No More Learning

a
daintily folded sheet of paper· a letter- fell out.
"Good heavens! how came this here ? »
He seized upon it with eagerness, as a wandering beggar
might seize upon a gold coin which he saw glittering among the
dust on the road. The hot blood surged to the temples from
the sick and sore heart; the hand that held the slight paper
trembled violently.
-
"Now he would not be grumbling at my slow pulse! "
Yesterday morning he had received this letter, but had not
succeeded in composing himself sufficiently to read more than a
few lines. He had thought that perhaps on his return from the
Reichstag he might be in a more settled frame of mind.
he had not been able to find again the letter which had been
laid aside, although he had searched for hours,- first alone, then
with Konski.
-
And now- after all those documents were pushed aside - he
was again, as yesterday, staring hard at the page; and again, as
yesterday, the different lines ran into each other: but he shook
his head angrily, drew his hand over his eyes, and then read:—
-
―
CAPRI, April 24th.
Dearest Uncle Bertram:
If to-day for the first time in our travels I write to you, take this
as a gentle punishment for not having come to our wedding. Take
it no, I must not tell you a falsehood, not even in jest. We-I
mean Kurt and myself-regretted your absence greatly; but were
angry only with those wretched politics, which would not release you
just at a time when, as Kurt explained to me, such important mat-
ters were at stake. Take then, I pray you, my prolonged silence as
a proof of the confusion under which I labor amidst the thousand
new impressions of travel, and through the hurry with which we
have traveled. Kurt has just four weeks' leave, so we had indeed to
make haste: and therefore we steamed direct from Genoa to Naples,
calling at Leghorn only; and yesterday evening we arrived there,
only to leave this morning and to sail to Capri, favored by a lively
tramontane.


## p. 13780 (#614) ##########################################

13780
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
I am writing this my first letter upon the balcony of a house in
Capri.
Dearest Uncle Bertram, do you know such a house, which "stands
amidst orange groves, with sublimest view of the blue infinity of the
ocean,- -a fair white hostelry embowered in roses"?
The words are your own; and do you know when you spoke them
to me? On that first night when I met you in the forest on the
Hirschstein hill. You have probably forgotten it, but I remember it
well; and all through the journey your words were ever before me:
and of all the glories of Italy, I wanted first to see the house which
had since then remained in your fond remembrance, where you "ever
since longed to be back again," and the very name of which was
always to you "a sound of comfort, of promise: Qui si sana! »
And now we are here- we who need no comfort, we to whom
all promise of earthly bliss has been fulfilled; and so drink in the
blue air of heaven, and inhale the sweet fragrance of roses and
oranges.
And you, dearest Uncle Bertram, you dwell-your heart full of
longing for fair Quisisana-yonder in the dull gray North, buried
beneath parliamentary papers, wearied and worn: and, uncle, that
thought is the one gray cloud, the only one in the wide blue vault
of heaven; like the one floating yonder above the rugged rocky front
of Monte Solaro, of which our young landlord, Federigo, foretells that
it will bring us a burrasca. I gave him a good scolding, and told
him I wanted sunshine, plenty of sunshine, and nothing but sunshine;
but I thought of you only, and not of us. And surely for you too,
who are so noble and good, the sun does shine, and you walk in its
light, in the sunny light of great fame! Yes, Uncle Bertram, how-
ever modest you are, you must yet be glad and proud to learn how
your greatness is recognized and admired. I am not speaking of
your friends, for that is a matter of course; but of your political oppo-
nents. In Genoa, at the table d'hôte, we made the acquaintance of
some count from Pomerania,- I have forgotten his name,— with
whom Kurt talked politics a good deal. In the evening the count
brought us a Berlin paper, which contained your last great speech.
"Look here," he said: "there is a man from whom all can learn,—
one of whom each party should be proud. " He had no idea why
Kurt looked so pleased and proud, nor why I burst into tears when
I read your splendid speech.
Only fancy, Uncle Bertram! Signor Federigo has just brought
me, at my request, an old visitors' book—the one for the year 1859,
the year in which I knew you had been here. Many leaves had
been torn out, but the one upon which you had written your name
was preserved; and the date turns out to be that of the very day on
which I was born! Is not this passing strange? Signor Federigo has


## p. 13781 (#615) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13781
of course had to present the precious leaf to me; which he did with
a most graceful bow,-the paper in one hand and the other laid
upon his heart,- and we have resolved to celebrate here the day of
your arrival in Capri and of my arrival in the world. Why indeed
should we travel so swiftly? There can be no fairer scene than this
anywhere. Sunshine, the fragrance of roses, the bright blue sky, the
everlasting sea, my Kurt,- and the recollection of you, whose dear
image every rock, every palm-tree, everything I see, brings as if by
magic before my inner eye! No, no: we surely wil stay here until
my birthday.
Signor Federigo is calling from the veranda that "Madama" has
only five minutes more for writing if the letter is to leave to-day.
Of course it is to leave to-day; but I have the terrible conviction of
having written nothing so far. It cannot now be helped. So next
time I will tell you everything that I could not do to-day about my
parents, who are writing letters full of happiness — papa in particular,
who seems delighted that he has given up his factories, which sur-
prised me greatly; about Agatha's engagement to Herr von Busche,
- which did not surprise me, for I saw it coming during the merry-
makings previous to my wedding; about-
Signor Federigo, you are intolerable!
Dear Kurt, I cannot let you have the remaining space of two
lines, for I absolutely require it myself to send my beloved Uncle
Bertram a most hearty greeting and kiss from Quisisana.
Bertram laid the paper very gently down upon the table;
he was stooping to imprint a kiss upon it, but before his lips
touched the letter he drew himself up abruptly.
"No: she knows not what she does, but you know it, and she
is your neighbor's wife! Shame upon you! Pluck it out,— the
eye that offends you, and the base criminal heart as well! "
He seized the parliamentary papers, then paused.
"Until her birthday! Well, she will assuredly expect a few
kind words, and has a right to expect them; nay, more, she
would interpret my silence wrongly.
yet time? When is her birthday?
date: I think somewhere in the
what day did I arrive there? "
I wonder whether there is
She has not mentioned the
beginning of May. Now, on
He had not long to seek in the old diaries, which he kept
methodically and preserved with care. There was the entry:-
"May 1st. Arrived in Capri, and put up at a house which I
found it hard to climb up to; the name had an irresistible attrac-
tion for me: Quisisana Sit omen in nomine! »
-


