Independent
of all vicissitude and change, his pages speak in every age
to all men who are able to realize his thought; and thus
continue their inspiring, elevating, and ennobling work, even
to the end of time.
of all vicissitude and change, his pages speak in every age
to all men who are able to realize his thought; and thus
continue their inspiring, elevating, and ennobling work, even
to the end of time.
Fichte - Nature of the Scholar
He who is not conscious of a living and clear com-
prehension of the Idea, and is at the same time an upright
and honourable man, will forbear to assume the vocation of
the Academic Teacher. He will thus show his respect for
that vocation the nature of which he must have learned in
the course of his studies.
The vocation of the Academic Teacher requires him to
communicate the Idea,--not as the Author does, abstractly,
and in the one perfect conception under which it presents
itself to his own mind,--but he must mould, express, and
clothe it in an infinite variety of forms, so that he may bring
it home, under some one or other of those adventitious ves-
tures, to those by whose present state of culture he must be
guided in the exercise of his calling. He must thus possess
the Idea, not as a mere abstraction, but in great vitality,
power, and flexibility. Above all, he must possess that
which we have already described as the creative or artist-
talent of the Scholar; namely, a perfect readiness and capa-
city to recognise, under any circumstances, the first germ of
the Idea as it begins to unfold itself;--in each individual
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER.
219
case to discover the most suitable means of aiding it to the
attainment of perfect life, and in all cases to associate it
with a kindred form. The Author may possess only one
form for his Idea,--if that form be perfect, he has fulfilled
his duty;--the Academic Teacher must possess an infinite
multiplicity of forms,--it is not his business to discover the
most perfect form, but to find that which is most suitable to
particular circumstances. A good Academic Teacher must
be capable of being also an excellent Author if he choose;
but it does not follow that, on the other hand, a good
Author should also be a good Academic Teacher. Yet this
skill and versatility exist in different degrees, and he is not
to be entirely excluded from the Academic calling who does
not possess them in the highest degree.
From this skill which is required of the Academic
Teacher in the embodiment of the Idea, there arises another
demand upon him,--this, namely, that his mode of commu-
nication shall be always new, and bear upon it the mark of
fresh and present life. Only living and present thought can
enter other minds and quicken other thought: a dead, worn-
out form, let it have been ever so living at a former time,
must be called back to life by the power of others as well as
its own;--the Author has a right to require this from his
readers, but the Academic Teacher, who in this matter is
not an Author, has no right to demand it.
The upright and conscientious man, as surely as he ac-
cepts this calling, and so long as he continues to practise it,
gives himself up entirely to its fulfilment; willing, thinking,
desiring nothing else than to be that which, according to
his own conviction, he ought to be; and thus he shows
openly his reverence for Knowledge.
For Knowledge, I say, as such, and because it is Know-
ledge,--for Knowledge in the abstract,--as the Divine Idea
one and homogeneous through all the different forms and
modes in which it is revealed. It is quite possible that a
Scholar who has devoted his life to a particular department
of knowledge may entertain a prepossession in favour of
that department and be apt to esteem it above all others,--
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? 220 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
either because he has accustomed himself to it, or because
he thinks that his more distinguished calling may reflect
some of its lustre upon himself. Whatever ability such an
one may bring to the cultivation of his own department, he
will never present to the unprejudiced spectator the picture
of one who reveres Knowledge for its own sake, and will
never persuade the acute observer that he does so, whilst
he shows less respect for other departments of knowledge
which are as essential as his own. It will only thereby be-
come evident that he has never conceived of Knowledge as
one perfect whole,--that he does not think of his own de-
partment as a portion of this whole,--hence that he does not
love his own department as Knowledge, but only as a handi-
craft; which love for a handicraft may indeed be praise-
worthy enough elsewhere, but in the domain of Knowledge
excludes him entirely from any right to the name of a Scho-
lar. He who, although labouring in a limited province, has
become a partaker of Knowledge as a whole, and accepts his
own calling as but a part thereof, may perhaps have little
even historical acquaintance with other provinces, but he
has a general conception of the nature of all others, and will
constantly exhibit an equal reverence for all.
Let this love of his vocation and of Knowledge be the
sole guide of his life, visible to all men;--let him be moved
by nothing else; regarding no personal interest either of
himself or of others. Here as elsewhere, I shall say nothing
of the common and vulgar desires which may not enter the
circle of him who has approached and handled the sacred
things of Knowledge. I shall not suppose it possible, for
instance, that a Priest of Knowledge, who seeks to conse-
crate other Priests to her service, should refrain from saying
to them something which they do not hear willingly, in
order that they may continue to hear him willingly. Yet I
may perhaps be permitted to mention one error not quite
so ignoble and vulgar, and to hold up its opposite to your
view. In every word uttered by the Academic Teacher in
the exercise of his calling, let it be Knowledge that speaks,
--let it be his longings to extend her dominions,--let it be
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER.
221
his deep love for his hearers, not as his hearers, but as the
future ministers of Knowledge:--Knowledge, and these liv-
ing desires to extend her dominion, let these speak, not the
Teacher. An effort to speak for the mere sake of speaking,
--to speak finely for the sake of fine speaking, and that
others may know of it,--the disease of word-making,--
sounding words, in which nevertheless no idea is audible,--
is consistent with no man's dignity, and least of all with
that of the Academic Teacher, who represents the dignity of
Knowledge to future generations.
Let him resign himself entirely to this love of his voca-
tion and of Knowledge. The peculiar nature of his occupa-
tion consists in this,--that Knowledge, and especially that
side of Knowledge from which he conceives of the whole,
shall continually burst forth from him in new and fairer
forms. Let this fresh spiritual youth never grow old within
him; let no form become fixed and rigid; let each sunrise
bring him new love for his vocation, new joy in its exercise,
and wider views of its significance. The Divine Idea is
fixed and determined in his mind,--all its individual parts
are likewise determined. The particular form of its expres-
sion for a particular Age may also be determined; but the
living movement of its communication is infinite as the
growth of the Human Race. Let no one continue in this
calling in whom the mode of this communication, although
it may have been the most perfect of his Age, begins to grow
old and formal,--none in whom the fountain of youth does
not still flow on with unimpaired vigour. Let him faithfully
trust himself to its current so long as it will bear him for-
ward: when it leaves him, then let him be content to retire
from this ever-shifting scene of onward being;--let him
separate the dead from the living.
It was a necessary part of the plan which I marked out
to you, to treat of the dignity of the Academic Teacher. I
hope that in doing so I have exhibited the same strictness
with which I have spoken of the other subjects which have
fallen under our notice,--without allowing myself to be se-
duced into any lenity towards it by the consideration that I
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? 222
THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
myself practise the calling of which I have spoken, and that
I have practised it even in speaking of it. Whence I have
derived this firmness,--on what feeling it rests,--you may
inquire at another time; it is sufficient for you now to un-
derstand clearly, that Truth, in every possible application
of it, still remains true.
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? 228
LECTURE X.
OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR.
To complete our survey of the vocation of the Scholar, we
have to-day only to consider that department of it which
belongs to the Author.
