{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_5637/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_5637","id":"gutenberg_5637","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5637","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: French Literature","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Essays","Germany","Harvard Classics","Philosophy"],"text":"David Turner, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\nLITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS\n\nHARVARD CLASSICS V32\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nTHAT WE SHOULD NOT JUDGE OF OUR HAPPINESS UNTIL AFTER OUR DEATH THAT\nTO PHILOSOPHISE IS TO LEARNE How TO DIE OF THE INSTITUTION AND\nEDUCATION OF CHILDREN OF FRIENDSHIP OF BOOKES BY MONTAIGNE\n\nMONTAIGNE\n\nWHAT IS A CLASSIC? BY CHASLES-AUGUSTIN SAINTE-BEUVE\n\nTHE POETRY OF THE CELTIC RACES BY ERNEST RENAN\n\nTHE EDUCATION OF THE HUMAN RACE BY GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING\n\nLETTERS UPON THE AESTHETIC EDUCATION OF MAN BY J. C. FRIEDRICH VON\nSCHILLER\n\nFUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES OF THE METAPHYSIC OF MORALS\n\nTRANSITION FROM POPULAR MORAL PHILOSOPHY TO THE METAPHYSIC OF MORALS\n\nIMMANUEL KANT\n\nBYRON AND GOETHE BY GIUSEPPE MAZZINI\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\n\nMichel Eyquem De Montaigne, the founder of the modern Essay, was\nborn February 28, 1533, at the chateau of Montaigne in Pirigord. He\ncame of a family of wealthy merchants of Bordeaux, and was educated\nat the College de Guyenne, where he had among his teachers the great\nScottish Latinist, George Buchanan. Later he studied law, and held\nvarious public offices; but at the age of thirty-eight he retired to\nhis estates, where he lived apart from the civil wars of the time,\nand devoted himself to study and thought. While he was traveling in\nGermany and Italy, in 1580-81, he was elected mayor of Bordeaux, and\nthis office he filled for four years. He married in 1565, and had\nsix daughters, only one of whom grew up. The first two books of his\n\"Essays\" appeared in 1580; the third in 1588; and four years later\nhe died.\n\nThese are the main external facts of Montaigne's life: of the man\nhimself the portrait is to be found in his book. \"It is myself I\nportray,\" he declares; and there is nowhere in literature a volume\nof self-revelation surpassing his in charm and candor. He is frankly\negotistical, yet modest and unpretentious; profoundly wise, yet\nconstantly protesting his ignorance; learned, yet careless,\nforgetful, and inconsistent. His themes are as wide and varied as\nhis observation of human life, and he has written the finest eulogy\nof friendship the world has known. Bacon, who knew his book and\nborrowed from it, wrote on the same subject; and the contrast of the\nessays is the true reflection of the contrast between the\npersonalities of their authors.\n\nShortly after Montaigne's death the \"Essays\" were translated into\nEnglish by John Florio, with less than exact accuracy, but in a\nstyle so full of the flavor of the age that we still read Montaigne\nin the version which Shakespeare knew. The group of examples here\nprinted exhibits the author in a variety of moods, easy, serious,\nand, in the essay on \"Friendship,\" as nearly impassioned as his\nphilosophy ever allowed him to become.\n\nReader, be here a well-meaning Booke. It doth at the firth entrance\nforewarne thee, that in contriving the same I have proposed unto my\nselfe no other than a familiar and private end: I have no respect or\nconsideration at all, either to thy service, or to my glory: my\nforces are not capable of any such desseigne. I have vowed the same\nto the particular commodity of my kinsfolks and friends: to the end,\nthat losing me (which they are likely to doe ere long), they may\ntherein find some lineaments of my conditions and humours, and by\nthat meanes reserve more whole, and more lively foster the knowledge\nand acquaintance they have had of me. Had my intention beene to\nforestal and purchase the world's opinion and favour, I would surely\nhave adorned myselfe more quaintly, or kept a more grave and solemne\nmarch. I desire therein to be delineated in mine owne genuine,\nsimple and ordinarie fashion, without contention, art or study; for\nit is myself e I pourtray. My imperfections shall therein be read to\nthe life, and my naturall forme discerned, so farre-forth as publike\nreverence hath permitted me. For if my fortune had beene to have\nlived among those nations which yet are said to live under the sweet\nliberty of Nature's first and uncorrupted lawes, I assure thee, I\nwould most willingly have pourtrayed my selfe fully and naked. Thus,\ngentle Reader, myself I am the groundworke of my booke: it is then\nno reason thou shouldest employ thy time about so frivolous and\nvaine a subject.\n\nTherefore farewell.\n\nFrom MONTAIGNE,\n  The First of March, 1580.\n\n\n\n\nTHAT WE SHOULD NOT JUDGE OF OUR HAPPINESSE UNTILL AFTER OUR DEATH\n\n     scilicet ultima semper\n     Expectanda dies homini est, dicique beatus\n     Ante obitum nemo, supremaque funera debat.\n     [Footnote: Ovid. Met. 1, iii. 135.]\n\n     We must expect of man the latest day,\n     Nor ere he die, he's happie, can we say.\n\nThe very children are acquainted with the storie of Croesus to this\npurpose: who being taken by Cyrus, and by him condemned to die, upon\nthe point of his execution, cried out aloud: \"Oh Solon, Solon!\"\nwhich words of his, being reported to Cyrus, who inquiring what he\nmeant by them, told him, hee now at his owne cost verified the\nadvertisement Solon had before times given him; which was, that no\nman, what cheerefull and blandishing countenance soever fortune\nshewed them, may rightly deeme himselfe happie, till such time as he\nhave passed the last day of his life, by reason of the uncertaintie\nand vicissitude of humane things, which by a very light motive, and\nslight occasion, are often changed from one to another cleane\ncontrary state and degree. And therefore Agesilaus answered one that\ncounted the King of Persia happy, because being very young, he had\ngotten the garland of so mightie and great a dominion: \"yea but said\nhe, Priam at the same age was not unhappy.\" Of the Kings of Macedon\nthat succeeded Alexander the Great, some were afterward seene to\nbecome Joyners and Scriveners at Rome: and of Tyrants of Sicilie,\nSchoolemasters at Corinth. One that had conquered halfe the world,\nand been Emperour over so many, Armies, became an humble and\nmiserable suter to the raskally officers of a king of AEgypte: At so\nhigh a rate did that great Pompey purchase the irkesome prolonging\nof his life but for five or six moneths. And in our fathers daies,\nLodowicke Sforze, tenth Duke of Millane, under whom the State of\nItalic had so long beene turmoiled and shaken, was seene to die a\nwretched prisoner at Loches in France, but not till he had lived and\nlingered ten yeares in thraldom, which was the worst of his\nbargaine. The fairest Queene, wife to the greatest King of\nChristendome, was she not lately scene to die by the hands of an\nexecutioner? Oh unworthie and barbarous cruelties And a thousand\nsuch examples. For, it seemeth that as the sea-billowes and surging\nwaves, rage and storme against the surly pride and stubborne height\nof our buildings, so are there above, certaine spirits that envie\nthe rising prosperities and greatnesse heere below.\n\n     Vsque adeb res humanas vis abdita quadam\n     Obterit, et pulchros fasces sav&sque secures\n     Proculcare, ac ludibrio sibi habere videtur.\n     [Footnote: LUCRET. I. v. 1243.]\n\n     A hidden power so mens states hath out-worne\n     Faire swords, fierce scepters, signes of honours borne,\n     It seemes to trample and deride in scorne.\n\nAnd it seemeth Fortune doth sometimes narrowly watch the last day of\nour life, thereby to shew her power, and in one moment to overthrow\nwhat for many yeares together she had been erecting, and makes us\ncry after Laberius, Nimirum hoc die una plus vixi, mihi quam\nvivendum fuit. [Footnote: MACHOB, 1, ii. 7.] Thus it is, \"I have\nlived longer by this one day than I should.\" So may that good advice\nof Solon be taken with reason. But forsomuch as he is a Philosopher,\nwith whom the favours or disfavours of fortune, and good or ill\nlucke have no place, and are not regarded by him; and puissances and\ngreatnesses, and accidents of qualitie, are well-nigh indifferent: I\ndeeme it very likely he had a further reach, and meant that the same\ngood fortune of our life, which dependeth of the tranquillitie and\ncontentment of a welborne minde, and of the resolution and assurance\nof a well ordered soule, should never be ascribed unto man, untill\nhe have beene scene play the last act of his comedie, and without\ndoubt the hardest. In all the rest there may be some maske: either\nthese sophisticall discourses of Philosophie are not in us but by\ncountenance, or accidents that never touch us to the quick, give us\nalwaies leasure to keep our countenance setled. But when that last\npart of death, and of our selves comes to be acted, then no\ndissembling will availe, then is it high time to speake plaine\nEnglish, and put off all vizards: then whatsoever the pot containeth\nmust be shewne, be it good or bad, foule or cleane, wine or water.\n\n      Nam vera voces tum demum pectore ab imo\n      Ejiciuntur, et eripitur persona, manet res.\n     [Footnote: LUCEET. 1. iii. 57.]\n\n     For then are sent true speeches from the heart,\n     We are ourselves, we leave to play a part.\n\nLoe heere, why at this last cast, all our lives other actions must\nbe tride and touched. It is the master-day, the day that judgeth all\nothers: it is the day, saith an auncient Writer, that must judge of\nall my forepassed yeares. To death doe I referre the essay\n[Footnote: Assay, exact weighing.] of my studies fruit. There shall\nwee see whether my discourse proceed from my heart, or from my\nmouth. I have scene divers, by their death, either in good or evill,\ngive reputation to all their forepassed life. Scipio, father-in-law\nto Pompey, in well dying, repaired the ill opinion which untill that\nhoure men had ever held of him. Epaminondas being demanded which of\nthe three he esteemed most, either Chabrias, or Iphicrates, or\nhimselfe: \"It is necessary,\" said he, \"that we be scene to die,\nbefore your question may well be resolved.\" [Footnote: Answered.]\nVerily, we should steale much from him, if he should be weighed\nwithout the honour and greatnesse of his end. God hath willed it, as\nhe pleased: but in my time three of the most execrable persons that\never I knew in all abomination of life, and the most infamous, have\nbeene seen to die very orderly and quietly, and in every\ncircumstance composed even unto perfection. There are some brave and\nfortunate deaths. I have seene her cut the twine of some man's life,\nwith a progresse of wonderful advancement, and with so worthie an\nend, even in the flowre of his growth and spring of his youth, that\nin mine opinion, his ambitious and haughtie couragious signes,\nthought nothing so high as might interrupt them who without going to\nthe place where he pretended, arived there more gloriously and\nworthily than either his desire or hope aimed at, and by his fall\nfore-went the power and name, whither by his course he aspired. When\nI judge of other men's lives, I ever respect how they have behaved\nthemselves in their end; and my chiefest study is, I may well\ndemeane my selfe at my last gaspe, that is to say, quietly and\nconstantly.\n\n\n\n\nTHAT TO PHILOSOPHISE IS TO LEARNE HOW TO DIE\n\nCicero saith, that to Philosophise is no other thing than for a man\nto prepare himselfe to death: which is the reason that studie and\ncontemplation doth in some sort withdraw our soule from us, and\nseverally employ it from the body, which is a kind of apprentisage\nand resemblance of death; or else it is, that all the wisdome and\ndiscourse of the world, doth in the end resolve upon this point, to\nteach us not to feare to die. Truly either reason mockes us, or it\nonly aimeth at our contentment, and in fine, bends all her travell\nto make us live well, and as the holy Scripture saith, \"at our\nease.\" All the opinions of the world conclude, that pleasure is our\nend, howbeit they take divers meanes unto and for it, else would men\nreject them at their first comming. For, who would give eare unto\nhim, that for it's end would establish our paine and disturbance?\nThe dissentions of philosophicall sects in this case are verbal:\nTranscurramus solertissimas Hugos [Footnote: Travails, labours.]