## p. 13782 (#616) ##########################################

13782
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
"The first of May!
for a letter, of course;
Konski! "
once.
Why, to-morrow is the first. It is too late
but a telegram will do, if dispatched at
The faithful servant entered.
"My good Konski, I am very sorry, but you must be off to
the telegraph office at once. To-morrow is the birthday of Miss
Erna; - well, well, you know! Of course she must hear from
me. »
room.
He had written a few lines in German; then it occurred to
him that it might be safer to write them in Italian. So he
re-wrote them.
Konski, who had meanwhile got himself ready, entered the
"You will scarcely be back before midnight. And Konski,
we must begin the morrow cheerfully. So put the key of the cel-
lar into your pocket, and bring a bottle of champagne with you
when you return. No remonstrance, otherwise I shall put into
your 'character' to-morrow, 'Dismissed for disobedience'! " . . .
It was nearly three o'clock when the doctor came hurrying
in. Konski would not leave the master, and had dispatched the
porter. Konski took the doctor's hat and stick, and pointed in
silence- he could not speak to the big couch at the bottom of
the room. The doctor took the lamp to the writing-table, and
held it to the pale face. Konski followed and relieved him of
the lamp, whilst the doctor made his investigation.
"He must have been dead an hour or more, he said, looking
up. "Why did you not send sooner? Put the lamp back on the
writing-table, and tell me all you know. "
He had sat down in Bertram's chair. "Take a chair," he
went on, "and tell me all. "
Then Konski told.
---
He had come back at a quarter past twelve from the tele-
graph office; and had found his master writing away busily when
he brought in the bottle of champagne which he had been or-
dered to fetch from the cellar. His master had scolded him for
bringing only one glass, and made him fetch another; for they
must both drink and clink glasses to the health of the young
lady.
"Then," the servant went on, "I sat opposite to him, for the
first time in my life, in that corner, at the small round table; he
in the one chair and I in the other. And he chatted with me,
not like a master with his servant, no: exactly—well, I cannot


## p. 13783 (#617) ##########################################

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
13783
describe it, sir; but you know how good and kind he always was.
I never heard an unkind word from him all these ten years I
have been with him; and if ever he was a bit angry, he always
made up for it afterwards. And to-morrow I was to leave for
Rinstedt to get married; and he had given us our furniture and
all, and fitted up a new shop for us into the bargain. Then we
talked a good deal of Rinstedt, and of the manœuvres last year,
and of Miss Erna that was, and of Italy,-where, as you know,
sir, I was with the master two years ago. Well, I mean, it was
not I who was talking so much, but master; and I could have
gone on listening, listening forever, when he was telling of Capri,
where we did not get that time, and where Mrs. Ringberg is
staying now Miss Erna as was. And then his eyes shone and
sparkled splendidly; but he hardly drank any wine,—just enough
to pledge the young lady's health with, and the rest is in his
glass still. But he made me fill up mine again and again, for I
could stand it, said he, and he could not, he said, and he would
presently finish his work; and there are the papers on the table
in front of you, sir, that he had been looking at. And then, of
a sudden like, he says, 'Konski, I am getting tired: I shall lie
down for half an hour. You just finish the bottle meanwhile,
and call me at half past one sharp. ' It was just striking one
o'clock then.
"So he lay down, and I put the rug over him, sir; and oh-
I'll never forgive myself for it; but all day long I had been run-
ning backward and forward about these things of mine, and then
at last the long walk at night to the telegraph office, and perhaps
the champagne had gone to my head a bit, since I am sure that
I had not sat for five minutes before I was asleep. And when
I woke it was not half past one but half past two; so that I was
regular frightened like. But as the master was a-sleeping calm
and steady, I thought, even as I was standing quite close to him,
that it was a pity to wake him, even though he was lying on
his left side again; which formerly he could not bear at all, and
which you, sir, had forbidden so particularly. I mind of our first
meeting in Rinstedt, sir, but then he did wake up again; — and
now he is dead. "
Konski was crying bitterly. The doctor held out his hand to
him.
"It is no fault of yours. Neither you nor I could have kept
him alive. Now leave me here alone; you may wait in the next
room. "


## p. 13784 (#618) ##########################################

13784
FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN
After Konski had left, the doctor went to the little round
table on which the empty bottle and two glasses were standing,
one empty, one half full. Above the sofa, to the right and left,
were gas brackets, with one lighted jet on either side. He held
the half-full glass to the light and shook it. Bright beads were
rising from the clear liquid.
He put the glass down again, and murmured: -
"He never spoke an untruth! It was in any case solely a
question of time. He drank his death draught six months ago.
The only wonder is that he bore it so long. "
Erna's letter was lying on the table. The doctor read it
almost mechanically.
"Pretty much as I thought! " he muttered. "Such a clever,
and as it would seem, large-hearted girl; and yet - but they are
all alike! "
――
A scrap of paper, with something in Bertram's handwriting,
caught his eye. It was the German telegram.
"All hail-happiness and blessing-to-day and forever for
my darling child in Quisisana. "
The doctor rose, and was now pacing up and down the cham-
ber with folded arms. From the adjoining room, the door of
which was left ajar, he heard suppressed sobs. The faithful
servant's unconcealed grief had well-nigh unchained the bitter
sorrow in his own heart. He brushed the tears from his eyes,
stepped to the couch, and drew the covering back.
He stood there long, lost in marveling contemplation.
The beautiful lofty brow, overshadowed by the soft and abund-
ant hair, the dark color of which was not broken by one silvery
thread; the daintily curved lips, that seemed about to open for
some witty saying,-lips the pallor of which was put to shame
by the whiteness of the teeth, which were just visible; the broad-
arched chest, what wonder that the man of fifty had felt in life
like a youth! -like the youth for whom Death had taken him.
From those pure and pallid features Death had wiped away
even the faintest remembrance of the woe which had broken the
noble heart.
―
Now it was still still for evermore!
He laid his hand upon that silent heart.
"Qui si sana! " he said, very gently.
-
Translated by H. E. Goldschmidt.