I have hitherto contented myself with clearly setting
forth the True Idea of the special subjects of our inquiry,
without turning aside to cast a single glance at the actual
state of things in the present age. It is almost impossible
to proceed in this way with the subject which I am to dis-
cuss to-day. The Idea of the Author is almost unknown in
our age, and something most unworthy usurps its name.
This is the peculiar disgrace of the age,-- the true source of
all its other scientific evils. The inglorious has become
glorious, and is encouraged, honoured, and rewarded.
According to the almost universally received opinion, it is
a merit and an honour for a man to have printed something
merely because he has printed it, and without any regard to
what it is which he has printed, and what may be its result.
They, too, lay claim to the highest rank in the republic of
letters who announce the fact that somebody has printed
something and what that something is; or, as the phrase
goes, who "review" the works of others. It is almost inex-
plicable how such an absurd opinion could have arisen and
taken root when we consider the subject in its true light.
Thus stands the matter: In the latter half of the past
century Reading took the place of some other amusements
which had gone out of fashion. This new luxury demanded,
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? 224
THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
from time to time, new fancy goods; for it is of course quite
impossible that one should read over again what one has
read already, or those things which our forefathers have read
before us; just as it would be altogether unbecoming to
appear frequently in fashionable society in the same cos-
tume, or to dress according to the notions of one's grand-
father. The new want gave birth to a new trade, striving
to nourish and enrich itself by purveying the wares now in
demand,--namely, Bookselling. The success of those who
first undertook this trade encouraged others to engage in it,
until, in our own days, it has come to this, that this mode
of obtaining a livelihood is greatly overstocked and the
quantity of these goods produced is much too large in pro-
portion to the consumers. The book-merchant, like the
dealer in any other commodity, orders his goods from the
manufacturer, solely with the view of bringing them to the
market ;. --at times also he buys uncommissioned goods
which have been manufactured only on speculation; and
the Author who writes for the sake of writing is this manu-
facturer. It is impossible to conceive why the book-manu-
facturer should take predecence of any other manufacturer;
he ought rather to feel that he is far inferior to any other
manufacturer, inasmuch as the luxury to which he ministers
is more pernicious than any other. That he find a mer-
chant for his wares may indeed be useful and profitable to
him, but how it should be an honour is not readily discover-
able. Of course, on the judgment of the publisher, which is
only a judgment on the saleableness or unsaleableness of
the goods, no value can be set.
Amid this bustle and pressure of the literary trade, a
happy thought struck some one;--this, namely, out of all
the books which were printed, to make one periodical book,
so that the reader of this book might be spared the trouble
of reading any other. It was fortunate that this last pur-
pose was not completely successful, and that everybody did
not take to reading this book exclusively, since then no
others would have been purchased, and consequently no
others printed; so that this book too, being constantly de-
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR
225
pendent upon other books for the possibility of its own exis-
tence, must likewise have remained unprinted.
He who undertook such a work, which is commonly
called a Literary Journal, Literary Gazette, &c. &c. , had the
advantage of seeing his work increase by the charitable
contributions of many anonymous individuals, and of thus
earning honour and profit by the labour of others. To veil
his own poverty of ideas, he pretended to pass judgment on
the authors whom he quoted,--a shallow pretence to the
thinker who looks below the surface. For either the book
is--as most books are at present--a bad book, printed only
that there might be one more book in the world; and in
this case it ought never to have been written, and is a nul-
lity, and consequently the judgment upon it is a nullity
also;--or, the book is a true Literary Work, such as we
shall presently describe; and then it is the result of a whole
powerful life devoted to Art or Science, and so would re-
quire another whole life as powerful as the first to be em-
ployed in its judgment. On such a work it is not alto-
gether possible to pass a final judgment in a couple of
sheets, within three or six months after its appearance.
How can there be any honour in contributing to such col-
lections? True genius, on the contrary, will rather employ
itself on a connected work, originated and planned out by
itself, than allow the current of its thoughts to be interrupt-
ed by every accident of the day until that interruption is
again broken by some new occurrence. The disposition con-
tinually to watch the thoughts of others, and on these
thoughts, please God, to hang our own attempts at thinking,
--is a certain sign of immaturity, and of a weak and depen-
dent mind. Or does the honour consist in this,--that the
conductors of such works should consider us capable of fill-
ing the office of judge and actually make it over to us? In
reality their opinion goes no deeper than that of a common
unlettered printer,--of the saleableness or unsaleableness of
the goods, and of the outward reputation which may there-
by accrue to their critical establishment
.
I am aware that what I have now said may seem very
oa
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? 226
THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
paradoxical. All of us who are connected in any way with
Knowledge, which in this connexion may be termed Litera-
ture, grow up in the notion that literary industry is a bless-
ing,--an advantage,--an honourable distinction of our culti-
vated and philosophical age; and but few have power to see
through its supposed advantages and resolve them into
their essential nothingness. The only apparent reason
which can be adduced in defence of such perverted industry
is, in my opinion, this:--that thereby an extensive literary
public is kept alive, roused to attention, and, as it were,
held together; so that, should anything of real value and
importance be brought before it, this public shall be found
already existing, and not have to be first called together.
But I answer, that, in the first place, the means appear
much too extensive for the end contemplated,--it seems too
great a sacrifice that many generations should spend their
time upon nothing, in order that some future generation
may be enabled to occupy itself with something;--and
further, it is by no means true that a public is only kept
alive by this perverse activity; it is at the same time per-
verted, vitiated, and ruined for the appreciation of anything
truly valuable. Much that is excellent has made its appear-
ance in our age,--I shall instance only the Kantian Philo-
sophy,--but this very activity of the literary market has
destroyed, perverted, and degraded it, so that its spirit has
fled, and now only a ghost of it stalks about which no one
can venerate.
The Literary History of our own day shows the real
thinker how writing for writing's sake may be honoured and
applauded. A few Authors only excepted, our Literary Men
have in their own writings borne worse testimony against
themselves than any one else could have given against
them; and no even moderately well-disposed person would
be inclined to consider the writers of our day so shallow,
perverse, and spiritless, as the majority show themselves in
their works. The only way to retain any respect for the age,
any desire to influence it, is this,--to assume that those who
proclaim their opinions aloud are inferior men, and that
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR.
227
only among those who keep silence some may be found
who are capable of teaching better things.
Thus, when I speak of the Literary Vocation, it is not the
Literary Trade of the age which I mean, but something
quite other than that
.
I have already set forth the Idea of the Author when dis-
tinguishing it from that of the Oral Teacher of Progressive
Scholars. Both have to express and communicate the Idea
in language: the latter, for particular individuals by whose
capacity for receiving it he must be guided; the former,
without regard to any individual and in the most perfect
form which can be given to it in his age.