\n\"Let us run over such over-fine fooleries and subtill trifles.\"\nThere is more wilfulnesse and wrangling among them, than pertains to\na sacred profession. But what person a man undertakes to act, he\ndoth ever therewithal! personate his owne. Allthough they say, that\nin vertue it selfe, the last scope of our aime is voluptuousnes. It\npleaseth me to importune their eares still with this word, which so\nmuch offends their hearing. And if it imply any chief pleasure or\nexceeding contentments, it is rather due to the assistance of\nvertue, than to any other supply, voluptuousnes being more strong,\nsinnowie, sturdie, and manly, is but more seriously voluptuous. And\nwe should give it the name of pleasure, more favorable, sweeter, and\nmore naturall; and not terme it vigor, from which it hath his\ndenomination. Should this baser sensuality deserve this faire name,\nit should be by competencie, and not by privilege. I finde it lesse\nvoid of incommodities and crosses than vertue. And besides that> her\ntaste is more fleeting, momentarie, and fading, she hath her fasts,\nher eyes, and her travels, and both sweat and blood. Furthermore she\nhath particularly so many wounding passions, and of so severall\nsorts, and so filthie and loathsome a societie waiting upon her,\nthat shee is equivalent to penitencie. Wee are in the wrong, to\nthinke her incommodities serve her as a provocation and seasoning to\nher sweetnes, as in nature one contrarie is vivified by another\ncontrarie: and to say, when we come to vertue, that like successes\nand difficulties overwhelme it, and yeeld it austere and\ninaccessible. Whereas much more properly then unto voluptuousnes,\nthey ennobled, sharpen, animate, and raise that divine and perfect\npleasure, which it meditates and procureth us. Truly he is verie\nunworthie her acquaintance, that counter-ballanceth her cost to his\nfruit, and knowes neither the graces nor use of it. Those who go\nabout to instruct us, how her pursuit is very hard and laborious,\nand her jovisance [Footnote: Enjoyment] well-pleasing and\ndelightfull: what else tell they us, but that shee is ever\nunpleasant and irksome? For what humane meane [Footnote: Human\nmeana. man's life is subject, it is not with an equall care: as well\nbecause accidents are not of such a necessitie, for most men passe\ntheir whole life without feeling any want or povertie, and othersome\nwithout feeling any griefe or sicknes, as Xenophilus the Musitian,\nwho lived an hundred and six yeares in perfect and continuall\nhealth: as also if the worst happen, death may at all times, and\nwhensoever it shall please us, cut off all other inconveniences and\ncrosses. But as for death, it is inevitable.] did ever attaine unto\nan absolute enjoying of it? The perfectest have beene content but to\naspire and approach her, without ever possessing her. But they are\ndeceived; seeing that of all the pleasures we know, the pursute of\nthem is pleasant. The enterprise is perceived by the qualitie of the\nthing, which it hath regard unto: for it is a good portion of the\neffect, and consubstantiall. That happines and felicitie, which\nshineth in vertue, replenisheth her approaches and appurtenances,\neven unto, the first entrance and utmost barre. Now of all the\nbenefits of vertue, the contempt of death is the chiefest, a meane\nthat furnisheth our life with an ease-full tranquillitie, and gives\nus a pure and amiable taste of it: without which every other\nvoluptuousnes is extinguished. Loe, here the reasons why all rules\nencounter and agree with this article. And albeit they all leade us\nwith a common accord to despise povertie, and other accidental!\ncrosses, to which\n\n     Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium\n     Versatur urna, serius, ocius\n     Sors exitura, et nos in aeternum\n     Exilium impositura cymbae,\n     [Footnote: Hor. I. iii. Od. iii. 25.]\n\n     All to one place are driv'n, of all\n     Shak't is the lot-pot, where-hence shall\n     Sooner or later drawne lots fall,\n     And to deaths boat for aye enthrall.\n\nAnd by consequence, if she makes us affeard, it is a continual\nsubject of torment, and which can no way be eased. There is no\nstarting-hole will hide us from her, she will finde us wheresoever\nwe are, we may as in a suspected countrie start and turne here and\nthere: quae quasi saxum Tantalo semper impendet.[Footnote: Cic. De\nFin. I. i.] \"Which evermore hangs like the stone over the head of\nTantalus:\" Our lawes doe often condemne and send malefactors to be\nexecuted in the same place where the crime was committed: to which\nwhilest they are going, leade them along the fairest houses, or\nentertaine them with the best cheere you can,\n\n     non Siculae dapes Dulcem elaborabunt saporem:\n     Non avium, citharaeque cantus\n     Somnum reducent.\n     [Footnote: Hor. I. iii. Od. i, 12.]\n\n     Not all King Denys daintie fare,\n     Can pleasing taste for them prepare:\n     No song of birds, no musikes sound\n     Can lullabie to sleepe profound.\n\nDoe you thinke they can take any pleasure in it? or be any thing\ndelighted? and that the finall intent of their voiage being still\nbefore their eies, hath not altered and altogether distracted their\ntaste from all these commodities and allurements?\n\n     Audit iter, numeratque dies, spatioque viarum\n     Metitur vitam, torquetur peste futura.\n     [Footnote: Claud, in Ruff. 1. ii. 137]\n\n     He heares his journey, counts his daies, so measures he\n     His life by his waies length, vext with the ill shall be.\n\nThe end of our cariere is death, it is the necessarie object of our\naime: if it affright us, how is it possible we should step one foot\nfurther without an ague? The remedie of the vulgar sort is, not to\nthink on it. But from what brutall stupiditie may so grosse a\nblindnesse come upon him? he must be made to bridle his Asse by the\ntaile,\n\n     Qiti capite ipse suo instituit vestigia retro.\n     [Footnote: Lucret. 1. iv. 474]\n\n     Who doth a course contrarie runne\n     With his head to his course begunne.\n\nIt is no marvell if he be so often taken tripping; some doe no\nsooner heare the name of death spoken of, but they are afraid, yea\nthe most part will crosse themselves, as if they heard the Devill\nnamed. And because mention is made of it in mens wils and\ntestaments, I warrant you there is none will set his hand to them,\ntil the physitian hath given his last doome, and utterly forsaken\nhim. And God knowes, being then betweene such paine and feare, with\nwhat sound judgment they endure him. For so much as this syllable\nsounded so unpleasantly in their eares, and this voice seemed so ill\nboding and unluckie, the Romans had learned to allay and dilate the\nsame by a Periphrasis. In liew of saying, he is dead, or he hath\nended his daies, they would say, he hath lived. So it be life, be it\npast or no, they are comforted: from whom we have borrowed our\nphrases quondam, alias, or late such a one. It may haply be, as the\ncommon saying is, the time we live is worth the mony we pay for it.\nI was borne betweene eleven of the clocke and noone, the last of\nFebruarie 1533, according to our computation, the yeare beginning\nthe first of Januarie. It is but a fortnight since I was 39 yeares\nold. I want at least as much more. If in the meane time I should\ntrouble my thoughts with a matter so farre from me, it were but\nfolly. But what? we see both young and old to leave their life after\none selfe-same condition. No man departs otherwise from it, than if\nhe but now came to it, seeing there is no man so crazed,[Footnote:\nInfirm] bedrell, [Footnote: Bedridden.] or decrepit, so long as he\nremembers Methusalem, but thinkes he may yet live twentie yeares.\nMoreover, seely [Footnote: Simple, weak.] creature as thou art, who\nhath limited the end of thy daies? Happily thou presumest upon\nphysitians reports. Rather consider the effect and experience. By\nthe common course of things long since thou livest by extraordinarie\nfavour. Thou hast alreadie over-past the ordinarie tearmes of common\nlife: And to prove it, remember but thy acquaintances, and tell me\nhow many more of them have died before they came to thy age, than\nhave either attained or outgone the same: yea, and of those that\nthrough renoune have ennobled their life, if thou but register them,\nI will lay a wager, I will finde more that have died before they\ncame to five and thirty years, than after. It is consonant with\nreason and pietie, to take example by the humanity of Jesus Christ,\nwho ended his humane life at three and thirtie yeares. The greatest\nman that ever was, being no more than a man, I meane Alexander the\nGreat, ended his dayes, and died also of that age. How many severall\nmeanes and waies hath death to surprise us!\n\n     Quid quisque vitet, nunquam homini satis\n     Cautum est in horas\n     [Footnote: Hor. 1. ii. Od. xiii. 13.]\n\n     A man can never take good heed,\n     Hourely what he may shun and speed.\n\nI omit to speak of agues and pleurisies; who would ever have\nimagined that a Duke of Brittanie should have beene stifled to death\nin a throng of people, as whilome was a neighbour of mine at Lyons,\nwhen Pope Clement made his entrance there? Hast thou not seene one\nof our late Kings slaine in the middest of his sports? and one of\nhis ancestors die miserably by the chocke [Footnote: Shock.] of an\nhog? Eschilus fore threatned by the fall of an house, when he stood\nmost upon his guard, strucken dead by the fall of a tortoise shell,\nwhich fell out of the tallants of an eagle flying in the air? and\nanother choaked with the kernell of a grape? And an Emperour die by\nthe scratch of a combe, whilest he was combing his head? And\nAemylius Lepidus with hitting his foot against a doore-seele? And\nAufidius with stumbling against the Consull-chamber doore as he was\ngoing in thereat? And Cornelius Gallus, the Praetor, Tigillinus,\nCaptaine of the Romane watch, Lodowike, sonne of Guido Gonzaga,\nMarquis of Mantua, end their daies betweene womens thighs? And of a\nfarre worse example Speusippus, the Platonian philosopher, and one\nof our Popes? Poore Bebius a Judge, whilest he demurreth the sute of\na plaintife but for eight daies, be hold, his last expired: And\nCaius Iulius a Physitian, whilest he was annointing the eies of one\nof his patients, to have his owne sight closed for ever by death.\nAnd if amongst these examples, I may adde one of a brother of mine,\ncalled Captain Saint Martin, a man of three and twentie yeares of\nage, who had alreadie given good testimonie of his worth and forward\nvalour, playing at tennis, received a blow with a ball, that hit him\na little above the right eare, without apparance of any contusion,\nbruse, or hurt, and never sitting or resting upon it, died within\nsix houres after of an apoplexie, which the blow of the ball caused\nin him. These so frequent and ordinary examples, hapning, and being\nstill before our eies, how is it possible for man to forgo or for\nget the remembrance of death? and why should it not continually\nseeme unto us, that shee is still ready at hand to take us by the\nthroat? What matter is it, will you say unto me, how and in what\nmanner it is, so long as a man doe not trouble and vex himselfe\ntherewith? I am of this opinion, that howsoever a man may shrowd or\nhide himselfe from her dart, yea, were it under an oxe-hide, I am\nnot the man would shrinke backe: it sufficeth me to live at my ease;\nand the best recreation I can have, that doe I ever take; in other\nmatters, as little vain glorious, and exemplare as you list.\n\n   --praetulerim delirus inersque videri,\n     Dum mea delectent mala me, vel denique fallant,\n     Quam sapere et ringi\n     [Footnote: Hor. 1. ii. Episi. ii 126]\n\n     A dotard I had rather seeme, and dull,\n     Sooner my faults may please make me a gull,\n     Than to be wise, and beat my vexed scull.\n\nBut it is folly to thinke that way to come unto it. They come, they\ngoe, they trot, they daunce: but no speech of death. All that is\ngood sport. But if she be once come, and on a sudden and openly\nsurprise, either them, their wives, their children, or their\nfriends, what torments, what out cries, what rage, and what despaire\ndoth then overwhelme them? saw you ever anything so drooping, so\nchanged, and so distracted? A man must looke to it, and in better\ntimes fore-see it. And might that brutish carelessenesse lodge in\nthe minde of a man of understanding (which I find altogether\nimpossible) she sels us her ware at an overdeere rate: were she an\nenemie by mans wit to be avoided, I would advise men to borrow the\nweapons of cowardlinesse: but since it may not be, and that be you\neither a coward or a runaway, an honest or valiant man, she\novertakes you,\n\n     Nempe et fugacem persequitur virum,\n     Nec parcit imbellis juventae\n     Poplitibus, timidoque tergo.