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5681
essential nature of. fine arts consists,- this is wholly unknown to
such an age; and even when the occasional appearance of men
of more spiritual nature may remind it of this higher sov-
ereignty, it only laughs at such aspirations as mere visionary
extravagance; and thus art itself, reduced to its most mechanical
forms, is degraded into a new vehicle of fashion, the instrument
of a capricious luxury, alien to the eternities of the ideal world.
With respect to the legislative constitution of States and the gov-
ernment of nations, such an age either-impelled by its hatred to
the old — constructs political fabrics upon the most airy and unsub-
stantial abstractions, and attempts to govern degenerate men by
means of high-sounding phrases without the aid of firm and
inflexible power; or restrained by its idol experience, it hastens,
on every emergency whether of great or small importance,- being
convinced beforehand of its own utter inability to determine
upon a course of action for itself,- to consult the chronicles of
the past, to read there how others have formerly acted under
similar circumstances; and takes from thence the law of its own
conduct.
MORALITY AND RELIGION
From The Characteristics of the Present Age'
L
ET us consider the highest which man can possess in the
absence of religion; I mean, pure morality. He obeys the
law of duty in his breast, absolutely because it is a law
unto him; and he does whatever reveals itself as his duty, abso-
lutely because it is duty. But does he therein understand him-
self? does he know what this duty, to which at every moment
he consecrates his whole existence, really is in itself, and what
is its ultimate aim? So little does he know this, that he declares
loudly it ought to be so, absolutely because it ought; and makes
this very impossibility of comprehending and understanding the
law, this absolute abstraction from the meaning of the law, and
the consequences of the deed,-a characteristic mark of genuine
obedience. In the first place, let not the impudent assertion be
here repeated, that such an obedience, without regard to conse-
quences and without desire for consequences, is in itself impos-
sible, and opposed to human nature. What does the mere
sensuous egoist, who is himself but a half-man, what does he
know of the power of human nature? That it is possible, can
-
X-356


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JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
be known only by its actual accomplishment, in ourselves; and
before its possibility is recognized in this way, and man has
elevated himself in his own person to pure morality, he can have
no entrance whatever into the domain of true religion; for reli-
gion also annexes no visible consequences to individual acts of
duty. So much for the refutation of that portion of error which
arises from the calumnious slander of pure morality.
Again, he who faithfully obeys the law of duty, as such, does
not understand the ultimate aim of this law. It is clear since
he, notwithstanding this ignorance, maintains an unvarying and
unconditional obedience; since, further, the law of duty, although
not understood, speaks forth constantly and invariably within him.
-that this want of comprehension causes no difference in his
actions; but it is another question whether such a want of com-
prehension is consistent with his dignity as a rational being. He
indeed no longer follows the concealed law of the universe, nor
the blind impulses of nature, but a conception; and in doing so
he acts, thus far, a nobler part. But this conception itself is not
clear to him, and with reference to it he himself is blind; his
obedience therefore remains but a blind obedience; and-by a
noble instinct indeed, but still with bandaged eyes-he is led on
to his destiny. But if this position be inconsistent with the
dignity of reason, as it unquestionably is, and if there lie in
reason itself a power, and therefore an impulse, to penetrate to
the meaning of the law of duty, then will this impulse be a
source of constant disturbance and dissatisfaction to him; and if
he still continue to hold by blind obedience, he will have no
other course than to harden himself against this secret desire.
However perfect may be his conduct,- that is, his outward and
apparent existence there is still at the root of his inward being,
discord, obscurity, and bondage, and therefore a want of abso-
lute dignity. Such is the position even of the purely moral man,
when regarded by the light of religion. How displeasing, then,
as seen by this light, must be his condition who has not even
attained to true morality, but as yet only follows the impulses
of nature! He too is guided by the eternal law of the universe;
but to him it neither speaks in his own language, nor honors
him with speech at all, but leads him on with dumb compulsion,
as it does the plant or the animal; employs him like an unreason-
ing thing, without consulting his own will in aught, and in a
region where mere mechanism is the only moving power.
-
――