The Author must embody the Idea,--he must therefore
be a partaker of the Idea. All Literary Works are either
works of Art or of Science. Whatever may be the subject
of a work of the first class, it is evident that since it has no
direct significance of its own, and thus teaches the reader
nothing, it can only awaken the Idea itself within him and
furnish it with a fitting embodiment; otherwise it would be
but an empty play of words and have no real meaning. What-
ever may be the subject of a scientific work, the Author of such
a work must not conceive of Knowledge in a mere histori-
cal fashion, and only as received from others;--he must for
himself have spiritually penetrated to the Idea of Know-
ledge on some one of its sides, and produce it in a self-crea-
tive, new, and hitherto unknown form. If he be but a link
in the chain of historical tradition, and can do no more than
hand down to others the knowledge which he himself has
received, and only in the form in which it already exists in
some work whence he has obtained it,--then let him leave
others in peace to draw from this fountain whence he al-
so has drawn. What need is there of his officious inter-
meddling? To do over again that which has been done
already, is to do nothing; and no man who possesses com-
mon honesty and conscientiousness will allow himself to in-
dulge in such idleness. Can the Age, then, furnish him with
no occupation which is suited to his powers, that he must
thus employ himself in doing what he ought not to do? It
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? 228
THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR,
is not necessary that he should write an entirely new work in
any branch of Knowledge, but only a better work than any
hitherto existing. He who cannot do this should absolutely
not write;--it is a crime--a want of honesty to do so, which
at the most can only be excused by his thoughtlessness and
utter want of any true understanding of the vocation which
he assumes.
He must express the Idea in language, in a generally in-
telligible manner, in a perfect form. The Idea must there-
fore have become in him so clear, living, and independent,
that it already clothes itself to him in words; and, penetrat-
ing to the innermost spirit of his language, frames from
thence a vesture for itself by its own inherent power. The
Idea itself must speak, not the Author. His will, his indi-
viduality, his peculiar method and art, must disappear from
his page, so that only the method and art of his Idea may
live the highest life which it can attain in his language and
in his time. As he is free from the obligation under which the
Oral Teacher lies,--to accommodate himself to the capacities
of others,--so he has not this apology to plead before him-
self. He has no specific reader in view,--he himself must
mould his reader and lay down to him the law which he
must obey. There may be printed productions addressed
only to a certain age and a certain circle,--we shall see
afterwards under what conditions such writings may be
necessary; but these do not belong to the class of essentially
Literary Works of which we now speak, but are printed dis-
courses,--printed because the circle to which they are ad-
dressed cannot be brought together.
In order that in this way the Idea may in his person be-
come master of his language, it is necessary that he shall
first have acquired a mastery over that language. The Idea
does not rule the language directly, but only through him as
possessor of the language. This indispensable mastery of
the Author over his language is only acquired by prepara-
tory exercises, long continued and persevered in, which are
studies for future works but have no essential value in
themselves,--which the conscientious Scholar writes indeed,
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR
229
but will never allow to be printed. It requires, I say, long
and persevering exercise; but, happily, these conditions mu-
tually promote each other;--as the Idea becomes more
vivid language spontaneously appears, and as facility of
expression is increased the Idea flows forth in greater
clearness.
These are the first and most necessary conditions of all
true Authorship. The Idea itself,--that of expressing his
Idea in true and appropriate language,--is that which lives,
and alone lives in him within whom the presentiment has
arisen that he may one day send forth a Literary Work;--
it is this which animates him in his preparations and
studies for that work, as well as in the future completion of
his design.
By this Idea he is inspired with a dignified and sacred
conception of the Literary calling. The work of the Oral
Teacher is, in its immediate application, only a work for the
time, modified by the degree of culture possessed by those
who are entrusted to his care. Only in so far as he can
venture to suppose that he is moulding future Teachers
worthy of their calling, who, in their turn, will train others
for the same task, and so on without end, can he regard
himself as working for Eternity. But\the work of the
Author is in itself a. work for Eternity. Even should future
ages transcend the Knowledge which is revealed in his
work, still in that work he has not recorded his knowledge
alone, but also the fixed and settled character of a certain
age in its relation to Knowledge; and this will preserve its
interest so long as the human race endures.
Independent
of all vicissitude and change, his pages speak in every age
to all men who are able to realize his thought; and thus
continue their inspiring, elevating, and ennobling work, even
to the end of time.
The Idea, in this its acknowledged sacredness, moves him,
--and it alone moves him. He does not believe that he
has attained anything until he has attained all,--until his
work stands before him in the purity and perfectness which
he has striven to attain. Devoid of love for his own person,
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? 230
THE NATURE OP THE SCHOLAR
faithfully devoted to the Idea by which he is constantly
guided, he recognises with certain glance, and in its true
character, every trace of his former nature which remains in
his expression of the Idea, and unceasingly strives to free
himself from it. So long as he is not conscious of this abso-
lute freedom and purity, he has not attained his end, but
still works on. In such an age as we have already de-
scribed, in which the communication of Knowledge has
greatly increased, and has even fallen into the hands of
some who are better fitted for any other occupation than
for this, it may be necessary for bini to give some prelimi-
nary account of his labours;--other modes of communica-
tion, too, that of the Teacher for instance, may present
themselves to him; but he will never put forth these occa-
sional writings for anything else than what they are,--pre-
liminary announcements adapted to a certain age and cer-
tain circumstances; he will never regard them as finished
works, destined for immortality.
The Idea alone urges him forward;--nothing else. All
personal regards have disappeared from his view. I do not
speak of his own person,--of his having entirely forgotten
himself in his vocation;--this has been already sufficiently
set forth. The personality of others has no more weight
with him than his own when opposed to the truth and the
Idea. I do not mention that he will not encroach upon the
rights of other Scholars or Authors in their civic or personal
relations: that is altogether below his dignity who has to do
only with realities;--it is also below the dignity of these dis-
courses to make mention of that . But this I will remark,
that he will not allow himself to be restrained, by forbear-
ance towards any person whatever, from demolishing error
and establishing truth in its place. The worst insult that
can be offered, even to a half-educated man, is to suppose
that he can be offended by the exposure of an error which
he has entertained or the proclamation of a truth which
has escaped his notice. From this bold and open profession
of truth, as he perceives it, without regard to any man, he
will suffer nothing to lead him astray, not even the politely
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? OF THE SCHOLAB AS AUTHOR. 231
expressed contempt of the so-called fashionable world, which
can conceive of the Literary Vocation only by analogy with
its own social circles, and would impose the etiquette of the
Court upon the conduct of the Scholar.
Here I close these Lectures. If a thought of mine have
entered into any now present, and shall abide there as a
guide to higher truth, perhaps it may sometimes awaken
the memory of these lectures and of me,--and only in this
way do I desire to live in your recollection.
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? THE VOCATION OF MAN.
Ha
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? PREFACE.
Whatever in the more recent Philosophy is useful beyond the
limits of the schools will form the contents of this work, set forth
in that order in which it would naturally present itself to unscien-
tific thought. The more profound arguments by which the subtle
objections and extravagances of over-refined minds are to be met,
whatever is but the foundation of other Positive Science,--and
lastly, whatever belongs to Pedagogy in its widest sense, that is,
to the deliberate and arbitrary Education of the Human Kace,--
shall remain beyond the limits of our task. These objections are
not made by the natural understanding;--Positive Science it leaves to Scholars by profession; and the Education of the Human
Race, in so far as that depends upon human effort, to its appointed
Teachers and Statesmen.
This book is therefore not intended for philosophers by profes-
sion, who will find nothing in it that has not been already set forth in other writings of the same author. It ought to be intelli-
gible to all readers who are able to understand a book at all. To
those who wish only to repeat, in somewhat varied order, certain
phrases which they have already learned by rote, and who mistake
this business of the memory for understanding, it will doubtless be
found unintelligible.