## p. 13785 (#619) ##########################################

13785
BENEDICT SPINOZA
(1632-1677)
BY JOSIAH ROYCE
NA Jewish family of Spanish origin dwelling at Amsterdam,
was born in the year 1632, Baruch (in later years known
as Benedict) Spinoza. The family were refugees, who had
come to Holland directly from Portugal to escape persecution. The
Jewish community to which Spinoza's people belonged numbered
several hundred,- all wanderers, for similar reasons, from the Span-
ish peninsula. These people enjoyed a very full liberty as to their
own religious and national affairs, and some of them were wealthy.
Spinoza's parents however were of moderate means; but the boy
received a good training in a Jewish school under the Rabbi Morteira,
head of the synagogue. Later he read not only much Talmudic lit-
erature, but something of the medieval Jewish philosophers. He also
learned the trade of polishing lenses,- an art by which, after his
exile from the Jewish community, he earned his living.
But influences of a very different sort from those of his boy-
hood were to determine his maturer life. Independent thinking, no
doubt, began in his mind even before he had nearly finished his early
studies in Jewish literature; but this very trend towards independ-
ence soon found expression in an interest in life and thought far
removed from those of the orthodox Jewish community. He made a
comparatively close friendship with an Anabaptist, Jarigh Jelles; and
from this intercourse he acquired both a deep respect for Christian-
ity and a very free interpretation of its spirit. He studied Latin, as
well as several modern European languages. In consequence he was
soon able to have a wide acquaintance with contemporary thinking.
He read a good deal of physical science. As recent scholarship has
come to recognize, he also became fairly well versed in the genuine
scholastic philosophy, as it was taught in the text-books then most
current. And finally, he carefully studied the philosophical system of
Descartes, then at the height of its influence. The trains of thought
thus determined were from the first various, and not altogether
harmonious; and it is doubtful whether Spinoza was ever a disciple
either of the system of Descartes, or of any other one doctrine, before
he reached his own final views. But at all events Spinoza thus


## p. 13786 (#620) ##########################################

13786
BENEDICT SPINOZA
became, even as a young man, a thinker as resolute as he was calm,
and as little disposed to remain in the orthodoxy of his childhood as
he was to become an agitator against the faith of others. Although
free from hypocrisy, he was never disposed to disturb the little
ones; and he was as discreet as he was sincere. Yet fortune forced
him to assume ere long, and openly, the heretic's position. Youthful
companions, formerly schoolmates of Spinoza, deliberately drew out
of him in confidence some of his opinions, denounced him, and thus
brought him to trial before the synagogue court. Refusing to recant,
he was expelled from the synagogue, under circumstances involving
much agitation in the Jewish community; even an attempt was made
by an excited Jew upon Spinoza's life.
For Spinoza, excommunication meant a freedom not at all un-
desirable, and a sort of loneliness in no wise intolerable. Fond as
he always remained of the literary and scientific friendship of wiser
men, humane and kindly as he throughout appears in all his relations
with the common folk, Spinoza was of a profoundly independent dis-
position. No trace of romance can be found in the authentic records
of his career. He called no man master. He willingly accepted
favors from no one; and he craved only intellectual sympathy, and
that only where he respected, in a thoroughgoing way, the person
who was the source of this sympathy. A shrewd critic of human
weaknesses, a great foe of illusions, and especially of every form
of passionate illusion, Spinoza lived amongst men for the sake of
whatever is rational in meaning and universal in character in the
world of human intercourse. Exclusive affection, overmastering love,
he felt and cultivated only towards God, viewed as he came to view
God. Individual men were worthy, in his eyes, only in so far as they
lived and taught the life of reason. Social ambitions our philosopher
never shared. Worldly success he viewed with a gentle indifference.
A somewhat proud nature,- cool, kindly, moderately ascetic, prudent;
easily contented as to material goods, patiently strenuous only in the
pursuit of the truth; sure of itself, indifferent to the misunderstand-
ings, and even to the hatred, of others; fond of manifold learning,
yet very carefully selective of the topics and details that were to
be viewed as worth knowing; unaggressive but obstinate, rationalistic
but with a strong coloring of mystical love for eternal things,-
such is the personality that we find revealed in Spinoza's correspond-
ence as well as in his writings. He was a good citizen, but an un-
conventional thinker. His comprehension of human nature, while it
was far wider, by virtue of his native keenness of insight, than his
somewhat narrow experience of life would seem easily to explain,
was still limited by reason of his own well-defined and comparatively
simple private character. He has no comprehension of the romantic


## p. 13787 (#621) ##########################################

BENEDICT SPINOZA
13787
side of life, and sees in human passions only the expression of con-
fused and inadequate ideas as to what each individual imagines to
be advantageous or disadvantageous to the welfare of his own organ-
ism. On the other hand, whenever Spinoza speaks of the world of
absolute truth, he reveals a genuine warmth of religious experience,
which, as already indicated, often allies him to the mystics. In brief,
he is in spirit a Stoic, tinged with something of the ardor of the
mediæval saint, but also tempered by the cautious reasonableness of
a learned and free-thinking Jew. In consequence of these various
motives that determine his thought, it is easy at times to view him
as a somewhat cynical critic of life; and even as if he were one who
prudently veiled an extremely radical, almost materialistic doctrine,
under formulas whose traditional terms, such as God, Mind, Eternity,
and the like, only hinted, through symbols, their meaning. Yet
such a view is not only one-sided, but false. Equally easy, and less
mistaken, it is to view Spinoza, on the basis of other parts of his
work, as the "God-intoxicated" man whom a well-known tradition of
the German Romantic school declared him to be. Yet this too is a
one-sided view. Spinoza's doctrine, so far as it expresses his own
temperament, is a product of three factors: (1) His idea of God,
whose historical origin lies in the tradition common to all mysticism;
(2) his ingenious interpretation of certain empirical facts about the
relation of body and mind,—an interpretation which modified the for-
mer views of the Occasionalists; and (3) his shrewd Jewish common-
sense, in terms of which, although again not without much use of the
work of his predecessors, he estimated the strength and the weakness,
the passions and the powers, of our common human nature.
Enough has been already said to indicate that Spinoza's funda-
mental personal interest in philosophy lay rather more in its bearing
upon life than in its value as a pure theory. Yet Spinoza, for good
reasons, is best known by his metaphysical theories; and has influ-
enced subsequent thinking rather by his doctrine regarding Reality
than by his advice as to the conduct of life. The reason for this
fact is easy to grasp. Stoics and mystics all advise some more or
less ascetic form of retirement from the world. The advice is often
inspiring, but the deepest problem of life for mankind at large is
how to live in the world. Moreover, the Stoics and the mystics have
all alike certain beautiful but somewhat colorless and unvarying tales
to tell-tales either of resignation, or of passionless insight, or of rapt
devotion. Hence originality is possible in these types of doctrine only
as regards the form, the illustration, or the persuasiveness of exposi-
tion, of a teaching that in substance is as old as the Hindoo Upani-
shads. In so far as Spinoza belongs to this very general and ancient
genus of thinkers, he deeply moves his special disciples; but has less