\n     [Footnote: Hor. 1. iii. Od. ii. 14.]\n\n     Shee persecutes the man that flies,\n     Shee spares not weake youth to surprise,\n     But on their hammes and backe turn'd plies.\n\nAnd that no temper of cuirace [Footnote: Cuirass.] may shield or\ndefend you,\n\n     Ille licet ferro cauius se condat et aere,\n     Mors tamen inclusum protraket inde caput.\n     [Footnote: Propert. 1. iii. et xvii. 5]\n\n     Though he with yron and brasse his head empale,\n     Yet death his head enclosed thence will hale.\n\nLet us learne to stand, and combat her with a resolute minde. And\nbeing to take the greatest advantage she hath upon us from her, let\nus take a cleane contrary way from the common, let us remove her\nstrangenesse from her, let us converse, frequent, and acquaint our\nselves with her, let us have nothing so much in minde as death, let\nus at all times and seasons, and in the ugliest manner that may be,\nyea with all faces shapen and represent the same unto our\nimagination. At the stumbling of a horse, at the fall of a stone, at\nthe least prick with a pinne, let us presently ruminate and say with\nour selves, what if it were death it selfe? and thereupon let us\ntake heart of grace, and call our wits together to confront her.\nAmiddest our bankets, feasts, and pleasures, let us ever have this\nrestraint or object before us, that is, the remembrance of our\ncondition, and let not pleasure so much mislead or transport us,\nthat we altogether neglect or forget, how many waies, our joyes, or\nour feastings, be subject unto death, and by how many hold-fasts\nshee threatens us and them. So did the AEgyptians, who in the\nmiddest of their banquetings, and in the full of their greatest\ncheere, caused the anatomie [Footnote: Skeleton] of a dead man to be\nbrought before them, as a memorandum and warning to their guests.\n\n     Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum,\n     Grata superveniet; quae non sperabitur, hora?\n     [Footnote: Hor. 1. i. Epist. iv. 13.]\n\n     Thinke every day shines on thee as thy last,\n     Welcome it will come, whereof hope was past.\n\nIt is uncertaine where death looks for us; let us expect her everie\nwhere: the premeditation of death, is a forethinking of libertie. He\nwho hath learned to die, hath unlearned to serve. There is no evill\nin life, for him that hath well conceived, how the privation of life\nis no evill. To know how to die, doth free us from all subjection\nand constraint. Paulus AEmilius answered one, whom that miserable\nking of Macedon his prisoner sent to entreat him he would not lead\nhim in triumph, \"Let him make that request unto himselfe.\" Verily,\nif Nature afford not some helpe in all things, it is very hard that\nart and industrie should goe farre before. Of my selfe, I am not\nmuch given to melancholy, but rather to dreaming and sluggishness.\nThere is nothing wherewith I have ever more entertained my selfe,\nthan with the imaginations of death, yea in the most licentious\ntimes of my age.\n\n     Iucundum, cum atas florida ver ageret\n     [Footnote: Catul. Eleg. iv. 16.]\n\n     When my age flourishing\n     Did spend its pleasant spring.\n\nBeing amongst faire Ladies, and in earnest play, some have thought\nme busied, or musing with my selfe, how to digest some jealousie, or\nmeditating on the uncertaintie of some conceived hope, when God he\nknowes, I was entertaining my selfe with the remembrance of some one\nor other, that but few daies before was taken with a burning fever,\nand of his sodaine end, comming from such a feast or meeting where I\nwas my selfe, and with his head full of idle conceits, of lore, and\nmerry glee; supposing the same, either sickness or end, to be as\nneere me as him.\n\n    Iam fuerit, nec post, unquam revocare licebit.\n    [Footnote: Lucr. I. iii. 947.]\n\n    Now time would be, no more You can this time restore.\n\nI did no more trouble my selfe or frowne at such conceit, [Idea.]\nthan at any other. It is impossible we should not apprehend or feele\nsome motions or startings at such imaginations at the first, and\ncomming sodainely upon us; but doubtlesse, he that shall manage and\nmeditate upon them with an impartiall eye, they will assuredly, in\ntract [Course.] of time, become familiar to him: Otherwise, for my\npart, I should be in continuall feare and agonie; for no man did\never more distrust his life, nor make lesse account of his\ncontinuance: Neither can health, which hitherto I have so long\nenjoied, and which so seldome hath beene crazed, [Enfeebled.]\nlengthen my hopes, nor any sicknesse shorten them of it. At every\nminute me thinkes I make an escape. And I uncessantly record unto my\nselfe, that whatsoever may be done another day, may be effected this\nday. Truly hazards and dangers doe little or nothing approach us at\nour end: And if we consider, how many more there remaine, besides\nthis accident, which in number more than millions seeme to threaten\nus, and hang over us; we shall find, that be we sound or sicke,\nlustie or weake, at sea or at land, abroad or at home, fighting or\nat rest, in the middest of a battell or, in our beds, she is ever\nalike neere unto us. Nemo altero fragilior est, nemo in crastinum\nsui certior: \"No man is weaker then other; none surer of himselfe\n(to live) till to morrow.\" Whatsoever I have to doe before death,\nall leasure to end the same seemeth short unto me, yea were it but\nof one houre. Some body, not long since turning over my writing\ntables, found by chance a memoriall of something I would have done\nafter my death: I told him (as indeed it was true), that being but a\nmile from my house, and in perfect health and lustie, I had made\nhaste to write it, because I could not assure my self I should ever\ncome home in safety: As one that am ever hatching of mine owne\nthoughts, and place them in my selfe: I am ever prepared about that\nwhich I may be: nor can death (come when she please) put me in mind\nof any new thing. A man should ever, as much as in him lieth, be\nready booted to take his journey, and above all things, looke he\nhave then nothing to doe but with himselfe.\n\n     Quid brevi fortes jaculamur aevo\n     Multa:\n     [Footnote: Hor. 1. ii. Od. Xiv]\n\n     To aime why are we ever bold,\n     At many things in so short hold?\n\nFor then we shall have worke sufficient, without any more accrease.\nSome man complaineth more that death doth hinder him from the\nassured course of an hoped for victorie, than of death it selfe;\nanother cries out, he should give place to her, before he have\nmarried his daughter, or directed the course of his childrens\nbringing up; another bewaileth he must forgoe his wives company;\nanother moaneth the losse of his children, the chiefest commodities\nof his being. I am now by meanes of the mercy of God in such a\ntaking, that without regret or grieving at any worldly matter, I am\nprepared to dislodge, whensoever he shall please to call me: I am\nevery where free: my farewell is soone taken of all my friends,\nexcept of my selfe. No man did ever pre pare himselfe to quit the\nworld more simply and fully, or more generally spake of all thoughts\nof it, than I am assured I shall doe. The deadest deaths are the\nbest.\n\n   --Miser, de miser (aiunt) omnia ademit.\n     Vna dies infesta mihi tot praemia vitae:\n     [Footnote: Luce. 1. iii. 941.]\n\n     O wretch, O wretch (friends cry), one day,\n     All joyes of life hath tane away:\n\nAnd the builder,\n\n   --manent (saith he) opera interrupta,\n     minaeque Murorum ingentes.\n     [Footnote: Virg. Aen. 1. iv. 88.]\n\n     The workes unfinisht lie,\n     And walls that threatned hie.\n\nA man should designe nothing so long afore-hand, or at least with\nsuch an intent, as to passionate[Footnote: Long passionately.]\nhimselfe to see the end of it; we are all borne to be doing.\n\n     Cum moriar, medium solvar et inter opus\n     [Footnote: Ovid. Am. 1. ii. El. x. 36]\n\n     When dying I my selfe shall spend,\n     Ere halfe my businesse come to end.\n\nI would have a man to be doing, and to prolong his lives offices as\nmuch as lieth in him, and let death seize upon me whilest I am\nsetting my cabiges, carelesse of her dart, but more of my unperfect\ngarden. I saw one die, who being at his last gaspe, uncessantly\ncomplained against his destinie, and that death should so unkindly\ncut him off in the middest of an historie which he had in hand, and\nwas now come to the fifteenth or sixteenth of our Kings.\n\n     Illud in his rebus non addunt, nec tibi earum,\n     Iam desiderium rerum super insidet uno.\n     [Footnote: Luce. 1. iii. 44.]\n\n     Friends adde not that in this case, now no more\n     Shalt thou desire, or want things wisht before.\n\nA man should rid himselfe of these vulgar and hurtful humours. Even\nas Churchyards were first place adjoyning unto churches, and in the\nmost frequented places of the City, to enure (as Lycurgus said) the\ncommon people, women and children, not to be skared at the sight of\na dead man, and to the end that continuall spectacle of bones,\nsculs, tombes, graves and burials, should forewarne us of our\ncondition, and fatall end.\n\n     Quin etiam exhilarare viris convivia caede\n     Mos olim, et miscere epulis spectacula dira\n     Certantum ferro, saepe et super ipsa cadentum\n     Pocula, respersis non parco sanguine mensis.\n     [Footnote: Syl. 1. xi. 51]\n\n     Nay more, the manner was to welcome guests,\n     And with dire shewes of slaughter to mix feasts.\n     Of them that fought at sharpe, and with bords tainted\n     Of them with much bloud, who o'er full cups fainted.\n\nAnd even as the AEgyptians after their feastings and carousings\ncaused a great image of death to be brought in and shewed to the\nguests and bytanders, by one that cried aloud, \"Drinke and be merry,\nfor such shalt thou be when thou art dead: \"So have I learned this\ncustome or lesson, to have alwaies death, not only in my\nimagination, but continually in my mouth. And there is nothing I\ndesire more to be informed of than of the death of men; that is to\nsay, what words, what countenance, and what face they shew at their\ndeath; and in reading of histories, which I so attentively observe.\nIt appeareth by the shuffling and hudling up[Footnote: Collecting]\nof my examples, I affect[Footnote: Like] no subject so particularly\nas this. Were I a composer of books, I would keepe a register,\ncommented of the divers deaths, which in teaching men to die, should\nafter teach them to live. Dicearcus made one of that title, but of\nanother and lesse profitable end. Some man will say to mee, the\neffect exceeds the thought so farre, that there is no fence so sure,\nor cunning so certaine, but a man shall either lose or forget if he\ncome once to that point; let them say what they list: to premeditate\non it, giveth no doubt a great advantage: and it is nothing, at the\nleast, to goe so farre without dismay or alteration, or without an\nague? There belongs more to it: Nature her selfe lends her hand, and\ngives us courage. If it be a short and violent death, wee have no\nleisure to feare it; if otherwise, I perceive that according as I\nengage my selfe in sicknesse, I doe naturally fall into some\ndisdaine and contempt of life. I finde that I have more adoe to\ndigest this resolution, that I shall die when I am in health, than I\nhave when I am troubled with a fever: forsomuch as I have no more\nsuch fast hold on the commodities of life, whereof I begin to lose\nthe use and pleasure, and view death in the face with a lesse\nundanted looke, which makes me hope, that the further I goe from\nthat, and the nearer I approach to this, so much more easily doe I\nenter in composition for their exchange. Even as I have tried in\nmany other occurrences, which Caesar affirmed, that often some\nthings seeme greater, being farre from us, than if they bee neere at\nhand: I have found that being in perfect health, I have much more\nbeene frighted with sicknesse, than when I have felt it. The\njollitie wherein I live, the pleasure and the strength make the\nother seeme so disproportionable from that, that by imagination I\namplifie these commodities by one moitie, and apprehended them much\nmore heavie and burthensome, than I feele them when I have them upon\nmy shoulders. The same I hope will happen to me of death. Consider\nwe by the ordinary mutations, and daily declinations which we\nsuffer, how Nature deprives us of the sight of our losse and\nempairing; what hath an aged man left him of his youths vigor, and\nof his forepast life?