It ought to attract and animate the reader, and to elevate him
from the world of sense into a region of transcendental thought;--
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? 230
PREFACE.
at least the author is conscious that he has not entered upon his
task without such inspiration. Often, indeed, the fire with which
we commence an undertaking disappears during the toil of execu-
tion; and thus, at the conclusion of a work, we are in danger of
doing ourselves injustice upon this point. In short, whether the
author has succeeded in attaining his object or not, can be deter-
mined only by the effect which the work shall produce on the
readers to whom it is addressed, and in this the author has no
voice.
I must, however, remind my reader that the "I" who speaks in
this book is not the author himself; but it is his earnest wish that
the reader should himself assume this character, and that he should
not rest contented with a mere historical apprehension of what is
here said, but that during reading he should really and truly hold
converse with himself, deliberate, draw conclusions and form reso-
lutions, like his imaginary representative, and thus, by his own la-
bour and reflection, develope and build up within himself that
mode of thought the mere picture of which is presented to him in
the book.
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? BOOK I.
DOUBT.
I BELIEVE that I am now acquainted with no inconsiderable
part of the world that surrounds me, and I have certainly
employed sufficient labour and care in the acquisition of this
knowledge. I have put faith only in the concurrent testi-
mony of my senses, only in repeated and unvarying experi-
ence ;--what I have beheld, I have touched--what I have
touched, I have analyzed;--I have repeated my observations
again and again; I have compared the various phenomena
with each other; and only when I could understand their
mutual connexion, when I could explain and deduce the one
from the other, when I could calculate the result beforehand,
and the observation of the result had proved the accuracy of
my calculations, have I been satisfied. Therefore I am now
as well assured of the accuracy of this part of my knowledge
as of my own existence; I walk with a firm step in these
understood spheres of my world, and do actually every
moment venture welfare and life itself on the certainty of
my convictions.
But--what am I myself, and what is my vocation?
Superfluous question! It is long since I have been com-
pletely instructed upon these points, and it would take
much time to repeat all that I have heard, learned, and
believed concerning them.
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? 238
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
And in what way then have I attained this knowledge,
which I have this dim remembrance of acquiring? Have
I, impelled by a burning desire of knowledge, toiled on
through uncertainty, doubt and contradiction ? --have I,
when any belief was presented to me, withheld my assent
until I had examined and reexamined, sifted and compared
it,--until an inward voice proclaimed to me, irresistibly and
without the possibility of doubt,--" Thus it is--thus only--
as surely as thou livest and art! "--No! I remember no such
state of mind. Those instructions were bestowed on me
before I sought them, the answers were given before I had
put the questions. I heard, for I could not avoid doing so,
and what was taught me remained in my memory just as
chance had disposed it;--without examination and without
interest I allowed everything to take its place in my mind.
How then could I persuade myself that I possessed any
real knowledge upon these matters? If I know that only
of which I am convinced, which I have myself discovered,
myself experienced, then I cannot truly say that I possess
even the slightest knowledge of my vocation;--I know only
what others assert they know about it, and all that I am
really sure of is,--that I have heard this or that said upon
the subject.
Thus, while I have inquired for myself, with the most
anxious care, into comparatively trivial matters, I have re-
lied wholly on the care and fidelity of others in things of
the weightiest importance. I have attributed to others an
interest in the highest affairs of humanity, an earnestness
and an exactitude, which I have by no means discovered in
myself. I have esteemed them indescribably higher than
myself. ,
Whatever truth they really possess, whence can they have
obtained it but through their own reflection? And why
may not I, by means of the same reflection, discover the like
truth for myself, since I too have a being as well as they?
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
23! )
How much have I hitherto undervalued and slighted my-
self!
It shall be no longer thus. From this moment I will
enter on my rights and assume the dignity that belongs to
me. Let all foreign aids be cast aside! I will examine for
myself. If any secret wishes concerning the result of my
inquiries, any partial leaning towards certain conclusions,
stir within me, I forget and renounce them; and I will
accord them no influence over the direction of my thoughts.
I will perform my task with firmness and integrity;--I will
honestly accept the result whatever it may be. What I find
to be truth, let it sound as it may, shall be welcome to me.
I will know. With the same certainty with which I am as-
sured that this ground will support me when I tread on it,
that this fire will burn me if I approach too near it, will I
know what I am, and what I shall be. And should it prove
impossible for me to know this, then I will know this much
at least, that I cannot know it. Even to this conclusion of
my inquiry will I submit, should it approve itself to me as
the truth. I hasten to the fulfilment of my task.
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? 240
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
I seize on Nature in her rapid and unresting
flight, detain her for an instant, hold the present moment
steadily in view, and reflect--upon this Nature by means of
which my thinking powers have hitherto been developed
and trained to those researches that belong to her domain.
I am surrounded by objects which I am compelled to
regard as separate, independent, self-subsisting wholes. I
behold plants, trees, animals. I ascribe to each individual
certain properties and attributes by which I distinguish it
from others; to this plant, such a form; to another, another;
to this tree, leaves of such a shape; to another, others differ-
ing from them.
Every object has its appointed number of attributes,
neither more nor less. To every question, whether it is this
or that, there is, for any one who is thoroughly acquainted
it, a decisive Yes possible, or a decisive No,--so that there
is an end of all doubt or hesitation on the subject. Every-
thing that exists is something, or it is not this something;
--is coloured, or is not coloured;--has a certain colour, or
has it not;--may be tasted, or may not;--is tangible, or is
not;--and so on, ad infinitum.
Every object posseses each of these attributes in a defi-
nite degree. Let a measure be given for any particular
attribute which is capable of being applied to the object;
then we may discover the exact extent of that attribute,
which it neither exceeds nor falls short of. I measure the
height of this tree; it is defined, and it is not a single line
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
241
higher or lower than it is. I consider the green of its
leaves; it is a definite green, not the smallest shade darker
or lighter, fresher or more faded than it is; although I may
have neither measure nor expression for these qualities. I
turn my eye to this plant; it is at a definite stage of growth
between its budding and its maturity, not in the smallest
degree nearer or more remote from either than it is. Every-
thing that exists is determined throughout; it is what it is, and
nothing else. 1
Not that I am unable to conceive of an object as floating
unattached between opposite determinations. I do certainly
conceive of indefinite objects; for more than half of my
thoughts consist of such conceptions. I think of a tree in
general. Has this tree fruit or not, leaves or not; if it has,
what is their number? --to what order of trees does it be-
long ? --how large is it ? --and so on. All these questions
remain unanswered, and my thought is undetermined in
these respects; for I did not propose to myself the thought
of any particular tree, but of a tree generally. But I deny'
actual existence to such a tree in thus leaving it undefined.
Everything that actually exists has its determinate number
of all the possible attributes of actual existence, and each of
these in a determinate measure, as surely as it actually exists,
although I may admit my inability thoroughly to exhaust
all the properties of any one object, or to apply to them any
standard of measurement.
But Nature pursues her course of ceaseless change, and
while I yet speak of the moment which I sought to detain
before me, it is gone, and all is changed; and in like man-
ner, before I had fixed my observation upon it, all was
otherwise. It had not always been as it was when I ob-
served it:--it had become so.