## p. 13788 (#622) ##########################################

13788
BENEDICT SPINOZA
distinctive meaning for the world, since many others would so far do
as well to represent the gospel of the peace that passeth understand-
ing.
On the other hand, what is historically distinctive about Spinoza
as a thinker is not the prime motive which inspired him,— namely
a determination to be at peace with life,- but the theoretical con-
ception of the universe in terms of which he justified his teaching.
Hence while Spinoza the man, the practical philosopher, the mystic,
profoundly attracts, it is Spinoza the thinker whose theories have
been of most importance for later literature. As for that central
interest in the conduct of life, its importance for Spinoza appears in
the titles of several of his books. He wrote an unfinished essay On
the Improvement of the Intellect'; a Theologico-Political Tractate'
(the only confessedly original and independent philosophical treatise
that he published during his life, a book inspired by a distinctly
practical and social aim); an essay 'De Monarchia'; a little work
long lost, and only recently known through a Dutch translation,-
on 'God, Man, and Man's Happiness'; and in addition to these he
wrote his great systematic philosophical exposition, his principal pro-
duction, under the title 'Ethics. ' These titles suggest a writer whose
main purposes are purely practical. Yet the contents of all these
books involve elaborately wrought theories. This gospel of Stoic or
of mystic type must receive a demonstrative defense. The defense
involves, however, both fundamental and supplementary theories
regarding God, Matter, Mind, and Knowledge. It is to these theo-
ries that Spinoza's influence upon the history of thought is due; and
this influence extends to men and to doctrines very remote from
Spinoza's own ethical and religious interests. During his life he also
published an exposition of the Cartesian philosophy, and this book
is indeed a confessed contribution to theoretical thought.
To return for a moment from the man's character and influence
to the story of his life,-there is indeed here little more to tell.
Spinoza removed from Amsterdam to escape persecution; lived first
in the country near by, then near Leyden, and later (1663) passed to
the vicinity of The Hague. In 1670 he again moved into The Hague
itself, and remained there until his death. In 1673 he received a
call from the Elector Palatine to a professorship of philosophy at
the University of Heidelberg, with a guarantee, very liberal in view
of that age, as to his freedom of teaching. Spinoza carefully consid-
ered this flattering proposal; and then, with characteristic prudence
and unworldliness, declined it. Meanwhile he had become a man of
prominence. He corresponded with numerous friends, some of them
persons of great note. His published 'Principles of Cartesian Phi-
losophy' were in many hands; his Theologico-Political Tractate,'
which appeared in 1670, aroused a storm of opposition, by reason of


## p. 13789 (#623) ##########################################

BENEDICT SPINOZA
13789
its rationalistic criticism of Scripture, and because of its admirable
defense of the freedom of thought and of speech; and his posthu-
mously published 'Ethics' had already become known in manuscript
to his more confidential friends, either as a whole or in part In
one or two instances only is Spinoza known to have shown an inter-
est in the political events of that decidedly eventful time. In the
slander and personal abuse to which malevolent critics often exposed
his name he showed almost as little concern.
His health was throughout these years never very bad; but also,
apparently, never robust. Without any previous warning by illness,
so far as known to the family in whose house he lived, he died quite
suddenly, February 21st, 1677. His 'Ethics' first received publication
in his Posthumous Works' in the same year.
The philosophical doctrine of Spinoza belongs to the general class
of what are called monistic theories of the universe. It is more or
less dimly known to common-sense that the universe in which we
live has some sort of deep unity about it. Everything is related, in
some fashion or other, to everything else. For, not to begin with
any closer ties, all material objects appear as in one space; all
events take place in one time; and then if we look closer, we find
far-reaching laws of nature, which, in surprising ways, bring to our
knowledge how both things and events may be dependent in numer-
ous ways upon facts that, as at first viewed, seem indefinitely remote
from them. It is this apparent unity of natural things, obscurely
recognized even in many superstitions of savage tribes, which, as it
becomes more clearly evident, gives rise to the belief that one God
created the world, and now rules all that is therein. But to refer
every fact in the world to the will of the one Creator still leaves
unexplained the precise relation of this God to his world. If he is
one and the world is another, there remains a certain puzzling dual-
ity about one's view of things,- a duality that in the history of
thought has repeatedly given place, in certain minds, to a doctrine
that all reality is one, and that all diversity- or that in particular
the duality of God and the world -is something either secondary, or
subordinate, or unreal. The resulting monism has numerous forms.
Sometimes it has appeared as a pure materialism, which knows
no reality except that of the physical world, and which then reduces
all this reality to some single type. In forms that are historically
more potent, monism has appeared when it has undertaken to be
what is called pantheistic. In this case monism regards the one
Reality, not as the barely apparent physical world of visible or tan-
gible matter, but as some deeper power, principle, substance, or
mind, which in such doctrines is viewed as impersonal, and usually
as unconscious, although its dignity or its spirituality is supposed to