\n\n     Heu senibus vita portio quanta manet\n     [Footnote: Com. Gal. 1. i. 16.]\n\n     Alas to men in yeares how small\n     A part of life is left in all?\n\nCaesar, to a tired and crazed [Footnote: diseased] Souldier of his\nguard, who in the open street came to him, to beg leave he might\ncause himselfe to be put to death; viewing his decrepit behaviour,\nanswered pleasantly: \"Doest thou thinke to be alive then?\" Were man\nall at once to fall into it, I doe not thinke we should be able to\nbeare such a change, but being faire and gently led on by her hand,\nin a slow, and as it were unperceived descent, by little and little,\nand step by step, she roules us into that miserable state, and day\nby day seekes to acquaint us with it. So that when youth failes in\nus, we feele, nay we perceive no shaking or transchange at all in\nour selves: which in essence and veritie is a harder death, than\nthat of a languishing and irkesome life, or that of age. Forsomuch\nas the leape from an ill being unto a not being, is not so dangerous\nor steepie; as it is from a delightfull and flourishing being unto a\npainfull and sorrowfull condition. A weake bending, and faint\nstopping bodie hath lesse strength to beare and under goe a heavie\nburden: So hath our soule. She must bee rouzed and raised against\nthe violence and force of this adversarie. For as it is impossible\nshe should take any rest whilest she feareth: whereof if she be\nassured (which is a thing exceeding humane [Footnote: human]\ncondition) she may boast that it is impossible unquietnesse,\ntorment, and feare, much lesse the least displeasure should lodge in\nher.\n\n     Non vultus instantis tyranni\n     Mente quatit solida, neque Auster,\n     Dux inquieti turbidus Adria,\n     Nec fulminantis magna Jovis manus.\n     [Footnote: Hor. I. iii. Od. iii.]\n\n     No urging tyrants threatning face,\n     Where minde is found can it displace,\n     No troublous wind the rough seas Master,\n     Nor Joves great hand, the thunder-caster.\n\nShe is made Mistris of her passions and concupiscence, Lady of\nindulgence, of shame, of povertie, and of all for tunes injuries.\nLet him that can, attaine to this advantage: Herein consists the\ntrue and soveraigne liberty, that affords us meanes wherewith to\njeast and make a scorne of force and injustice, and to deride\nimprisonment, gives [Footnote: Gyves, shackles] or fetters.\n\n       --in manicis, et\n     Compedibus, savo te sub custode tenebo.\n     Ipse Deus simui atque volam, me solvet: opinor\n     Hoc sentit, moriar. Mors ultima linea rerum est.\n     [Footnote: Hor. I. i. Ep. xvi. 76.]\n\n     In gyves and fetters I will hamper thee,\n     Under a Jayler that shall cruell be:\n     Yet, when I will, God me deliver shall,\n     He thinkes, I shall die: death is end of all.\n\nOur religion hath had no surer humane foundation than the contempt\nof life. Discourse of reason doth not only call and summon us unto\nit. For why should we feare to lose a thing, which being lost,\ncannot be moaned? but also, since we are threatened by so many kinds\nof death, there is no more inconvenience to feare them all, than to\nendure one: what matter is it when it commeth, since it is\nunavoidable? Socrates answered one that told him, \"The thirty\ntyrants have condemned thee to death.\" \"And Nature them,\" said he.\nWhat fondnesse is it to carke and care so much, at that instant and\npassage from all exemption of paine and care? As our birth brought\nus the birth of all things, so shall our death the end of all\nthings. Therefore is it as great follie to weepe, we shall not live\na hundred yeeres hence, as to waile we lived not a hundred yeeres\nagoe. \"Death is the beginning of another life.\" So wept we, and so\nmuch did it cost us to enter into this life; and so did we spoile us\nof our ancient vaile in entring into it. Nothing can be grievous\nthat is but once. Is it reason so long to fear a thing of so short\ntime? Long life or short life is made all one by death. For long or\nshort is not in things that are no more. Aristotle saith, there are\ncertaine little beasts alongst the river Hyspanis, that live but one\nday; she which dies at 8 o'clocke in the morning, dies in her youth,\nand she that dies at 5 in the afternoon, dies in her decrepitude,\nwho of us doth not laugh, when we shall see this short moment of\ncontinuance to be had in consideration of good or ill fortune? The\nmost and the least is ours, if we compare it with eternitie, or\nequall it to the lasting of mountains, rivers, stars, and trees, or\nany other living creature, is not lesse ridiculous. But nature\ncompels us to it. Depart (saith she) out of this world, even as you\ncame into it. The same way you came from death to life, returne\nwithout passion or amazement, from life to death: your death is but\na peece of the worlds order, and but a parcell of the worlds life.\n\n   --inter se mortales mutua vivunt,\n     Et quasi cursores vitae lampada tradunt.\n     [Footnote: Lucret. ii. 74. 77.]\n\n     Mortall men live by mutuall entercourse:\n     And yeeld their life-torch, as men in a course.\n\nShal I not change this goodly contexture of things for you? It is\nthe condition of your creation: death is a part of yourselves: you\nflie from yourselves. The being you enjoy is equally shared betweene\nlife and death. The first day of your birth doth as wel addresse you\nto die, as to live.\n\n     Prima quae vitam dedit, hora, carpsit.\n     [Footnote: Sen. Her. Sw. ckor. Iii.]\n\n     The first houre, that to men\n     Gave life, strait, cropt it then.\n\n     Nascentes morimur, finisque ab origine pendet:\n     [Footnote: Manil. At. l. iv]\n\n     As we are borne we die; the end\n     Doth of th' originall depend.\n\nAll the time you live, you steale it from death: it is at her\ncharge. The continuall worke of your life, is to contrive death: you\nare in death, during the time you continue in life: for, you are\nafter death, when you are no longer living. Or if you had rather\nhave it so, you are dead after life: but during life, you are still\ndying: and death doth more rudely touch the dying than the dead, and\nmore lively and essentially. If you have profited by life, you have\nalso beene fed thereby, depart then satisfied.\n\n     Cur non ut plenus vitae conviva recedis?\n     [Footnote: Lucret. 1. iii. 982.]\n\n     Why like a full-fed guest,\n     Depart you not to rest?\n\nIf you have not knowne how to make use of it: if it were\nunprofitable to you, what need you care to have lost it to what end\nwould you enjoy it longer?\n\n   --cur amplius addere quaeris\n     Rursum quod pereat male,\n     et ingratum occidat omne?\n     [Footnote: Lucret. 1. iii. 989.]\n\n     Why seeke you more to gaine, what must againe\n     All perish ill, and passe with griefe or paine?\n\nLife in itselfe is neither good nor evill: it is the place of good\nor evill, according as you prepare it for them. And if you have\nlived one day, you have seene all: one day is equal to all other\ndaies. There is no other light, there is no other night. This Sunne,\nthis Moone, these Starres, and this disposition, is the very same\nwhich your forefathers enjoyed, and which shall also entertaine your\nposteritie.\n\n     Non alium videre patres, aliumve nepotes\n     Aspicient.\n     [Footnote: Manil. i. 523.]\n\n     No other saw our Sires of old,\n     No other shall their sonnes behold.\n\nAnd if the worst happen, the distribution and varietie of all the\nacts of my comedie, is performed in one yeare. If you have observed\nthe course of my foure seasons; they containe the infancie, the\nyouth, the viriltie, and the old age of the world. He hath plaied\nhis part: he knowes no other wilinesse belonging to it, but to begin\nagaine, it will ever be the same, and no other.\n\n     Versamur ibidem, atque insumus usque,\n     [Footnote: Lucret. 1. iii. 123.]\n\n     We still in one place turne about,\n     Still there we are, now in, now out.\n\n     Atque in se sua per vestigia volvitur annus.\n     [Footnote: Virg. Georg. 1. ii. 403.]\n\n     The yeare into it selfe is cast\n     By those same steps, that it hath past.\n\nI am not purposed to devise you other new sports.\n\n     Nam tibi praterea quod machiner, inveniamque\n     Quod placeat nihil est; eadem suni omnia semper.\n     [Footnote: Lucret. 1. ii. 978.]\n\n     Else nothing, that I can devise or frame,\n     Can please thee, for all things are still the same.\n\nMake roome for others, as others have done for you. Equalitie is the\nchiefe ground-worke of equitie, who can complaine to be comprehended\nwhere all are contained? So may you live long enough, you shall\nnever diminish anything from the time you have to die: it is\nbootlesse; so long shall you continue in that state which you feare,\nas if you had died, being in your swathing-clothes, and when you\nwere sucking.\n\n   --licet, quot vis, vivendo vincere secla.\n     Mors sterna tamen, nihilominus ilia manebit.\n     [Footnote: Ib. 1126.]\n\n     Though yeares you live, as many as you will,\n     Death is eternall, death remaineth still.\n\nAnd I will so please you, that you shall have no discontent.\n\n     In vera nescis nullum fore morte alium te,\n     Qui possit vivus tibi te lugere peremptum,\n     Stansque jacentem.\n     [Footnote: Idt. 1. Iii. 9.]\n\n     Thou know'st not there shall be not other thou,\n     When thou art dead indeed, that can tell how\n     Alive to waile thee dying, Standing to waile thee lying.\n\nNor shall you wish for life, which you so much desire\n\n     Nec sibi enim quisquam tum se vitamque requirit,\n     [Footnote: ib. 963.]\n     Nec desiderium nostri nos afficit ullum.\n     [Footnote: Ib. 966.]\n\n     For then none for himselfe or life requires:\n     Nor are we of our selves affected with desires.\n\nDeath is lesse to be feared than nothing, if there were anything\nlesse than nothing.\n\n     --multo mortem minus ad nos esse putandum,\n     Si minus esse potest quam quod nihil esse videmus.\n     [Footnote: Ib. 970.]\n\n     Death is much less to us, we ought esteeme,\n     If lesse may be, than what doth nothing seeme.\n\nNor alive, nor dead, it doth concern you nothing. Alive because you\nare: Dead, because you are no more. Moreover, no man dies before his\nhoure. The time you leave behinde was no more yours than that which\nwas before your birth, and concerneth you no more.\n\n     Respice enim quam nil ad nos anteacta vetustas\n     Temporis aeterni fuerit.\n     [Footnote: Ib. 1016.]\n\n     For marke, how all antiquitie foregone\n     Of all time ere we were, to us was none.\n\nWheresoever your life ended, there is it all. The profit of life\nconsists not in the space, but rather in the use. Some man hath\nlived long, that hath a short life, Follow it whilst you have time.\nIt consists not in number of yeeres, but in your will, that you have\nlived long enough. Did you thinke you should never come to the\nplace, where you were still going? There is no way but hath an end.\nAnd if company may solace you, doth not the whole world walke the\nsame path?\n\n   --Omnia te, vita perfuncta, sequentur.\n     [Footnote: Ib. 1012.]\n\n     Life past, all things at last\n     Shall follow thee as thou hast past.\n\nDoe not all things move as you doe, or keepe your course? Is there\nany thing grows not old together with yourselfe? A thousand men, a\nthousand beasts, and a thousand other creatures die in the very\ninstant that you die.\n\n     Nam nox nulla diem, neque noctem aurora sequuta est,\n     Que non audierit mistus vagitibus aegris\n     Ploratus, mortis comites et funeris atri.\n     [Footnote: Id. i. ii. 587.]\n\n     No night ensued day light; no morning followed night,\n     Which heard not moaning mixt with sick-mens groaning,\n     With deaths and funerals joyned was that moaning.\n\nTo what end recoile you from it, if you cannot goe backe. You have\nseene many who have found good in death, ending thereby many many\nmiseries. But have you seene any that hath received hurt thereby?