Why then, and from what cause, had it become so? Why
had Nature, amid the infinite variety of possible forms, as-
sumed in this moment precisely these and no others?
For this reason, that they wore preceded by those preI a
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prehension of the Idea, and is at the same time an upright
and honourable man, will forbear to assume the vocation of
the Academic Teacher. He will thus show his respect for
that vocation the nature of which he must have learned in
the course of his studies.
The vocation of the Academic Teacher requires him to
communicate the Idea,--not as the Author does, abstractly,
and in the one perfect conception under which it presents
itself to his own mind,--but he must mould, express, and
clothe it in an infinite variety of forms, so that he may bring
it home, under some one or other of those adventitious ves-
tures, to those by whose present state of culture he must be
guided in the exercise of his calling. He must thus possess
the Idea, not as a mere abstraction, but in great vitality,
power, and flexibility. Above all, he must possess that
which we have already described as the creative or artist-
talent of the Scholar; namely, a perfect readiness and capa-
city to recognise, under any circumstances, the first germ of
the Idea as it begins to unfold itself;--in each individual
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER.
219
case to discover the most suitable means of aiding it to the
attainment of perfect life, and in all cases to associate it
with a kindred form. The Author may possess only one
form for his Idea,--if that form be perfect, he has fulfilled
his duty;--the Academic Teacher must possess an infinite
multiplicity of forms,--it is not his business to discover the
most perfect form, but to find that which is most suitable to
particular circumstances. A good Academic Teacher must
be capable of being also an excellent Author if he choose;
but it does not follow that, on the other hand, a good
Author should also be a good Academic Teacher. Yet this
skill and versatility exist in different degrees, and he is not
to be entirely excluded from the Academic calling who does
not possess them in the highest degree.
From this skill which is required of the Academic
Teacher in the embodiment of the Idea, there arises another
demand upon him,--this, namely, that his mode of commu-
nication shall be always new, and bear upon it the mark of
fresh and present life. Only living and present thought can
enter other minds and quicken other thought: a dead, worn-
out form, let it have been ever so living at a former time,
must be called back to life by the power of others as well as
its own;--the Author has a right to require this from his
readers, but the Academic Teacher, who in this matter is
not an Author, has no right to demand it.
The upright and conscientious man, as surely as he ac-
cepts this calling, and so long as he continues to practise it,
gives himself up entirely to its fulfilment; willing, thinking,
desiring nothing else than to be that which, according to
his own conviction, he ought to be; and thus he shows
openly his reverence for Knowledge.
For Knowledge, I say, as such, and because it is Know-
ledge,--for Knowledge in the abstract,--as the Divine Idea
one and homogeneous through all the different forms and
modes in which it is revealed. It is quite possible that a
Scholar who has devoted his life to a particular department
of knowledge may entertain a prepossession in favour of
that department and be apt to esteem it above all others,--
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? 220 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
either because he has accustomed himself to it, or because
he thinks that his more distinguished calling may reflect
some of its lustre upon himself. Whatever ability such an
one may bring to the cultivation of his own department, he
will never present to the unprejudiced spectator the picture
of one who reveres Knowledge for its own sake, and will
never persuade the acute observer that he does so, whilst
he shows less respect for other departments of knowledge
which are as essential as his own. It will only thereby be-
come evident that he has never conceived of Knowledge as
one perfect whole,--that he does not think of his own de-
partment as a portion of this whole,--hence that he does not
love his own department as Knowledge, but only as a handi-
craft; which love for a handicraft may indeed be praise-
worthy enough elsewhere, but in the domain of Knowledge
excludes him entirely from any right to the name of a Scho-
lar. He who, although labouring in a limited province, has
become a partaker of Knowledge as a whole, and accepts his
own calling as but a part thereof, may perhaps have little
even historical acquaintance with other provinces, but he
has a general conception of the nature of all others, and will
constantly exhibit an equal reverence for all.
Let this love of his vocation and of Knowledge be the
sole guide of his life, visible to all men;--let him be moved
by nothing else; regarding no personal interest either of
himself or of others. Here as elsewhere, I shall say nothing
of the common and vulgar desires which may not enter the
circle of him who has approached and handled the sacred
things of Knowledge. I shall not suppose it possible, for
instance, that a Priest of Knowledge, who seeks to conse-
crate other Priests to her service, should refrain from saying
to them something which they do not hear willingly, in
order that they may continue to hear him willingly. Yet I
may perhaps be permitted to mention one error not quite
so ignoble and vulgar, and to hold up its opposite to your
view. In every word uttered by the Academic Teacher in
the exercise of his calling, let it be Knowledge that speaks,
--let it be his longings to extend her dominions,--let it be
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS TEACHER.
221
his deep love for his hearers, not as his hearers, but as the
future ministers of Knowledge:--Knowledge, and these liv-
ing desires to extend her dominion, let these speak, not the
Teacher. An effort to speak for the mere sake of speaking,
--to speak finely for the sake of fine speaking, and that
others may know of it,--the disease of word-making,--
sounding words, in which nevertheless no idea is audible,--
is consistent with no man's dignity, and least of all with
that of the Academic Teacher, who represents the dignity of
Knowledge to future generations.
Let him resign himself entirely to this love of his voca-
tion and of Knowledge. The peculiar nature of his occupa-
tion consists in this,--that Knowledge, and especially that
side of Knowledge from which he conceives of the whole,
shall continually burst forth from him in new and fairer
forms. Let this fresh spiritual youth never grow old within
him; let no form become fixed and rigid; let each sunrise
bring him new love for his vocation, new joy in its exercise,
and wider views of its significance. The Divine Idea is
fixed and determined in his mind,--all its individual parts
are likewise determined. The particular form of its expres-
sion for a particular Age may also be determined; but the
living movement of its communication is infinite as the
growth of the Human Race. Let no one continue in this
calling in whom the mode of this communication, although
it may have been the most perfect of his Age, begins to grow
old and formal,--none in whom the fountain of youth does
not still flow on with unimpaired vigour. Let him faithfully
trust himself to its current so long as it will bear him for-
ward: when it leaves him, then let him be content to retire
from this ever-shifting scene of onward being;--let him
separate the dead from the living.
It was a necessary part of the plan which I marked out
to you, to treat of the dignity of the Academic Teacher. I
hope that in doing so I have exhibited the same strictness
with which I have spoken of the other subjects which have
fallen under our notice,--without allowing myself to be se-
duced into any lenity towards it by the consideration that I
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? 222
THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
myself practise the calling of which I have spoken, and that
I have practised it even in speaking of it. Whence I have
derived this firmness,--on what feeling it rests,--you may
inquire at another time; it is sufficient for you now to un-
derstand clearly, that Truth, in every possible application
of it, still remains true.
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? 228
LECTURE X.
OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR.
To complete our survey of the vocation of the Scholar, we
have to-day only to consider that department of it which
belongs to the Author.
I have hitherto contented myself with clearly setting
forth the True Idea of the special subjects of our inquiry,
without turning aside to cast a single glance at the actual
state of things in the present age. It is almost impossible
to proceed in this way with the subject which I am to dis-
cuss to-day. The Idea of the Author is almost unknown in
our age, and something most unworthy usurps its name.