## p. 13790 (#624) ##########################################

BENEDICT SPINOZA
13790
be such that one can call it Divine. One then views God and the
world as forming together, or as lapsing into, the one ultimate Being.
Of this B
«
one calls the physical universe a show," or a "mani-
festation," or a more or less "illusory" hint, or perhaps an "emana-
tion. " Of such pantheistic doctrines the Vedanta philosophy of the
Hindoos is the classic representative; and very possibly, in large
part, the ultimate historical source. In Greek philosophy the Eleatic
school, and later the Stoics, and in one sense the Neo-Platonic doc-
trines, were representatives of pantheism. In unorthodox mediæval
philosophy pantheism is well represented. It was not without its
marked and important influence upon the formulation of even the
orthodox scholastic philosophy. And as was remarked above, Spinoza
drew some of the weapons which he wielded from the armory of
orthodox scholasticism itself.
Spinoza's doctrine is the classical representative of pure pantheism
in modern philosophy. God and the world are, for Spinoza, abso-
lutely one. There is in reality nothing but God,- the Substance, the
Unity with an infinity of attributes, the source whence all springs;
but also the home wherein all things dwell, the "productive" or
"generating" Nature, in whose bosom all the produced or generated
nature that we know or that can exist, lives and moves and has its
being. For all that is produced, or that appears, is only the expres-
sion, the incorporation, the manifestation, of the one Substance; and
has no separate being apart from this Substance itself. Moreover, all
that is produced necessarily results from the nature of the one Sub-
stance. There is no contingency or free-will in the world.
So far Spinoza's doctrine, as thus stated, occupies on the whole
the ground common to all pantheism. The special interest of this
doctrine lies however in three features: first, in Spinoza's method of
giving a proof for his doctrine; secondly, in his devices for explaining
the seeming varieties that appear in our known world; and thirdly,
in the application and use that he makes of his theory when once
it has been expounded. The first of these topics concerns the stu-
dent of philosophy rather than any one else, and must here be left
out of account. Suffice it to say only that Spinoza, in his Ethics,'
imitates the traditional form of Euclid's geometrical treatise,― starts
with definitions, axioms, and the like, and proposes to give a rigid
demonstration of every step of his argument; while as a fact, what
he accomplishes is a very brilliant and skillful analysis, one-sided
but instructive, of certain traditional (and largely scholastic) ideas
about the ultimate nature of real Being. He naturally convinces
no one who does not start with just his chosen group of traditional
notions, emphasized in precisely his own fashion,-which differed,
we need hardly say, from the old scholastic fashion. Yet his study


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BENEDICT SPINOZA
13791
is profoundly instructive; and is lighted up by numerous passing
remarks, comments, and criticisms, of no small interest.
Grant however for the moment the central thesis of Spinoza's pan-
theism: suppose him to have proved that one Substance, called God,
not only produces, but is all things: and then comes the question,
always critical for any monistic view of the world, How can we apply
this ultimate conception to explain the diversities of things as we
see them? Above all, how reconcile with the mysterious unity of the
Divine Substance the largest and most important diversity of the
world as known to us men,- namely, the contrast between matter
and mind? How can matter and mind be, and be so diverse as they
seem, and yet manifest equally the nature of the one Real Being,
God? and what are the true relations of matter and mind?
-
Spinoza's answer to this question has been of great historical
importance. It has influenced much of the most recent speculation,
and has played a part in the most modern discussions of psychology,
of evolution, and in some cases of general physical science. Spi-
noza here asserted that the one Substance, being essentially and in all
respects infinite, has to reveal the wealth of its nature in infinitely
numerous attributes, or fundamental fashions of showing what it is
and what it can express.
Each of these attributes embodies, in its
own independent way, and "after its own kind," the true nature of
the Substance, and the whole true nature thereof, precisely in so far
as the nature of each attribute permits. Of these infinitely numer-
ous attributes, two are known to man. They are extension, or the
attribute expressed in the whole world of material facts, and thought,
or the attribute expressed in the whole world of mental facts.
Each of these attributes of the Substance reveals in its own way, or
after its own kind, and quite independently of the other attribute,
the whole nature of the Substance. Each is infinite after its own
kind, just as the Substance, which possesses the entire Reality and
expresses itself in the attributes, is absolutely infinite. In other words,
to adopt Taine's famous comparison, matter and mind are like two
expressions, in two precisely parallel texts, of the same ultimate
meaning; or together they form, as it were, a bilingual book, with
text and interlinear translation. They are precisely parallel; but as
to the succession of the single words in each, they are mutually inde-
pendent. Each in its own way tells the whole truth as to what the
Substance is, in so far as the Substance can be viewed now under
this and now under that aspect, i. e. , now as Substance extended,
and now as Substance thinking. Each attribute is text, each trans-
lation, yet neither interferes with the other. Accordingly, wherever
there is matter there is mind, and vice versa. That this last fact es-
capes us ordinarily is due to the limitation of our natures. Our minds


## p. 13792 (#626) ##########################################

BENEDICT SPINOZA
13792
are part of the Divine Thought, just as our bodies are part of the
Divine Extension. But we know directly only so much of mind as
corresponds to our own bodily processes, viewed in their linkage and
in their unity. Hence other bodies seem to us inanimate. As a fact,
matter and mind are parallel and coextensive throughout the uni-
verse. On the other hand, although perfectly correspondent, insepa-
rable, and parallel (for each is in its own way an expression of
precisely the same Divine truth which the other expresses), matter
and mind, close companions as they are, never causally affect each
other; but each is determined solely by its own inner laws. Ideas
cause ideas; bodies move bodies: but bodies never produce mental
states, nor do thoughts issue in physical movements, even in case of
our own bodies and minds. The appearance which makes this seem
true, when our mind and bodies appear to interact, is due to the prin-
ciple that "The order and connection of ideas is the same as the
order and connection of things," owing precisely to the parallelism of
the attributes. Hence just when a given physical state takes place
in our bodies, the parallel idea, by virtue of the laws of mind, is sure
to arise in our consciousness.
This theory of the independence and parallelism of mind and body
has played, as we have said, a great part in more recent discussion;
and survives, as the doctrine of the "psycho-physical parallelism," in
modern scientific discussions which are far removed in many respects
from Spinoza's metaphysics.
The practical consequences of the system of Spinoza are worked
out by the author in the later divisions of his 'Ethics,' in a manner
which has become classic; although, as pointed out above, Spinoza's
distinctive historical influence is due rather to his general theories.
But as one way of telling the ancient tale of the wise man's life in
God, the practical interpretation which Spinoza gives to monism may
well stand beside the other classics of Stoical and of mystical lore.
Since there is naught but God, and since in God there is fulfilled, in
an impersonal but none the less perfect way, all that our thought
aims to know, and all that even our blind passions mistakenly strive
to attain, the wise man, according to Spinoza, enjoys an absolute
" acquiescence" in whatever the infinite wisdom produces. God is
absolute, and can lack nothing; hence apparent evil is a merely nega-
tive "deprivation » of good, a deprivation itself due only to our in-
adequate view,-i. e. , only to error. Evil is, then, nothing positive.
And the wise man, seeing all things in God, loves God with a love
that is identical with God's love of his own perfection. For God, if
not conscious in our fleeting way, has still the fulfillment of all that
consciousness means, in the very perfection of his thinking attribute;
so that our thoughts are God's very thoughts precisely in so far as