\nTherefore it is meere simplicitie to condemne a thing you never\napprove, neither by yourselfe nor any other. Why doest thou\ncomplaine of me and of destinie? Doe we offer thee any wrong? is it\nfor thee to direct us, or for us to governe thee? Although thy age\nbe not come to her period, thy life is. A little man is a whole man\nas well as a great man. Neither men nor their lives are measured by\nthe Ell. Chiron refused immortalitie, being informed of the\nconditions thereof, even by the God of time and of continuance,\nSaturne his father. Imagine truly how much an ever-during life would\nbe lesse tolerable and more painfull to a man, than is the life\nwhich I have given him. Had you not death you would then uncessantly\ncurse, and cry out against me, that I had deprived you of it. I have\nof purpose and unwittingly blended some bitternesse amongst it, that\nso seeing the commoditie of its use, I might hinder you from over-\ngreedily embracing, or indiscreetly calling for it. To continue in\nthis moderation that is, neither to fly from life nor to run to\ndeath (which I require of you) I have tempered both the one and\nother betweene sweetnes and sowrenes. I first taught Thales, the\nchiefest of your Sages and Wisemen, that to live and die were\nindifferent, which made him answer one very wisely, who asked him\nwherefore he died not: \"Because,\" said he, \"it is indifferent. The\nwater, the earth, the aire, the fire, and other members of this my\nuniverse, are no more the instruments of thy life than of thy death.\nWhy fearest thou thy last day? He is no more guiltie, and conferreth\nno more to thy death, than any of the others. It is not the last\nstep that causeth weariness: it only declares it. All daies march\ntowards death, only the last comes to it.\" Behold heere the good\nprecepts of our universall mother Nature. I have oftentimes\nbethought my self whence it proceedeth, that in times of warre, the\nvisage of death (whether wee see it in us or in others) seemeth\nwithout all comparison much lesse dreadful and terrible unto us,\nthan in our houses, or in our beds, otherwise it should be an armie\nof Physitians and whiners, and she ever being one, there must needs\nbee much more assurance amongst countrie-people and of base\ncondition, than in others. I verily believe, these fearefull lookes,\nand astonishing countenances wherewith we encompass it, are those\nthat more amaze and terrifie us than death: a new forme of life; the\nout cries of mothers; the wailing of women and children; the\nvisitation of dismaid and swouning friends; the assistance of a\nnumber of pale-looking, distracted, and whining servants; a darke\nchamber; tapers burning round about; our couch beset round with\nPhysitians and Preachers; and to conclude, nothing but horror and\nastonishment on every side of us: are wee not already dead and\nburied? The very children are afraid of their friends, when they see\nthem masked; and so are we. The maske must as well be taken from\nthings as from men, which being removed, we shall find nothing hid\nunder it, but the very same death, that a seely[Footnote: weak,\nsimple] varlet, or a simple maid-servant, did latterly suffer\nwithout amazement or feare. Happie is that death which takes all\nleasure from the preparations of such an equipage.\n\n\n\n\nOF THE INSTITUTION AND EDUCATION OF CHILDREN; TO THE LADIE DIANA OF\nFOIX, COUNTESSE OF GURSON\n\nI never knew father, how crooked and deformed soever his sonne were,\nthat would either altogether cast him off, or not acknowledge him\nfor his owne: and yet (unlesse he be meerely besotted or blinded in\nhis affection) it may not be said, but he plainly perceiveth his\ndefects, and hath a feeling of his imperfections. But so it is, he\nis his owne. So it is in my selfe. I see better than any man else,\nthat what I have set downe is nought but the fond imaginations of\nhim who in his youth hath tasted nothing but the paring, and seen\nbut the superficies of true learning: whereof he hath retained but a\ngenerall and shapelesse forme: a smacke of every thing in generall,\nbut nothing to the purpose in particular: After the French manner.\nTo be short, I know there is an art of Phisicke; a course of lawes;\nfoure parts of the Mathematikes; and I am not altogether ignorant\nwhat they tend unto. And perhaps I also know the scope and drift of\nSciences in generall to be for the service of our life. But to wade\nfurther, or that ever I tired my selfe with plodding upon Aristotle\n(the Monarch of our moderne doctrine 1) or obstinately continued in\nsearch of any one science: I confesse I never did it. Nor is there\nany one art whereof I am able so much as to draw the first\nlineaments. And there is no scholler (be he of the lowest forme)\nthat may not repute himselfe wiser than I, who am not able to oppose\nhim in his first lesson: and if I be forced to it, I am constrained\nverie impertinently to draw in matter from some generall discourse,\nwhereby I examine, and give a guesse at his naturall judgement: a\nlesson as much unknowne to them as theirs is to me. I have not dealt\nor had commerce with any excellent booke, except Plutarke or Seneca,\nfrom whom (as the Danaides) I draw my water, uncessantly filling,\nand as fast emptying: some thing whereof I fasten to this paper, but\nto my selfe nothing at all. And touching bookes: Historie is my\nchiefe studie, Poesie my only delight, to which I am particularly\naffected: for as Cleanthes said, that as the voice being forciblie\npent in the narrow gullet of a trumpet, at last issueth forth more\nstrong and shriller, so me seemes, that a sentence cunningly and\nclosely couched in measure keeping Posie, darts it selfe forth more\nfuriously, and wounds me even to the quicke. And concerning the\nnaturall faculties that are in me (whereof behold here an essay), I\nperceive them to faint under their owne burthen; my conceits,\n[Footnote: Ideas.] and my judgement march but uncertaine, and as it\nwere groping, staggering, and stumbling at every rush: And when I\nhave gone as far as I can, I have no whit pleased my selfe: for the\nfurther I saile the more land I descrie, and that so dimmed with\nfogges, and overcast with clouds, that my sight is so weakned, I\ncannot distinguish the same. And then undertaking to speake\nindifferently of all that presents it selfe unto my fantasie, and\nhaving nothing but mine owne naturall meanes to imploy therein, if\nit be my hap (as commonly it is) among good Authors, to light upon\nthose verie places which I have undertaken to treat off, as even now\nI did in Plutarke reading his discourse of the power of imagination,\nwherein in regard of those wise men, I acknowledge my selfe so weake\nand so poore, so dull and grose-headed, as I am forced both to\npittie and disdaine my selfe, yet am I pleased with this, that my\nopinions have often the grace to jump with theirs, and that I follow\nthem a loofe-off, [Footnote: At a distance.] and thereby possesse at\nleast, that which all other men have not; which is, that I know the\nutmost difference betweene them and my selfe: all which\nnotwithstanding, I suffer my inventions to run abroad, as weake and\nfaint as I have produced them, without bungling and botching the\nfaults which this comparison hath discovered to me in them. A man\nhad need have a strong backe, to undertake to march foot to foot\nwith these kind of men. The indiscreet writers of our age, amidst\ntheir triviall [Footnote: Commonplace.] compositions, intermingle\nand wrest in whole sentences taken from ancient Authors, supposing\nby such filching-theft to purchase honour and reputation to\nthemselves, doe cleane contrarie. For, this infinite varietie and\ndissemblance of lustres, makes a face so wan, so il-favored, and so\nuglie, in respect of theirs, that they lose much more than gaine\nthereby. These were two contrarie humours: The Philosopher\nChrisippus was wont to foist-in amongst his bookes, not only whole\nsentences and other long-long discourses, but whole bookes of other\nAuthors, as in one, he brought in Euripides his Medea. And\nApollodorus was wont to say of him, that if one should draw from out\nhis bookes what he had stolne from others, his paper would remaine\nblanke. Whereas Epicurus cleane contrarie to him in three hundred\nvolumes he left behind him, had not made use of one allegation.\n[Footnote: Citation.] It was my fortune not long since to light upon\nsuch a place: I had languishingly traced after some French words, so\nnaked and shallow, and so void either of sense or matter, that at\nlast I found them to be nought but meere French words; and after a\ntedious and wearisome travell, I chanced to stumble upon an high,\nrich, and even to the clouds-raised piece, the descent whereof had\nit been somewhat more pleasant or easie, or the ascent reaching a\nlittle further, it had been excusable, and to be borne with-all; but\nit was such a steepie downe-fall, and by meere strength hewen out of\nthe maine rocke, that by reading of the first six words, me thought\nI was carried into another world: whereby I perceive the bottome\nwhence I came to be so low and deep, as I durst never more adventure\nto go through it; for, if I did stuffe any one of my discourses with\nthose rich spoiles, it would manifestly cause the sottishnesse\n[Footnote: Foolishness.] of others to appeare. To reprove mine owne\nfaults in others, seemes to me no more unsufferable than to\nreprehend (as I doe often) those of others in my selfe. They ought\nto be accused every where, and have all places of Sanctuarie taken\nfrom them: yet do I know how over boldly, at all times I adventure\nto equall my selfe unto my filchings, and to march hand in hand with\nthem; not without a fond hardie hope, that I may perhaps be able to\nbleare the eyes of the Judges from discerning them. But it is as\nmuch for the benefit of my application, as for the good of mine\ninvention and force. And I doe not furiously front, and bodie to\nbodie wrestle with those old champions: it is but by flights,\nadvantages, and false offers I seek to come within them, and if I\ncan, to give them a fall. I do not rashly take them about the necke,\nI doe but touch them, nor doe I go so far as by my bargaine I would\nseeme to doe; could I but keepe even with them, I should then be an\nhonest man; for I seeke not to venture on them, but where they are\nstrongest. To doe as I have seen some, that is, to shroud themselves\nunder other armes, not daring so much as to show their fingers ends\nunarmed, and to botch up all their works (as it is an easie matter\nin a common subject, namely for the wiser sort) with ancient\ninventions, here and there hudled up together. And in those who\nendeavoured to hide what they have filched from others, and make it\ntheir owne, it is first a manifest note of injustice, then a plaine\nargument of cowardlinesse; who having nothing of any worth in\nthemselves to make show of, will yet under the countenance of others\nsufficiencie goe about to make a faire offer: Moreover (oh great\nfoolishnesse) to seek by such cosening [Footnote: Cheating.] tricks\nto forestall the ignorant approbation of the common sort, nothing\nfearing to discover their ignorance to men of understanding (whose\npraise only is of value) who will soone trace out such borrowed\nware. As for me, there is nothing I will doe lesse. I never speake\nof others, but that I may the more speake of my selfe. This\nconcerneth not those mingle-mangles of many kinds of stuffe, or as\nthe Grecians call them Rapsodies, that for such are published, of\nwhich kind I have (since I came to yeares of discretion) seen divers\nmost ingenious and wittie; amongst others, one under the name of\nCapilupus; besides many of the ancient stampe. These are wits of\nsuch excellence, as both here and elsewhere they will soone be\nperceived, as our late famous writer Lipsius, in his learned and\nlaborious work of the Politikes: yet whatsoever come of it, for so\nmuch as they are but follies, my intent is not to smother them, no\nmore than a bald and hoarie picture of mine, where a Painter hath\ndrawne not a perfect visage, but mine owne. For, howsoever, these\nare but my humors and opinions, and I deliver them but to show what\nmy conceit [Footnote: notion] is, and not what ought to be beleeved.