This is the peculiar disgrace of the age,-- the true source of
all its other scientific evils. The inglorious has become
glorious, and is encouraged, honoured, and rewarded.
According to the almost universally received opinion, it is
a merit and an honour for a man to have printed something
merely because he has printed it, and without any regard to
what it is which he has printed, and what may be its result.
They, too, lay claim to the highest rank in the republic of
letters who announce the fact that somebody has printed
something and what that something is; or, as the phrase
goes, who "review" the works of others. It is almost inex-
plicable how such an absurd opinion could have arisen and
taken root when we consider the subject in its true light.
Thus stands the matter: In the latter half of the past
century Reading took the place of some other amusements
which had gone out of fashion. This new luxury demanded,
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? 224
THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
from time to time, new fancy goods; for it is of course quite
impossible that one should read over again what one has
read already, or those things which our forefathers have read
before us; just as it would be altogether unbecoming to
appear frequently in fashionable society in the same cos-
tume, or to dress according to the notions of one's grand-
father. The new want gave birth to a new trade, striving
to nourish and enrich itself by purveying the wares now in
demand,--namely, Bookselling. The success of those who
first undertook this trade encouraged others to engage in it,
until, in our own days, it has come to this, that this mode
of obtaining a livelihood is greatly overstocked and the
quantity of these goods produced is much too large in pro-
portion to the consumers. The book-merchant, like the
dealer in any other commodity, orders his goods from the
manufacturer, solely with the view of bringing them to the
market ;. --at times also he buys uncommissioned goods
which have been manufactured only on speculation; and
the Author who writes for the sake of writing is this manu-
facturer. It is impossible to conceive why the book-manu-
facturer should take predecence of any other manufacturer;
he ought rather to feel that he is far inferior to any other
manufacturer, inasmuch as the luxury to which he ministers
is more pernicious than any other. That he find a mer-
chant for his wares may indeed be useful and profitable to
him, but how it should be an honour is not readily discover-
able. Of course, on the judgment of the publisher, which is
only a judgment on the saleableness or unsaleableness of
the goods, no value can be set.
Amid this bustle and pressure of the literary trade, a
happy thought struck some one;--this, namely, out of all
the books which were printed, to make one periodical book,
so that the reader of this book might be spared the trouble
of reading any other. It was fortunate that this last pur-
pose was not completely successful, and that everybody did
not take to reading this book exclusively, since then no
others would have been purchased, and consequently no
others printed; so that this book too, being constantly de-
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR
225
pendent upon other books for the possibility of its own exis-
tence, must likewise have remained unprinted.
He who undertook such a work, which is commonly
called a Literary Journal, Literary Gazette, &c. &c. , had the
advantage of seeing his work increase by the charitable
contributions of many anonymous individuals, and of thus
earning honour and profit by the labour of others. To veil
his own poverty of ideas, he pretended to pass judgment on
the authors whom he quoted,--a shallow pretence to the
thinker who looks below the surface. For either the book
is--as most books are at present--a bad book, printed only
that there might be one more book in the world; and in
this case it ought never to have been written, and is a nul-
lity, and consequently the judgment upon it is a nullity
also;--or, the book is a true Literary Work, such as we
shall presently describe; and then it is the result of a whole
powerful life devoted to Art or Science, and so would re-
quire another whole life as powerful as the first to be em-
ployed in its judgment. On such a work it is not alto-
gether possible to pass a final judgment in a couple of
sheets, within three or six months after its appearance.
How can there be any honour in contributing to such col-
lections? True genius, on the contrary, will rather employ
itself on a connected work, originated and planned out by
itself, than allow the current of its thoughts to be interrupt-
ed by every accident of the day until that interruption is
again broken by some new occurrence. The disposition con-
tinually to watch the thoughts of others, and on these
thoughts, please God, to hang our own attempts at thinking,
--is a certain sign of immaturity, and of a weak and depen-
dent mind. Or does the honour consist in this,--that the
conductors of such works should consider us capable of fill-
ing the office of judge and actually make it over to us? In
reality their opinion goes no deeper than that of a common
unlettered printer,--of the saleableness or unsaleableness of
the goods, and of the outward reputation which may there-
by accrue to their critical establishment
.
I am aware that what I have now said may seem very
oa
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? 226
THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
paradoxical. All of us who are connected in any way with
Knowledge, which in this connexion may be termed Litera-
ture, grow up in the notion that literary industry is a bless-
ing,--an advantage,--an honourable distinction of our culti-
vated and philosophical age; and but few have power to see
through its supposed advantages and resolve them into
their essential nothingness. The only apparent reason
which can be adduced in defence of such perverted industry
is, in my opinion, this:--that thereby an extensive literary
public is kept alive, roused to attention, and, as it were,
held together; so that, should anything of real value and
importance be brought before it, this public shall be found
already existing, and not have to be first called together.
But I answer, that, in the first place, the means appear
much too extensive for the end contemplated,--it seems too
great a sacrifice that many generations should spend their
time upon nothing, in order that some future generation
may be enabled to occupy itself with something;--and
further, it is by no means true that a public is only kept
alive by this perverse activity; it is at the same time per-
verted, vitiated, and ruined for the appreciation of anything
truly valuable. Much that is excellent has made its appear-
ance in our age,--I shall instance only the Kantian Philo-
sophy,--but this very activity of the literary market has
destroyed, perverted, and degraded it, so that its spirit has
fled, and now only a ghost of it stalks about which no one
can venerate.
The Literary History of our own day shows the real
thinker how writing for writing's sake may be honoured and
applauded. A few Authors only excepted, our Literary Men
have in their own writings borne worse testimony against
themselves than any one else could have given against
them; and no even moderately well-disposed person would
be inclined to consider the writers of our day so shallow,
perverse, and spiritless, as the majority show themselves in
their works. The only way to retain any respect for the age,
any desire to influence it, is this,--to assume that those who
proclaim their opinions aloud are inferior men, and that
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR.
227
only among those who keep silence some may be found
who are capable of teaching better things.
Thus, when I speak of the Literary Vocation, it is not the
Literary Trade of the age which I mean, but something
quite other than that
.
I have already set forth the Idea of the Author when dis-
tinguishing it from that of the Oral Teacher of Progressive
Scholars. Both have to express and communicate the Idea
in language: the latter, for particular individuals by whose
capacity for receiving it he must be guided; the former,
without regard to any individual and in the most perfect
form which can be given to it in his age.
The Author must embody the Idea,--he must therefore
be a partaker of the Idea. All Literary Works are either
works of Art or of Science. Whatever may be the subject
of a work of the first class, it is evident that since it has no
direct significance of its own, and thus teaches the reader
nothing, it can only awaken the Idea itself within him and
furnish it with a fitting embodiment; otherwise it would be
but an empty play of words and have no real meaning. What-
ever may be the subject of a scientific work, the Author of such
a work must not conceive of Knowledge in a mere histori-
cal fashion, and only as received from others;--he must for
himself have spiritually penetrated to the Idea of Know-
ledge on some one of its sides, and produce it in a self-crea-
tive, new, and hitherto unknown form. If he be but a link
in the chain of historical tradition, and can do no more than
hand down to others the knowledge which he himself has
received, and only in the form in which it already exists in
some work whence he has obtained it,--then let him leave
others in peace to draw from this fountain whence he al-
so has drawn. What need is there of his officious inter-
meddling? To do over again that which has been done
already, is to do nothing; and no man who possesses com-
mon honesty and conscientiousness will allow himself to in-
dulge in such idleness. Can the Age, then, furnish him with
no occupation which is suited to his powers, that he must
thus employ himself in doing what he ought not to do? It
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? 228
THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR,
is not necessary that he should write an entirely new work in
any branch of Knowledge, but only a better work than any
hitherto existing. He who cannot do this should absolutely
not write;--it is a crime--a want of honesty to do so, which
at the most can only be excused by his thoughtlessness and
utter want of any true understanding of the vocation which
he assumes.