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BENEDICT SPINOZA
13793
our thoughts are rational, complete, adequate, true. In other words,
in so far as we are wise, we directly enter into the perfection of God
himself.
Since thoughts of a very similar type have received a frequent
expression in writings reputed orthodox, it is not surprising that
many who easily fear the name pantheism have still been ready to
reverence, in Spinoza, the spirit, profound if inadequate, which in
such fashion embodies, in our philosopher's work, one of the most
universal motives of piety.
Josiah Royce.
THE IMPROVEMENT OF THE UNDERSTANDING
FTER had taught me that all the usual surround-
Aings of social life are vain and futile,-seeing that none of
the objects of my fears contained in themselves anything
either good or bad, except in so far as the mind is affected by
them, I finally resolved to inquire whether there might be
some real good having power to communicate itself, which would
affect the mind singly, to the exclusion of all else; whether, in
fact, there might be anything of which the discovery and attain-
ment would enable me to enjoy continuous, supreme, and unending
happiness. I say "I finally resolved"; for at first sight it seemed
unwise willingly to lose hold on what was sure for the sake of
something then uncertain. I could see the benefits which are
acquired through fame and riches, and that I should be obliged
to abandon the quest of such objects if I seriously devoted my-
self to the search for something different and new. I perceived
that if true happiness chanced to be placed in the former, I
should necessarily miss it; while if, on the other hand, it were
not so placed, and I gave them my whole attention, I should
equally fail.
I therefore debated whether it would not be possible to arrive
at the new principle, or at any rate at a certainty concerning its
existence, without changing the conduct and usual plan of my
life; with this end in view I made many efforts, but in vain.
For the ordinary surroundings of life which are esteemed by men
(as their actions testify) to be the highest good, may be classed
XXIII-863
―


## p. 13794 (#628) ##########################################

13794
BENEDICT SPINOZA
under the three heads - Riches, Fame, and the Pleasures of
Sense: with these three the mind is so absorbed that it has little
power to reflect on any different good. By sensual pleasure the
mind is enthralled to the extent of quiescence, as if the supreme
good were actually attained, so that it is quite incapable of think-
ing of any other object: when such pleasure has been gratified it
is followed by extreme melancholy, whereby the mind, though
not enthralled, is disturbed and dulled.
The pursuit of honors and riches is likewise very absorbing,
especially if such objects be sought simply for their own sake,
inasmuch as they are then supposed to constitute the highest
good. In the case of fame the mind is still more absorbed; for
fame is conceived as always good for its own sake, and as the
ultimate end to which all actions are directed. Further, the
attainment of riches and fame is not followed, as in the case of
sensual pleasures, by repentance: but the more we acquire the
greater is our delight, and consequently the more are we incited
to increase both the one and the other; on the other hand, if
our hopes happen to be frustrated, we are plunged into the deep-
est sadness. Fame has the further drawback that it compels its
votaries to order their lives according to the opinions of their
fellow-men; shunning what they usually shun, and seeking what
they usually seek.
When I saw that all these ordinary objects of desire would
be obstacles in the way of a search for something different and
new, nay, that they were so opposed thereto, that either they or
it would have to be abandoned, I was forced to inquire which
would prove the most useful to me; for as I say, I seemed to be
willingly losing hold on a sure good for the sake of something
uncertain. However, after I had reflected on the matter, I came
in the first place to the conclusion that by abandoning the ordi-
nary objects of pursuit, and betaking myself to a new quest, I
should be leaving a good, uncertain by reason of its own nature,
as may be gathered from what has been said,- for the sake
of a good not uncertain (for I sought for a fixed good) save only
in the possibility of its attainment.
-
Further reflection convinced me that if I could really get
to the root of the matter, I should be leaving certain evils for a
certain good. I thus perceived that I was in a state of great
peril, and I compelled myself to seek with all my strength for a
remedy, however uncertain it might be; as a sick man struggling


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BENEDICT SPINOZA
13795
with a deadly disease, when he sees that death will surely be
upon him unless a remedy be found, is compelled to seek such
a remedy with all his strength, inasmuch as his whole hope lies
therein. All the objects pursued by the multitude not only
bring no remedy that tends to preserve our being, but even act
as hindrances; causing the death not seldom of those who possess
them, and always of those who are possessed by them. There
are many examples of men who have suffered persecution even
to death for the sake of their riches, and of men who in pur-
suit of wealth have exposed themselves to so many dangers
that they have paid away their life as a penalty for their folly.
Examples are no less numerous of men who have endured
the utmost wretchedness for the sake of gaining or preserving
their reputation. Lastly, there are innumerable cases of men
who have hastened their death through over-indulgence in sens-
ual pleasure.
All these evils seem to have arisen from the fact
that happiness or unhappiness is made wholly to depend on the
quality of the object which we love. When a thing is not loved,
no quarrels will arise concerning it, no sadness will be felt if it
perishes, no envy if it is possessed by another, no fear, no hatred,
-in short, no disturbances of the mind. All these arise from
the love of what is perishable, such as the objects already men-
tioned. But love towards a thing eternal and infinite feeds the
mind wholly with joy, and is itself unmingled with any sadness;
wherefore it is greatly to be desired, and sought for with all our
strength. Yet it was not at random that I used the words, "If
I could go to the root of the matter;" for though what I have
urged was perfectly clear to my mind, I could not forthwith lay
aside all love of riches, sensual enjoyment, and fame. One thing
was evident; namely, that while my mind was employed with
these thoughts it turned away from its former objects of desire,
and seriously considered the search for a new principle: this
state of things was a great comfort to me, for I perceived that
the evils were not such as to resist all remedies. Although these
intervals were at first rare, and of very short duration, yet after-.
wards, as the true good became more and more discernible
to me, they became more frequent and more lasting; especially
after I had recognized that the acquisition of wealth, sensual
pleasure, or fame, is only a hindrance, so long as they are sought
as ends, not as means: if they be sought as means, they will be
under restraint; and far from being hindrances, will further not