\nWherein I ayme at nothing but to display my selfe, who peradventure\n(if a new prentiship change me) shall be another to morrow. I have\nno authoritie to purchase beliefe, neither do I desire it; knowing\nwell that I am not sufficiently taught to instruct others. Some\nhaving read my precedent Chapter [Footnote: \"Of Pedantism\"], told me\nnot long since in mine owne house, I should somewhat more have\nextended my selfe in the discourse concerning the institution of\nchildren. Now (Madam) if there were any sufficiencie in me touching\nthat subject, I could not better employ the same than to bestow it\nas a present upon that little lad, which ere long threatneth to make\na happie issue from out your honorable woombe; for (Madame) you are\ntoo generous to begin with other than a man childe. And having had\nso great a part in the conduct of your successeful marriage, I may\nchallenge some right and interest in the greatnesse and prosperitie\nof all that shall proceed from it: moreover, the ancient and\nrightfull possession, which you from time to time have ever had, and\nstill have over my service, urgeth me with more than ordinarie\nrespects, to wish all honour, well-fare and advantage to whatsoever\nmay in any sort concerne you and yours. And truly, my meaning is but\nto show that the greatest difficultie, and importing all humane\nknowledge, seemeth to be in this point, where the nurture and\ninstitution of young children is in question. For, as in matters of\nhusbandrie, the labor that must be used before sowing, setting, and\nplanting, yea in planting itselfe, is most certaine and easie. But\nwhen that which was sowen, set and planted, commeth to take life;\nbefore it come to ripenesse, much adoe, and great varietie of\nproceeding belongeth to it. So in men, it is no great matter to get\nthem, but being borne, what continuall cares, what diligent\nattendance, what doubts and feares, doe daily wait to their parents\nand tutors, before they can be nurtured and brought to any good? The\nfore-shew of their inclination whilest they are young is so\nuncertaine, their humours so variable, their promises so changing,\ntheir hopes so false, and their proceedings so doubtful, that it is\nvery hard (yea for the wisest) to ground any certaine judgment, or\nassured successe upon them. Behold Cymon, view Themistocles, and a\nthousand others, how they have differed, and fallen to better from\nthemselves, and deceive the expectation of such as knowe them. The\nyoung whelps both of Dogges and Beares at first sight shew their\nnaturall disposition, but men headlong embracing this custome or\nfashion, following that humor or opinion, admitting this or that\npassion, allowing of that or this law, are easily changed, and soone\ndisguised; yet it is hard to force the naturall propension or\nreadinesse of the mind, whereby it followeth, that for want of\nheedie fore-sight in those that could not guide their course well,\nthey often employ much time in vaine, to addresse young children in\nthose matters whereunto they are not naturally addicted. All which\ndifficulties notwithstanding, mine opinion is, to bring them up in\nthe best and profitablest studies, and that a man should slightly\npasse over those fond presages, and deceiving prognostikes, which we\nover precisely gather in their infancie. And (without offence be it\nsaid) me thinks that Plato in his \"Commonwealth\" allowed them too-\ntoo much authoritie.\n\nMadame, Learning joyned with true knowledge is an especiall and\ngracefull ornament, and an implement of wonderful use and\nconsequence, namely, in persons raised to that degree of fortune\nwherein you are. And in good truth, learning hath not her owne true\nforme, nor can she make shew of her beauteous lineaments, if she\nfall into the hands of base and vile persons. [For, as famous\nTorquato Tasso saith: \"Philosophie being a rich and noble Queene,\nand knowing her owne worth, graciously smileth upon and lovingly\nembraceth Princes and noble men, if they become suiters to her,\nadmitting them as her minions, and gently affoording them all the\nfavours she can; whereas upon the contrarie, if she be wooed, and\nsued unto by clownes, mechanicall fellowes, and such base kind of\npeople, she holds herselfe disparaged and disgraced, as holding no\nproportion with them. And therefore see we by experience, that if a\ntrue Gentleman or nobleman follow her with any attention, and woo\nher with importunitie, he shall learne and know more of her, and\nprove a better scholler in one yeare, than an ungentle or base\nfellow shall in seven, though he pursue her never so attentively.\"]\nShe is much more readie and fierce to lend her furtherance and\ndirection in the conduct of a warre, to attempt honourable actions,\nto command a people, to treat a peace with a prince of forraine\nnation, than she is to forme an argument in Logick, to devise a\nSyllogisme, to canvase a case at the barre, or to prescribe a receit\nof pills. So (noble Ladie) forsomuch as I cannot perswade myselfe,\nthat you will either forget or neglect this point, concerning the\ninstitution of yours, especially having tasted the sweetnesse\nthereof, and being descended of so noble and learned a race. For we\nyet possesse the learned compositions of the ancient and noble\nEarles of Foix, from out whose heroicke loynes your husband and you\ntake your of-spring. And Francis Lord of Candale, your worthie\nuncle, doth daily bring forth such fruits thereof, as the knowledge\nof the matchlesse qualitie of your house shall hereafter extend\nitselfe to many ages; I will therefore make you acquainted with one\nconceit of mine, which contrarie to the common use I hold, and that\nis all I am able to affoord you concerning that matter. The charge\nof the Tutor, which you shall appoint your sonne, in the choice of\nwhom consisteth the whole substance of his education and bringing\nup; on which are many branches depending, which (forasmuch as I can\nadde nothing of any moment to it) I will not touch at all. And for\nthat point, wherein I presume to advise him, he may so far forth\ngive credit unto it, as he shall see just cause. To a gentleman\nborne of noble parentage, and heire of a house that aymeth at true\nlearning, and in it would be disciplined, not so much for gane or\ncommoditie to himselfe (because so abject an end is far unworthie\nthe grace and favour of the Muses, and besides, hath a regard or\ndependencie of others) nor for externall shew and ornament, but to\nadorne and enrich his inward minde, desiring rather to shape and\ninstitute an able and sufficient man, than a bare learned man; my\ndesire is therefore, that the parents or overseers of such a\ngentleman be very circumspect, and careful in chusing his director,\nwhom I would rather commend for having a well composed and temperate\nbraine, than a full stuft head, yet both will doe well. And I would\nrather prefer wisdome, judgement, civill customes, and modest\nbehaviour, than bare and meere literall learning; and that in his\ncharge he hold a new course. Some never cease brawling in their\nschollers eares (as if they were still pouring in a tonell) to\nfollow their booke, yet is their charge nothing else but to repeat\nwhat hath beene told them before. I would have a tutor to correct\nthis part, and that at first entrance, according to the capacitie of\nthe wit he hath in hand, he should begin to make shew of it, making\nhim to have a smacke of all things, and how to choose and\ndistinguish them, without helpe of others, sometimes opening him the\nway, other times leaving him to open it by himselfe. I would not\nhave him to invent and speake alone, but suffer his disciple to\nspeake when his turne commeth. Socrates, and after him Arcesilaus,\nmade their schollers to speake first, and then would speake\nthemselves. Obest plerumque iis qui discere volunt, auctoritas eorum\nqui docent: [Footnote: CIC. De Nat. 1. i] \"Most commonly the\nauthoritie of them that teach, hinders them that would learne.\"\n\nIt is therefore meet that he make him first trot-on before him,\nwhereby he may the better judge of his pace, and so guesse how long\nhe will hold out, that accordingly he may fit his strength; for want\nof which proportion we often marre all. And to know how to make a\ngood choice, and how far forth one may proceed (still keeping a due\nmeasure), is one of the hardest labours I know. It is a signe of a\nnoble, and effect of an undanted spirit, to know how to second, and\nhow far forth he shall condescend to his childish proceedings, and\nhow to guide them. As for myselfe, I can better and with more\nstrength walke up than downe a hill. Those which, according to our\ncommon fashion, undertake with one selfe-same lesson, and like maner\nof education, to direct many spirits of divers formes and different\nhumours, it is no marvell if among a multitude of children, they\nscarce meet with two or three that reap any good fruit by their\ndiscipline, or that come to any perfection. I would not only have\nhim to demand an accompt of the words contained in his lesson, but\nof the sense and substance thereof, and judge of the profit he hath\nmade of it, not by the testimonie of his memorie, but by the\nwitnesse of his life. That what he lately learned, he cause him to\nset forth and pourtray the same into sundrie shapes, and then to\naccommodate it to as many different and severall subjects, whereby\nhe shal perceive, whether he have yet apprehended the same, and\ntherein enfeoffed himselfe, [Footnote: Taken possession.] at due\ntimes taking his instruction from the institution given by Plato. It\nis a signe of cruditie and indigestion for a man to yeeld up his\nmeat, even as he swallowed the same; the stomacke hath not wrought\nhis full operation, unlesse it have changed forme, and altered\nfashion of that which was given him to boyle and concoct.\n\n[Wee see men gape after no reputation but learning, and when they\nsay, such a one is a learned man, they thinke they have said\nenough;] Our minde doth move at others pleasure, and tyed and forced\nto serve the fantasies of others, being brought under by authoritie,\nand forced to stoope to the lure of their bare lesson; wee have\nbeene so subjected to harpe upon one string, that we have no way\nleft us to descant upon voluntarie; our vigor and libertie is cleane\nextinct. Nunquam tutelae suae fiunt: \"They never come to their owne\ntuition.\" It was my hap to bee familiarlie acquainted with an honest\nman at Pisa, but such an Aristotelian, as he held this infallible\nposition; that a conformitie to Aristotles doctrine was the true\ntouchstone and squire [Footnote: Square.] of all solid imaginations\nand perfect veritie; for, whatsoever had no coherencie with it, was\nbut fond Chimeraes and idle humors; inasmuch as he had knowne all,\nseene all, and said all. This proposition of his being somewhat over\namply and injuriously interpreted by some, made him a long time\nafter to be troubled in the inquisition of Rome. I would have him\nmake his scholler narrowly to sift all things with discretion, and\nharbour nothing in his head by mere authoritie, or upon trust.\nAristotles principles shall be no more axiomes unto him, than the\nStoikes or Epicurians. Let this diversitie of judgements be proposed\nunto him, if he can, he shall be able to distinguish the truth from\nfalsehood, if not, he will remaine doubtful.\n\n     Che non men che saper dubbiar m'aggrata.\n     [Footnote: DANTE, Inferno, cant. xi. 93.]\n\n     No lesse it pleaseth me,\n     To doubt, than wise to be.\n\nFor if by his owne discourse he embrace the opinions of Xenophon or\nof Plato, they shall be no longer theirs, but his. He that meerely\nfolloweth another, traceth nothing, and seeketh nothing: Non sumus\nsub Rege, sibi quisque se vindicet: [Footnote: SEN. Epist. xxxiii.]\n\"We are not under a Kings command, every one may challenge himselfe,\nfor let him at least know that he knoweth.\" It is requisite he\nendevour as much to feed himselfe with their conceits, as labour to\nlearne their precepts; which, so he know how to applie, let him\nhardily forget, where or whence he had them. Truth and reason are\ncommon to all, and are no more proper unto him that spake them\nheretofore, then unto him that shall speake them hereafter. And it\nis no more according to Platoes opinion than to mine, since both he\nand I understand and see alike. The Bees do here and there sucke\nthis and cull that flower, but afterward they produce the hony,\nwhich is peculiarly their owne, then is it no more Thyme or Majoram.