He must express the Idea in language, in a generally in-
telligible manner, in a perfect form. The Idea must there-
fore have become in him so clear, living, and independent,
that it already clothes itself to him in words; and, penetrat-
ing to the innermost spirit of his language, frames from
thence a vesture for itself by its own inherent power. The
Idea itself must speak, not the Author. His will, his indi-
viduality, his peculiar method and art, must disappear from
his page, so that only the method and art of his Idea may
live the highest life which it can attain in his language and
in his time. As he is free from the obligation under which the
Oral Teacher lies,--to accommodate himself to the capacities
of others,--so he has not this apology to plead before him-
self. He has no specific reader in view,--he himself must
mould his reader and lay down to him the law which he
must obey. There may be printed productions addressed
only to a certain age and a certain circle,--we shall see
afterwards under what conditions such writings may be
necessary; but these do not belong to the class of essentially
Literary Works of which we now speak, but are printed dis-
courses,--printed because the circle to which they are ad-
dressed cannot be brought together.
In order that in this way the Idea may in his person be-
come master of his language, it is necessary that he shall
first have acquired a mastery over that language. The Idea
does not rule the language directly, but only through him as
possessor of the language. This indispensable mastery of
the Author over his language is only acquired by prepara-
tory exercises, long continued and persevered in, which are
studies for future works but have no essential value in
themselves,--which the conscientious Scholar writes indeed,
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? OF THE SCHOLAR AS AUTHOR
229
but will never allow to be printed. It requires, I say, long
and persevering exercise; but, happily, these conditions mu-
tually promote each other;--as the Idea becomes more
vivid language spontaneously appears, and as facility of
expression is increased the Idea flows forth in greater
clearness.
These are the first and most necessary conditions of all
true Authorship. The Idea itself,--that of expressing his
Idea in true and appropriate language,--is that which lives,
and alone lives in him within whom the presentiment has
arisen that he may one day send forth a Literary Work;--
it is this which animates him in his preparations and
studies for that work, as well as in the future completion of
his design.
By this Idea he is inspired with a dignified and sacred
conception of the Literary calling. The work of the Oral
Teacher is, in its immediate application, only a work for the
time, modified by the degree of culture possessed by those
who are entrusted to his care. Only in so far as he can
venture to suppose that he is moulding future Teachers
worthy of their calling, who, in their turn, will train others
for the same task, and so on without end, can he regard
himself as working for Eternity. But\the work of the
Author is in itself a. work for Eternity. Even should future
ages transcend the Knowledge which is revealed in his
work, still in that work he has not recorded his knowledge
alone, but also the fixed and settled character of a certain
age in its relation to Knowledge; and this will preserve its
interest so long as the human race endures.
Independent
of all vicissitude and change, his pages speak in every age
to all men who are able to realize his thought; and thus
continue their inspiring, elevating, and ennobling work, even
to the end of time.
The Idea, in this its acknowledged sacredness, moves him,
--and it alone moves him. He does not believe that he
has attained anything until he has attained all,--until his
work stands before him in the purity and perfectness which
he has striven to attain. Devoid of love for his own person,
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? 230
THE NATURE OP THE SCHOLAR
faithfully devoted to the Idea by which he is constantly
guided, he recognises with certain glance, and in its true
character, every trace of his former nature which remains in
his expression of the Idea, and unceasingly strives to free
himself from it. So long as he is not conscious of this abso-
lute freedom and purity, he has not attained his end, but
still works on. In such an age as we have already de-
scribed, in which the communication of Knowledge has
greatly increased, and has even fallen into the hands of
some who are better fitted for any other occupation than
for this, it may be necessary for bini to give some prelimi-
nary account of his labours;--other modes of communica-
tion, too, that of the Teacher for instance, may present
themselves to him; but he will never put forth these occa-
sional writings for anything else than what they are,--pre-
liminary announcements adapted to a certain age and cer-
tain circumstances; he will never regard them as finished
works, destined for immortality.
The Idea alone urges him forward;--nothing else. All
personal regards have disappeared from his view. I do not
speak of his own person,--of his having entirely forgotten
himself in his vocation;--this has been already sufficiently
set forth. The personality of others has no more weight
with him than his own when opposed to the truth and the
Idea. I do not mention that he will not encroach upon the
rights of other Scholars or Authors in their civic or personal
relations: that is altogether below his dignity who has to do
only with realities;--it is also below the dignity of these dis-
courses to make mention of that . But this I will remark,
that he will not allow himself to be restrained, by forbear-
ance towards any person whatever, from demolishing error
and establishing truth in its place. The worst insult that
can be offered, even to a half-educated man, is to suppose
that he can be offended by the exposure of an error which
he has entertained or the proclamation of a truth which
has escaped his notice. From this bold and open profession
of truth, as he perceives it, without regard to any man, he
will suffer nothing to lead him astray, not even the politely
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? OF THE SCHOLAB AS AUTHOR. 231
expressed contempt of the so-called fashionable world, which
can conceive of the Literary Vocation only by analogy with
its own social circles, and would impose the etiquette of the
Court upon the conduct of the Scholar.
Here I close these Lectures. If a thought of mine have
entered into any now present, and shall abide there as a
guide to higher truth, perhaps it may sometimes awaken
the memory of these lectures and of me,--and only in this
way do I desire to live in your recollection.
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? THE VOCATION OF MAN.
Ha
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? PREFACE.
Whatever in the more recent Philosophy is useful beyond the
limits of the schools will form the contents of this work, set forth
in that order in which it would naturally present itself to unscien-
tific thought. The more profound arguments by which the subtle
objections and extravagances of over-refined minds are to be met,
whatever is but the foundation of other Positive Science,--and
lastly, whatever belongs to Pedagogy in its widest sense, that is,
to the deliberate and arbitrary Education of the Human Kace,--
shall remain beyond the limits of our task. These objections are
not made by the natural understanding;--Positive Science it leaves to Scholars by profession; and the Education of the Human
Race, in so far as that depends upon human effort, to its appointed
Teachers and Statesmen.
This book is therefore not intended for philosophers by profes-
sion, who will find nothing in it that has not been already set forth in other writings of the same author. It ought to be intelli-
gible to all readers who are able to understand a book at all. To
those who wish only to repeat, in somewhat varied order, certain
phrases which they have already learned by rote, and who mistake
this business of the memory for understanding, it will doubtless be
found unintelligible.