## p. 13796 (#630) ##########################################

13796
BENEDICT SPINOZA
a little the end for which they are sought, as I will show in due
time.
I will here only briefly state what I mean by true good, and
also what is the nature of the highest good. In order that this
may be rightly understood, we must bear in mind that the terms.
good and evil are only applied relatively; so that the same thing
may be called both good and bad, according to the relations in
view, in the same way as it may be called perfect or imperfect.
Nothing regarded in its own nature can be called perfect or
imperfect; especially when we are aware that all things which
come to pass, come to pass according to the eternal order and
fixed laws of nature. However, human weakness cannot attain to
this order of its own thoughts; but meanwhile man conceives a
human character much more stable than his own, and sees that
there is no reason why he should not himself acquire such a char-
acter. Thus he is led to seek for means which will bring him
to this pitch of perfection, and calls everything which will serve
as such means a true good. The chief good is that he should
arrive, together with other individuals if possible, at the posses-
sion of the aforesaid character. What that character is we shall
show in due time,—namely, that it is the knowledge of the union
existing between the mind and the whole of nature. This, then,
is the end for which I strive: to attain to such a character
myself, and to endeavor that many should attain to it with me.
In other words, it is part of my happiness to lend a helping
hand that many others may understand even as I do, that their
understanding and desire may entirely agree with my own. In
order to bring this about, it is necessary to understand as much
of nature as will enable us to attain to the aforesaid character;
and also to form a social order such as is most conducive to
the attainment of this character by the greatest number, with
the least difficulty and danger. We must seek the assistance of
moral philosophy and the theory of education; further, as health
is no insignificant means for attaining our end, we must also in-
clude the whole science of medicine; and as many difficult things
are by contrivance rendered easy, and we can in this way gain
much time and convenience, the science of mechanics must in
no way be despised. But before all things, a means must be
devised for improving the understanding and purifying it, as far
as may be, at the outset, so that it may apprehend things without
error, and in the best possible way.


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BENEDICT SPINOZA
13797
Thus it is apparent to every one that I wish to direct all
sciences to one end and aim, so that we may attain to the
supreme human perfection which we have named; and therefore,
whatsoever in the sciences does not serve to promote one object
will have to be rejected as useless. To sum up the matter in
a word, all our actions and thoughts must be directed to this
one end. Yet as it is necessary that while we are endeavoring
to attain our purpose, and bring the understanding into the right
path, we should carry on our life, we are compelled first of all
to lay down certain rules of life as provisionally good,-to wit,
the following:-
I. To speak in a manner intelligible to the multitude, and
to comply with every general custom that does not hinder the
attainment of our purpose. For we can gain from the multi-
tude no small advantages, provided that we strive to accommodate
ourselves to its understanding as far as possible; moreover, we
shall in this way gain a friendly audience for the reception of
the truth.
II. To indulge ourselves with pleasures only in so far as they
are necessary for preserving health.
III. Lastly, to endeavor to obtain only sufficient money or
other commodities to enable us to preserve our life and health,
and to follow such general customs as are consistent with our
purpose.
MENTAL FREEDOM
AT
LENGTH I pass to the remaining portion of my Ethics,'
which is concerned with the way leading to freedom. I
shall therefore treat therein of the power of the reason,
showing how far the reason can control the emotions, and what
is the nature of mental freedom or blessedness: we shall then be
able to see how much more powerful the wise man is than the
ignorant. It is no part of my design to point out the method
and means whereby the understanding may be perfected, nor to
show the skill whereby the body may be so tended as to be capa-
ble of the due performance of its functions. The latter question
lies in the province of medicine, the former in the province of
logic. Here, therefore, I repeat, I shall treat only of the power
of the mind, or of reason; and I shall mainly show the extent


## p. 13798 (#632) ##########################################

13798
BENEDICT SPINOZA
and nature of its dominion over the emotions, for their control
and moderation.
That we do not possess absolute dominion over them, I have
already shown. Yet the Stoics have thought that the emotions
depended absolutely on our will, and that we could absolutely
govern them.
But these philosophers were compelled-by the
protest of experience, not from their own principles-to confess
that no slight practice and zeal is needed to control and moder-
ate them; and this some one endeavored to illustrate by the
example (if I remember rightly) of two dogs,- the one a house-
dog and the other a hunting-dog. For by long training it could
be brought about that the house-dog should become accustomed
to hunt, and the hunting-dog to cease from running after hares.
To this opinion Descartes not a little inclines. For he main-
tained that the soul or mind is specially united to a particular
part of the brain,—namely, to that part called the pineal gland,
- by the aid of which the mind is enabled to feel all the move-
ments which are set going in the body, and also external objects;
and which the mind by a simple act of volition can put in
motion in various ways. He asserted that this gland is so sus-
pended in the midst of the brain that it could be moved by the
slightest motion of the animal spirits; further, that this gland is
suspended in the midst of the brain in as many different man-
ners as the animal spirits can impinge thereon; and again, that
as many different marks are impressed on the said gland as
there are different external objects which impel the animal spir-
its towards it: whence it follows, that if the will of the soul
suspends the gland in a position wherein it has already been
suspended once before by the animal spirits driven in one way
or another, the gland in its turn reacts on the said spirits, driv-
ing and determining them to the condition wherein they were
when repulsed before by a similar position of the gland.
He further asserted that every act of mental volition is united
in nature to a certain given motion of the gland. For instance,
whenever any one desires to look at a remote object, the act of
volition causes the pupil of the eye to dilate; whereas if the per-
son in question had only thought of the dilation of the pupil,
the mere wish to dilate it would not have brought about the
result, inasmuch as the motion of the gland, which serves to
impel the animal spirits towards the optic nerve in a way which
would dilate or contract the pupil, is not associated in nature