\nSo of peeces borrowed of others, he may lawfully alter, transforme,\nand confound them, to shape out of them a perfect peece of worke,\naltogether his owne; alwaies provided his judgement, his travell,\n[Footnote: Travail, labor.] studie, and institution tend to nothing,\nbut to frame the same perfect. Let him hardily conceale where or\nwhence he hath had any helpe, and make no shew of anything, but of\nthat which he hath made himselfe. Pirates, pilchers, and borrowers,\nmake a shew of their purchases and buildings, but not of that which\nthey have taken from others: you see not the secret fees or bribes\nLawyers take of their Clients, but you shall manifestly discover the\nalliances they make, the honours they get for their children, and\nthe goodly houses they build. No man makes open shew of his receits,\nbut every one of his gettings. The good that comes of studie (or at\nleast should come) is to prove better, wiser and honester. It is the\nunderstanding power (said Epicharmus) that seeth and heareth, it is\nit that profiteth all and disposeth all, that moveth, swayeth, and\nruleth all: all things else are but blind, senselesse, and without\nspirit. And truly in barring him of libertie to doe any thing of\nhimselfe, we make him thereby more servile and more coward. Who\nwould ever enquire of his scholler what he thinketh of Rhetorike, of\nGrammar, of this or of that sentence of Cicero? Which things\nthoroughly fethered (as if they were oracles) are let flie into our\nmemorie; in which both letters and syllables are substantiall parts\nof the subject. To know by roat is no perfect knowledge, but to keep\nwhat one hath committed to his memories charge, is commendable: what\na man directly knoweth, that will he dispose of, without turning\nstill to his booke or looking to his pattern. A meere bookish\nsufficiencie is unpleasant. All I expect of it is an imbellishing of\nmy actions, and not a foundation of them, according to Platoes mind,\nwho saith, constancie, faith, and sinceritie are true Philosophie;\nas for other Sciences, and tending elsewhere, they are but garish\npaintings. I would faine have Paluel or Pompey, those two excellent\ndauncers of our time, with all their nimblenesse, teach any man to\ndoe their loftie tricks and high capers, only with seeing them done,\nand without stirring out of his place, as some Pedanticall fellowes\nwould instruct our minds without moving or putting it in practice.\nAnd glad would I be to find one that would teach us how to manage a\nhorse, to tosse a pike, to shoot-off a peece, to play upon the lute,\nor to warble with the voice, without any exercise, as these kind of\nmen would teach us to judge, and how to speake well, without any\nexercise of speaking or judging. In which kind of life, or as I may\nterme it, Prentiship, what action or object soever presents itselfe\ninto our eies, may serve us in stead of a sufficient booke. A\nprettie pranke of a boy, a knavish tricke of a page, a foolish part\nof a lackey, an idle tale or any discourse else, spoken either in\njest or earnest, at the table or in companie, are even as new\nsubjects for us to worke upon: for furtherance whereof, commerce or\ncommon societie among men, visiting of forraine countries, and\nobserving of strange fashions, are verie necessary, not only to be\nable (after the manner of our yong gallants of France) to report how\nmany paces the Church of Santa Rotonda is in length or breadth, or\nwhat rich garments the curtezan Signora Livia weareth, and the worth\nof her hosen; or as some do, nicely to dispute how much longer or\nbroader the face of Nero is, which they have seene in some old\nruines of Italie, than that which is made for him in other old\nmonuments else-where. But they should principally observe, and be\nable to make certaine relation of the humours and fashions of those\ncountries they have seene, that they may the better know how to\ncorrect and prepare their wits by those of others. I would therefore\nhave him begin even from his infancie to travell abroad; and first,\nthat at one shoot he may hit two markes he should see neighbour-\ncountries, namely where languages are most different from ours; for,\nunlesse a mans tongue be fashioned unto them in his youth, he shall\nnever attaine to the true pronunciation of them if he once grow in\nyeares. Moreover, we see it received as a common opinion of the\nwiser sort, that it agreeth not with reason, that a childe be\nalwaies nuzzled, cockered, dandled, and brought up in his parents\nlap or sight; forsomuch as their naturall kindnesse, or (as I may\ncall it) tender fondnesse, causeth often, even the wisest to prove\nso idle, so over-nice, and so base-minded. For parents are not\ncapable, neither can they find in their hearts to see them checkt,\ncorrected, or chastised, nor indure to see them brought up so\nmeanly, and so far from daintinesse, and many times so dangerously,\nas they must needs be. And it would grieve them to see their\nchildren come home from those exercises, that a Gentleman must\nnecessarily acquaint himselfe with, sometimes all wet and bemyred,\nother times sweatie and full of dust, and to drinke being either\nextreme hot or exceeding cold; and it would trouble them to see him\nride a rough-untamed horse, or with his weapon furiously incounter a\nskilful Fencer, or to handle or shoot-off a musket; against which\nthere is no remedy, if he will make him prove a sufficient,\ncompleat, or honest man: he must not be spared in his youth; and it\nwill come to passe, that he shall many times have occasion and be\nforced to shocke the rules of Physicke.\n\n     Vitamque sub dio et trepidis agat\n     In rebus.\n     [Footnote: Hor. I. i. Od. ii. 4.]\n\n     Leade he his life in open aire,\n     And in affaires full of despaire.\n\nIt is not sufficient to make his minde strong, his muskles must also\nbe strengthened: the mind is over-borne if it be not seconded: and\nit is too much for her alone to discharge two offices. I have a\nfeeling how mine panteth, being joyned to so tender and sensible\n[Footnote: Sensitive.] a bodie, and that lieth so heavie upon it And\nin my lecture, I often perceive how my Authors in their writings\nsometimes commend examples for magnanimitie and force, that rather\nproceed from a thicke skin and hardnes of the bones. I have knowne\nmen, women and children borne of so hard a constitution, that a blow\nwith a cudgell would lesse hurt them, than a filip would doe me, and\nso dull and blockish, that they will neither stir tongue nor\neyebrowes, beat them never so much. When wrestlers goe about to\ncounterfeit the Philosophers patience, they rather shew the vigor of\ntheir sinnewes than of their heart. For the custome to beare\ntravell, is to tolerate griefe: Labor callum obducit dolori.\n[Footnote: Cic. Tusc. Qu. I. ii.] \"Labour worketh a hardnesse upon\nsorrow.\" Hee must be enured to suffer the paine and hardnesse of\nexercises, that so he may be induced to endure the paine of the\ncolicke, of cauterie, of fals, of sprains, and other diseases\nincident to mans bodie: yea, if need require, patiently to beare\nimprisonment and other tortures, by which sufferance he shall come\nto be had in more esteeme and accompt: for according to time and\nplace, the good as well as the bad man may haply fall into them; we\nhave seen it by experience. Whosoever striveth against the lawes,\nthreats good men with mischiefe and extortion. Moreover, the\nauthoritie of the Tutor (who should be soveraigne over him) is by\nthe cockering and presence of the parents, hindred and interrupted:\nbesides the awe and respect which the houshold beares him, and the\nknowledge of the meane, possibilities, and greatnesse of his house,\nare in my judgement no small lets [Footnote: Hindrances.]in a young\nGentleman. In this schoole of commerce, and societie among men, I\nhave often noted this vice, that in lieu of taking acquaintance of\nothers, we only endevour to make our selves knowne to them: and we\nare more ready to utter such merchandize as we have, than to\ningrosse and purchase new commodities. Silence and modestie are\nqualities very convenient to civil conversation. It is also\nnecessary that a young man be rather taught to be discreetly-sparing\nand close-handed, than prodigally-wastfull and lavish in his\nexpences, and moderate in husbanding his wealth when he shall come\nto possesse it. And not to take pepper in the nose for every foolish\ntale that shall be spoken in his presence, because it is an uncivil\nimportunity to contradict whatsoever is not agreeing to our humour:\nlet him be pleased to correct himselfe. And let him not seeme to\nblame that in others which he refuseth to doe himselfe, nor goe\nabout to withstand common fashions, Licet sapere sine pompa, sine\ninvidia: [Footnote: SEN. Epist. ciii. f.] \"A man may bee wise\nwithout ostentation, without envie.\" Let him avoid those imperious\nimages of the world, those uncivil behaviours and childish ambition\nwherewith, God wot, too-too many are possest: that is, to make a\nfaire shew of that which is not in him: endevouring to be reputed\nother than indeed he is; and as if reprehension and new devices were\nhard to come by, he would by that meane acquire into himselfe the\nname of some peculiar vertue. As it pertaineth but to great Poets to\nuse the libertie of arts; so is it tolerable but in noble minds and\ngreat spirits to have a preheminence above ordinarie fashions. Si\nquid Socrates et Aristippus contra morem et consuetudinem fecerunt,\nidem sibi ne arbitretur licere: Magis enim illi et divinis bonis\nhanc licentiam assequebantur: [Footnote: CIC. Off. 1. i.] \"If\nSocrates and Aristippus have done ought against custome or good\nmanner, let not a man thinke he may doe the same: for they obtained\nthis licence by their great and excellent good parts:\" He shall be\ntaught not to enter rashly into discourse or contesting, but when he\nshall encounter with a Champion worthie his strength; And then would\nI not have him imploy all the tricks that may fit his turne, but\nonly such as may stand him in most stead. That he be taught to be\ncurious in making choice of his reasons, loving pertinency, and by\nconsequence brevitie. That above all, he be instructed to yeeld, yea\nto quit his weapons unto truth, as soone as he shall discerne the\nsame, whether it proceed from his adversarie, or upon better advice\nfrom himselfe; for he shall not be preferred to any place of\neminencie above others, for repeating of a prescript [Footnote:\nFixed beforehand.] part; and he is not engaged to defend any cause,\nfurther than he may approove it; nor shall he bee of that trade\nwhere the libertie for a man to repent and re-advise himselfe is\nsold for readie money, Neque, ut omnia, que praescripta et imperata\nsint, defendat, necessitate ulla cogitur: [Footnote: CIC. Acad. Qu.\nI. iv.] \"Nor is he inforced by any necessitie to defend and make\ngood all that is prescribed and commanded him.\" If his tutor agree\nwith my humour, he shall frame his affection to be a most loyall and\ntrue subject to his Prince, and a most affectionate and couragious\nGentleman in al that may concerne the honor of his Soveraigne or the\ngood of his countrie, and endevour to suppresse in him all manner of\naffection to undertake any action Otherwise than for a publike good\nand dutie. Besides many inconveniences, which greatly prejudice our\nlibertie by reason of these particular bonds, the judgment of a man\nthat is waged and bought, either it is lesse free and honest, or\nelse it is blemisht with oversight and ingratitude. A meere and\nprecise Courtier can neither have law nor will to speake or thinke\notherwise than favourablie of his Master, who among so many\nthousands of his subjects hath made choice of him alone, to\ninstitute and bring him up with his owne hand. These favours, with\nthe commodities that follow minion [Footnote: Favorite.] Courtiers,\ncorrupt (not without some colour of reason) his libertie, and dazle\nhis judgement. It is therefore commonly scene that the Courtiers-\nlanguage differs from other mens, in the same state, and to be of no\ngreat credit in such matters. Let therefore his conscience and\nvertue shine in his speech, and reason be his chiefe direction, Let\nhim be taught to confesse such faults as he shall discover in his\nowne discourses, albeit none other perceive them but himselfe; for\nit is an evident shew of judgement, and effect of sinceritie, which\nare the chiefest qualities he aymeth at. That wilfully to strive,\nand obstinately to contest in words, are common qualities, most\napparent in basest mindes: That to readvise and correct himselfe,\nand when one is most earnest, to leave an ill opinion, are rare,\nnoble, and Philosophicall conditions. Being in companie, he shall be\nput in minde, to cast his eyes round about, and every where: For I\nnote, that the chiefe places are usually seezed upon by the most\nunworthie and lesse capable; and that height of fortune is seldome\njoyned with sufficiencie. I have scene that whilst they at the upper\nend of a board were busie entertaining themselves with talking of\nthe beautie of the hangings about a chamber, or of the taste of some\ngood cup of wine, many good discourses at the lower end have utterly\nbeen lost. He shall weigh the carriage of every man in his calling,\na Heardsman, a Mason, a Stranger, or a Traveller; all must be\nimployed; every one according to his worth; for all helps to make up\nhoushold; yea, the follie and the simplicitie of others shall be as\ninstructions to him. By controlling the graces and manners of\nothers, he shall acquire unto himselfe envie of the good and\ncontempt of the bad. Let him hardly be possest with an honest\ncuriositie to search out the nature and causes of all things: let\nhim survay whatsoever is rare and singular about him; a building, a\nfountaine, a man, a place where any battell hath been fought, or the\npassages of Caesar or Charlemaine.