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Religion discloses to man the significance of the one eternal
law, which as the law of duty guides the free and noble and
as the law of nature governs ignoble instruments. The religious
man comprehends this law, and feels it living within himself, as
the law of the eternal development of the one life. How each
individual moment of our earthly life is comprehended in that
eternal development of the one original Divine life, he cannot
indeed understand, because the Infinite has no limit, and there-
fore can never be embraced by him; but that every one of these
moments does absolutely lie contained within this development of
the one life, he can directly perceive and clearly recognize. What
was the law of duty to the moral man, is to him the inward
progression of the one Life, which directly reveals itself as life;
what is the law of nature to others, is to him the development
of the outward, and apparently inanimate, manifestation of that
one Life.
This one clearly recognized life now becomes throughly estab-
lished in the religious man, reposing upon itself, sufficient for
itself, and blessed in itself; dwelling there with unspeakable love;
with inconceivable rapture bathing his whole being in the original
Fountain of all life, and flowing forth with him, and inseparable
from him, in one eternal stream. What the moral man calls duty
and law - what is this to him? The most spiritual bloom of life;
his element, in which alone he can breathe. He wills and can do
nothing else than this; all else is to him misery and death. To
him the commanding "Thou shalt " comes too late; before it can
command, he has already resolved, and cannot resolve otherwise.
As all external law vanishes before morality, so before religion
the internal law also disappears; the lawgiver in our breast is
silent, for will, desire, love, and blessedness have already super-
seded the law. The moral man often finds it difficult to perform
his duty; the sacrifice of his deepest desires and his most cher-
ished feelings is demanded of him. He performs it notwithstand-
ing; it must be done: he subdues his feelings and stifles his
agony. The question: Wherefore is there need of this suffering,
and whence arises this disunion between the desires which have
been implanted in him, and the commands of a law from which
he cannot escape? -this question he dares not permit himself to
entertain; he must offer himself up with mute and blind obedi-
ence, for only under the condition of such obedience is the offer-
ing genuine. For the religious man this question has been once


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JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE
and forever solved. That which thus strives against our will,
and which cannot be crushed into nothingness, is imperfect life;
which even because it is life struggles for continued existence,
but must cease to be as soon as its place is occupied by a higher
and nobler life. "Those desires which I must sacrifice," thinks
the religious man, "are not my desires, but they are desires
which are directed against me and my higher existence; they are
my foes, which cannot be destroyed too soon. The pain which
they cause is not my pain, but the pain of a nature which has
conspired against me; it is not the agonies of death, but the pangs
of a new birth, which will be glorious beyond all my expecta-
tions. "
ELEVATING POWER OF RELIGION
From The Characteristics of the Present Age'
R
ELIGION elevates him who is devoted to her service above
time as such, above the transient and the perishable, and
puts him in immediate possession of eternity. On the one
original Divine life his eye reposes; there his love is rooted;
whatever meets his view and seems to be beyond this one ori-
ginal life, is not beyond it but within it, and is merely a tem-
porary form of its development according to an absolute law
which likewise lies within itself; he sees all things only in and
through this one original life, and in this life he sees the whole
infinite universe of being. His view is thus always the view of
the eternal, and what he sees, he sees as eternal and in the
eternal: nothing can truly be which is not, even on that very
account, eternal. Every fear of perishing in death, and every
effort to discover an artificial proof of the immortality of the
soul, lies far beneath him. In every moment of his existence he
has immediate possession of the eternal life with all its blessed-
ness; and he needs no argument or inference to prove the truth
of that which he possesses in ever-present feeling and conscious-
ness. There is no more striking proof that the knowledge of the
true religion has hitherto been very rare among men, and that
in particular it is a stranger in the prevailing systems, than this:
that they universally place eternal blessedness beyond the grave,
and never for a moment imagine that whoever will, may here
and at once be blessed.


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SPIRITUAL LIGHT AND TRUTH
From The Characteristics of the Present Age›
As the light of religion arisen within us? Then it not only
He dispels the previous darkness, but it has also had a true
and essential existence within us, even while it could not
dispel this darkness; now it spreads itself forth until it embraces
our whole world, and thus becomes the source of new life. In
the beginning of these lectures we have traced everything great
and noble in man to this,- that he lose sight of his own per-
sonal existence in the life of the race; devote his own life to the
purposes of the race; labor, endure, suffer, and if need be die, as
a sacrifice to the race. In this view it was always deeds, always
that which could manifest itself in outward and visible appear-
ance, to which we looked. In this way it was necessary for us
to open our communication with the age. Now, ennobled by our
progress from this point of view, as I foretold, we use this lan-
guage no longer. The one thing truly noble in man, the highest
form of the one idea which reveals itself within him, is religion:
but religion is nothing external, and never clothes itself in any
outward manifestation, but it completes the inward life of man;
it is spiritual light and truth. The true course of action is now
discovered of itself, for truth cannot act otherwise than according
to truth; but this true course of action is no longer a sacrifice,
no longer demands suffering and endurance, but is itself the
manifestation and effluence of the highest inward blessedness.