It ought to attract and animate the reader, and to elevate him
from the world of sense into a region of transcendental thought;--
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? 230
PREFACE.
at least the author is conscious that he has not entered upon his
task without such inspiration. Often, indeed, the fire with which
we commence an undertaking disappears during the toil of execu-
tion; and thus, at the conclusion of a work, we are in danger of
doing ourselves injustice upon this point. In short, whether the
author has succeeded in attaining his object or not, can be deter-
mined only by the effect which the work shall produce on the
readers to whom it is addressed, and in this the author has no
voice.
I must, however, remind my reader that the "I" who speaks in
this book is not the author himself; but it is his earnest wish that
the reader should himself assume this character, and that he should
not rest contented with a mere historical apprehension of what is
here said, but that during reading he should really and truly hold
converse with himself, deliberate, draw conclusions and form reso-
lutions, like his imaginary representative, and thus, by his own la-
bour and reflection, develope and build up within himself that
mode of thought the mere picture of which is presented to him in
the book.
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? BOOK I.
DOUBT.
I BELIEVE that I am now acquainted with no inconsiderable
part of the world that surrounds me, and I have certainly
employed sufficient labour and care in the acquisition of this
knowledge. I have put faith only in the concurrent testi-
mony of my senses, only in repeated and unvarying experi-
ence ;--what I have beheld, I have touched--what I have
touched, I have analyzed;--I have repeated my observations
again and again; I have compared the various phenomena
with each other; and only when I could understand their
mutual connexion, when I could explain and deduce the one
from the other, when I could calculate the result beforehand,
and the observation of the result had proved the accuracy of
my calculations, have I been satisfied. Therefore I am now
as well assured of the accuracy of this part of my knowledge
as of my own existence; I walk with a firm step in these
understood spheres of my world, and do actually every
moment venture welfare and life itself on the certainty of
my convictions.
But--what am I myself, and what is my vocation?
Superfluous question! It is long since I have been com-
pletely instructed upon these points, and it would take
much time to repeat all that I have heard, learned, and
believed concerning them.
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? 238
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
And in what way then have I attained this knowledge,
which I have this dim remembrance of acquiring? Have
I, impelled by a burning desire of knowledge, toiled on
through uncertainty, doubt and contradiction ? --have I,
when any belief was presented to me, withheld my assent
until I had examined and reexamined, sifted and compared
it,--until an inward voice proclaimed to me, irresistibly and
without the possibility of doubt,--" Thus it is--thus only--
as surely as thou livest and art! "--No! I remember no such
state of mind. Those instructions were bestowed on me
before I sought them, the answers were given before I had
put the questions. I heard, for I could not avoid doing so,
and what was taught me remained in my memory just as
chance had disposed it;--without examination and without
interest I allowed everything to take its place in my mind.
How then could I persuade myself that I possessed any
real knowledge upon these matters? If I know that only
of which I am convinced, which I have myself discovered,
myself experienced, then I cannot truly say that I possess
even the slightest knowledge of my vocation;--I know only
what others assert they know about it, and all that I am
really sure of is,--that I have heard this or that said upon
the subject.
Thus, while I have inquired for myself, with the most
anxious care, into comparatively trivial matters, I have re-
lied wholly on the care and fidelity of others in things of
the weightiest importance. I have attributed to others an
interest in the highest affairs of humanity, an earnestness
and an exactitude, which I have by no means discovered in
myself. I have esteemed them indescribably higher than
myself. ,
Whatever truth they really possess, whence can they have
obtained it but through their own reflection? And why
may not I, by means of the same reflection, discover the like
truth for myself, since I too have a being as well as they?
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
23! )
How much have I hitherto undervalued and slighted my-
self!
It shall be no longer thus. From this moment I will
enter on my rights and assume the dignity that belongs to
me. Let all foreign aids be cast aside! I will examine for
myself. If any secret wishes concerning the result of my
inquiries, any partial leaning towards certain conclusions,
stir within me, I forget and renounce them; and I will
accord them no influence over the direction of my thoughts.
I will perform my task with firmness and integrity;--I will
honestly accept the result whatever it may be. What I find
to be truth, let it sound as it may, shall be welcome to me.
I will know. With the same certainty with which I am as-
sured that this ground will support me when I tread on it,
that this fire will burn me if I approach too near it, will I
know what I am, and what I shall be. And should it prove
impossible for me to know this, then I will know this much
at least, that I cannot know it. Even to this conclusion of
my inquiry will I submit, should it approve itself to me as
the truth. I hasten to the fulfilment of my task.
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? 240
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
I seize on Nature in her rapid and unresting
flight, detain her for an instant, hold the present moment
steadily in view, and reflect--upon this Nature by means of
which my thinking powers have hitherto been developed
and trained to those researches that belong to her domain.
I am surrounded by objects which I am compelled to
regard as separate, independent, self-subsisting wholes. I
behold plants, trees, animals. I ascribe to each individual
certain properties and attributes by which I distinguish it
from others; to this plant, such a form; to another, another;
to this tree, leaves of such a shape; to another, others differ-
ing from them.
Every object has its appointed number of attributes,
neither more nor less. To every question, whether it is this
or that, there is, for any one who is thoroughly acquainted
it, a decisive Yes possible, or a decisive No,--so that there
is an end of all doubt or hesitation on the subject. Every-
thing that exists is something, or it is not this something;
--is coloured, or is not coloured;--has a certain colour, or
has it not;--may be tasted, or may not;--is tangible, or is
not;--and so on, ad infinitum.
Every object posseses each of these attributes in a defi-
nite degree. Let a measure be given for any particular
attribute which is capable of being applied to the object;
then we may discover the exact extent of that attribute,
which it neither exceeds nor falls short of. I measure the
height of this tree; it is defined, and it is not a single line
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? BOOK I. DOUBT.
241
higher or lower than it is. I consider the green of its
leaves; it is a definite green, not the smallest shade darker
or lighter, fresher or more faded than it is; although I may
have neither measure nor expression for these qualities. I
turn my eye to this plant; it is at a definite stage of growth
between its budding and its maturity, not in the smallest
degree nearer or more remote from either than it is. Every-
thing that exists is determined throughout; it is what it is, and
nothing else. 1
Not that I am unable to conceive of an object as floating
unattached between opposite determinations. I do certainly
conceive of indefinite objects; for more than half of my
thoughts consist of such conceptions. I think of a tree in
general. Has this tree fruit or not, leaves or not; if it has,
what is their number? --to what order of trees does it be-
long ? --how large is it ? --and so on. All these questions
remain unanswered, and my thought is undetermined in
these respects; for I did not propose to myself the thought
of any particular tree, but of a tree generally. But I deny'
actual existence to such a tree in thus leaving it undefined.
Everything that actually exists has its determinate number
of all the possible attributes of actual existence, and each of
these in a determinate measure, as surely as it actually exists,
although I may admit my inability thoroughly to exhaust
all the properties of any one object, or to apply to them any
standard of measurement.
But Nature pursues her course of ceaseless change, and
while I yet speak of the moment which I sought to detain
before me, it is gone, and all is changed; and in like man-
ner, before I had fixed my observation upon it, all was
otherwise. It had not always been as it was when I ob-
served it:--it had become so.
Why then, and from what cause, had it become so? Why
had Nature, amid the infinite variety of possible forms, as-
sumed in this moment precisely these and no others?
For this reason, that they wore preceded by those preI a
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