## p. 13799 (#633) ##########################################

BENEDICT SPINOZA
13799
with the wish to dilate or contract the pupil, but with the wish
to look at remote or very near objects.
Lastly, he maintained that although every motion of the afore-
said gland seems to have been united by nature to one particular
thought, out of the whole number of our thoughts, from the very
beginning of our life, yet it can nevertheless become through.
habituation associated with other thoughts: this he endeavors
to prove in the 'Passions de l'Âme. ' He thence concludes that
there is no soul so weak that it cannot, under proper direction,
acquire absolute power over its passions. For passions as defined.
by him are "perceptions, or feelings, or disturbances of the soul,
which are referred to the soul as species, and which (mark the
expression) are produced, preserved, and strengthened, through
some movement of the spirits. " But seeing that we can join
any motion of the gland, or consequently of the spirits, to any
volition, the determination of the will depends entirely on our
own powers; if therefore we determine our will with sure and
firm decisions in the direction to which we wish our actions to
tend, and associate the motions of the passions which we wish
to acquire with the said decisions, we shall acquire an absolute
dominion over our passions.
Such is the doctrine of this illustrious philosopher (in so far
as I gather it from his own words): it is one, which, had it been
less ingenious, I could hardly believe to have proceeded from so
great a man. Indeed, I am lost in wonder that a philosopher
who had stoutly asserted that he would draw no conclusions
which do not follow from self-evident premises, and would affirm
nothing which he did not clearly and distinctly perceive, and who
had so often taken to task the scholastics for wishing to explain
obscurities through occult qualities, could maintain a hypothesis.
beside which occult qualities are commonplace. What does he
understand, I ask, by the union of the mind and the body?
What clear and distinct conception has he got of thought in
most intimate union with a certain particle of extended matter?
Truly I should like him to explain this union through its proxi-
mate cause. But he had so distinct a conception of mind being.
distinct from body, that he could not assign any particular cause
of the union between the two, or of the mind itself, but was
obliged to have recourse to the cause of the whole universe,—
that is, to God.


## p. 13800 (#634) ##########################################

13800
BENEDICT SPINOZA
Further, I should much like to know what degree of motion
the mind can impart to this pineal gland, and with what force
can it hold it suspended? For I am in ignorance whether this
gland can be agitated more slowly or more quickly by the mind.
than by the animal spirits, and whether the motions of the pas-
sions, which we have closely united with firm decisions, cannot
be again disjoined therefrom by physical causes; in which case
it would follow that although the mind firmly intended to face
a given danger, and had united to this decision the motions of
boldness, yet at the sight of the danger the gland might become
suspended in a way which would preclude the mind thinking of
anything except running away.
In truth, as there is no common standard of volition and
motion, so is there no comparison possible between the powers
of the mind and the power or strength of the body; consequently
the strength of one cannot in any wise be determined by the
strength of the other. We may also add that there is no gland
discoverable in the midst of the brain, so placed that it can thus
easily be set in motion in so many ways; and also that all the
nerves are not prolonged so far as the cavities of the brain.
Lastly, I omit all the assertions which he makes concerning the
will and its freedom, inasmuch as I have abundantly proved that
his premises are false. Therefore since the power of the mind,
as I have shown above, is defined by the understanding only, we
shall determine solely by the knowledge of the mind the reme-
dies against the emotions, which I believe all have had experi-
ence of, but do not accurately observe or distinctly see; and from
the same basis we shall deduce all those conclusions which have
regard to the mind's blessedness.
SUPERSTITION AND FEAR
M
EN would never be superstitious if they could govern all
their circumstances by set rules, or if they were always
favored by fortune; but being frequently driven into
straits where rules are useless, and being often kept fluctuating
pitiably between hope and fear by the uncertainty of fortune's
greedily coveted favors, they are consequently, for the most part,
very prone to credulity. The human mind is readily swerved.


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BENEDICT SPINOZA
13801
this way or that in times of doubt, especially when hope and
fear are struggling for the mastery; though usually it is boast-
ful, over-confident, and vain.
This as a general fact I suppose every one knows, though
few, I believe, know their own nature: no one can have lived in
the world without observing that most people, when in pros-
perity, are so over-brimming with wisdom (however inexperienced
they may be) that they take every offer of advice as a personal
insult; whereas in adversity they know not where to turn, but
beg and pray for counsel from every passer-by. No plan is then
too futile, too absurd, or too fatuous for their adoption; the most
frivolous causes will raise them to hope, or plunge them into
despair; if anything happens during their fright which reminds
them of some past good or ill, they think it portends a happy or
unhappy issue, and therefore (though it may have proved abort-
ive a hundred times before) style it a lucky or unlucky omen.
Anything which excites their astonishment they believe to be a
portent signifying the anger of the gods or of the Supreme
Being; and mistaking superstition for religion, account it impi-
ous not to avert the evil with prayer and sacrifice. Signs and
wonders of this sort they conjure up perpetually, till one might
think Nature as mad as themselves, they interpret her so fantas-
tically.
Thus it is brought prominently before us that superstition's
chief victims are those persons who greedily covet temporal ad-
vantages; they it is, who (especially when they are in danger,
and cannot help themselves) are wont with prayers and woman-
ish tears to implore help from God: upbraiding Reason as blind,
because she cannot show a sure path to the shadows they pursue,
and rejecting human wisdom as vain; but believing the phan-
toms of imagination, dreams, and other childish absurdities, to
be the very oracles of Heaven. As though God had turned away
from the wise, and written his decrees, not in the mind of man
but in the entrails of beasts, or left them to be proclaimed by
the inspiration and instinct of fools, madmen, and birds. Such is
the unreason to which terror can drive mankind!
Superstition then is engendered, preserved, and fostered, by
fear.