\n\n     Quae tellus sit lenta gelu, qua putris ab aestu,\n     Ventus in Italiam quis bene vela ferat.\n     [Footnote: Prop. 1. iv. El. iii. 39.]\n\n     What land is parcht with heat, what clog'd with frost.\n     What wind drives kindly to th' Italian coast.\n\nHe shall endevour to be familiarly acquainted with the customes,\nwith the meanes, with the state, with the dependances and alliances\nof all Princes; they are things soone and pleasant to be learned,\nand most profitable to be knowne. In this acquaintance of men, my\nintending is, that hee chiefely comprehend them, that live but by\nthe memorie of bookes. He shall, by the help of Histories, in forme\nhimselfe of the worthiest minds that were in the best ages. It is a\nfrivolous studie, if a man list, but of unvaluable worth to such as\ncan make use of it, and as Plato saith, the only studie the\nLacedemonians reserved for themselves. What profit shall he not\nreap, touching this point, reading the lives of our Plutark? Alwayes\nconditioned, the master bethinke himselfe whereto his charge\ntendeth, and that he imprint not so much in his schollers mind the\ndate of the ruine of Carthage, as the manners of Hanniball and\nScipio, nor so much where Marcellus died, as because he was unworthy\nof his devoire [Footnote: Task.] he died there: that he teach him\nnot so much to know Histories as to judge of them. It is amongst\nthings that best agree with my humour, the subject to which our\nspirits doe most diversly applie themselves. I have read in Titus\nLivius a number of things, which peradventure others never read, in\nwhom Plutarke haply read a hundred more than ever I could read, and\nwhich perhaps the author himselfe did never intend to set downe. To\nsome kind of men it is a meere gramaticali studie, but to others a\nperfect anatomie [Footnote: Dissection, analytical exposition.] of\nPhilosophie; by meanes whereof the secretest part of our nature is\nsearched into. There are in Plutarke many ample discourses most\nworthy to be knowne: for in my judgement, he is the chiefe work-\nmaster of such works, whereof there are a thousand, whereat he hath\nbut slightly glanced; for with his finger he doth but point us out a\nway to walke in, if we list; and is sometimes pleased to give but a\ntouch at the quickest and maine point of a discourse, from whence\nthey are by diligent studie to be drawne, and so brought into open\nmarket. As that saying of his, That the inhabitants of Asia served\nbut one alone, because they could not pronounce one onely syllable,\nwhich is Non, gave perhaps both subject and occasion to my friend\nBoetie to compose his booke of voluntarie servitude. If it were no\nmore but to see Plutarke wrest a slight action to mans life, or a\nword that seemeth to beare no such sence, it will serve for a whole\ndiscourse. It is pittie men of understanding should so much love\nbrevitie; without doubt their reputation is thereby better, but we\nthe worse. Plutarke had rather we should commend him for his\njudgement than for his knowledge, he loveth better to leave a kind\nof longing-desire in us of him, than a satietie. He knew verie well\nthat even in good things too much may be said: and that Alexandridas\ndid justly reprove him who spake verie good sentences to the\nEphores, but they were over tedious. Oh stranger, quoth he, thou\nspeakest what thou oughtest, otherwise then [Footnote: Than.] thou\nshouldest. Those that have leane and thin bodies stuffe them up with\nbumbasting. [Footnote: Padding.] And such as have but poore matter,\nwill puffe it up with loftie words. There is a marvelous\ncleerenesse, or as I may terme it an enlightning of mans judgement\ndrawne from the commerce of men, and by frequenting abroad in the\nworld; we are all so contrived and compact in our selves, that our\nsight is made shorter by the length of our nose. When Socrates was\ndemaunded whence he was, he answered, not of Athens, but of the\nworld; for he, who had his imagination more full and farther\nstretching, embraced all the world for his native Citie, and\nextended his acquaintance, his societie, and affections to all man-\nkind: and not as we do, that looke no further than our feet. If the\nfrost chance to nip the vines about my village, my Priest doth\npresently argue that the wrath of God hangs over our head, and\nthreatneth all mankind: and judgeth that the Pippe [Footnote: A\ndisease.] is alreadie falne upon the Canibals.\n\nIn viewing these intestine and civill broiles of ours, who doth not\nexclaime, that this worlds vast frame is neere unto a dissolution,\nand that the day of judgement is readie to fall on us? never\nremembering that many worse revolutions have been seene, and that\nwhilest we are plunged in griefe, and overwhelmed in sorrow, a\nthousand other parts of the world besides are blessed with\nhappinesse, and wallow in pleasures, and never thinke on us?\nwhereas, when I behold our lives, our licence, and impunitie, I\nwonder to see them so milde and easie. He on whose head it haileth,\nthinks all the Hemispheare besides to be in a storme and tempest.\nAnd as that dull-pated Savoyard said, that if the seelie [Footnote\n31: Simple.] King of France could cunningly have managed his\nfortune, he might verie well have made himselfe chiefe Steward of\nhis Lords household, whose imagination conceived no other greatnesse\nthan his Masters; we are all insensible of this kind of errour: an\nerrour of great consequence and prejudice. But whosoever shall\npresent unto his inward eyes, as it were in a Table, the Idea of the\ngreat image of our universall mother Nature, attired in her richest\nrobes, sitting in the throne of her Majestic, and in her visage\nshall read so generall and so constant a varietie; he that therein\nshall view himselfe, not himselfe alone, but a whole Kingdome, to be\nin respect of a great circle but the smallest point that can be\nimagined, he onely can value things according to their essentiall\ngreatnesse and proportion. This great universe (which some multiplie\nas Species under one Genus) is the true looking-glasse wherein we\nmust looke, if we will know whether we be of a good stamp or in the\nright byase. To conclude, I would have this worlds-frame to be my\nSchollers choise-booke. [Footnote: Book of examples] So many strange\nhumours, sundrie sects, varying judgements, diverse opinions,\ndifferent lawes, and fantasticall customes teach us to judge rightly\nof ours, and instruct our judgement to acknowledge his imperfections\nand naturall weaknesse, which is no easie an apprentiship: So many\ninnovations of estates, so many fals of Princes, and changes of\npublike fortune, may and ought to teach us, not to make so great\naccompt of ours: So many names, so many victories, and so many\nconquests buried in darke oblivion, makes the hope to perpetuate our\nnames but ridiculous, by the surprising of ten Argo-lettiers,\n[Footnote: Mounted Bowmen.] or of a small cottage, which is knowne\nbut by his fall. The pride and fiercenesse of so many strange and\ngorgeous shewes: the pride-puft majestie of so many courts, and of\ntheir greatnesse, ought to confirme and assure our sight,\nundauntedly to beare the affronts and thunder-claps of ours, without\nfeeling our eyes: So many thousands of men, lowlaide in their graves\nafore us, may encourage us not to feare, or be dismaied to go meet\nso good companie in the other world, and so of all things else. Our\nlife (said Pithagoras) drawes neare unto the great and populous\nassemblies of the Olympike games, wherein some, to get the glorie\nand to win the goale of the games, exercise their bodies with all\nindustrie; others, for greedinesse of gaine, bring thither\nmarchandise to sell: others there are (and those be not the worst)\nthat seek after no other good, but to marke how wherefore, and to\nwhat end, all things are done: and to be spectators or observers of\nother mens lives and actions, that so they may the better judge and\ndirect their owne. Unto examples may all the most profitable\nDiscourses of Philosophic be sorted, which ought to be the touch-\nstone of human actions, and a rule to square them by, to whom may be\nsaid,\n\n    ---quid fas optare, quid asper\n     Vtile nummus habet, patriae charisque propinquis\n     Quantum elargiri deceat, quem te Deus esse\n     lussit, et humana qua parte locaius es in re.\n     [Footnote: Pers. Sat. iii. 69.]\n     Quid sumus, aut quidnam victuri gignimur.\n     [Footnote: Ib. 67.]\n\n     What thou maiest wish, what profit may come cleare,\n     From new-stampt coyne, to friends and countrie deare\n     What thou ought'st give: whom God would have thee bee,\n     And in what part mongst men he placed thee.\n     What we are, and wherefore,\n     To live heer we were bore.\n\nWhat it is to know, and not to know (which ought to be the scope of\nstudie), what valour, what temperance, and what justice is: what\ndifference there is betweene ambition and avarice, bondage and\nfreedome, subjection and libertie, by which markes a man may\ndistinguish true and perfect contentment, and how far-forth one\nought to feare or apprehend death, griefe, or shame.\n\n     Et quo quemque modo fugiatque. feratque laborem.\n     [Footnote: Virg. Aen. 1. iii. 853.]\n\n     How ev'ry labour he may plie,\n     And beare, or ev'ry labour flie.\n\nWhat wards or springs move us, and the causes of so many motions in\nus: For me seemeth, that the first discourses, wherewith his conceit\nshould be sprinkled, ought to be those that rule his manners and\ndirect his sense; which will both teach him to know himselfe, and\nhow to live and how to die well. Among the liberall Sciences, let us\nbegin with that which makes us free: Indeed, they may all, in some\nsort stead us, as an instruction to our life, and use of it, as all\nother things else serve the same to some purpose or other. But let\nus make especiall choice of that which may directly and pertinently\nserve the same. If we could restraine and adapt the appurtenances of\nour life to their right byase and naturall limits, we should find\nthe best part of the Sciences that now are in use, cleane out of\nfashion with us: yea, and in those that are most in use, there are\ncertaine by-wayes and deep-flows most profitable, which we should do\nwell to leave, and according to the institution of Socrates, limit\nthe course of our studies in those where profit is wanting.\n\n                    ----sapere aude,\n     Incipe: vivendi qui recte prorogat horam,\n     Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis, at ille\n     Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis avum.\n     [Footnote: Hor. I. i. Epist. ii. 40.]\n\n     Be bold to be wise: to begin, be strong,\n     He that to live well doth the time prolong,\n     Clowne-like expects, till downe the streame be run,\n     That runs, and will run, till the world be done.\n\nIt is mere simplicitie to teach our children,\n\n     Quid moveant Pisces, animosaque signa Leonis,\n     Lotus et Hesperia quid Capricornus aqua.\n     [Footnote: Prop. I. El. i. 85.]\n     What Pisces move, or hot breath'd Leos beames,\n     Or Capricornus bath'd in western streames,\n\nthe knowledge of the starres, and the motion of the eighth spheare,\nbefore their owne;\n     [Greek text quote omited]\n     [Footnote: Anacr. Od. xvii. 10, 12.]\n\n     What longs it to the seaven stars, and me,\n     Or those about Bootes be.\n\nAnaximenes writing to Pythagoras, saith, \"With what sense can I\namuse my selfe in the secrets of the Starres, having continually\ndeath or bondage before mine eyes?\" For at that time the Kings of\nPersia were making preparations to war against his Countrie. All men\nought to say so: Being beaten with ambition, with avarice, with\nrashnesse, and with superstition, and having such other enemies unto\nlife within him. Wherefore shall I study and take care about the\nmobility and variation of the world? When hee is once taught what is\nfit to make him better and wiser, he shall be entertained with\nLogicke, naturall Philosophy, Geometry, and Rhetoricke, then having\nsetled his judgement, looke what science he doth most addict\nhimselfe unto, he shall in short time attaine to the perfection of\nit. His lecture shall be somtimes by way of talke and sometimes by\nbooke: his tutor may now and then supply him with the same Author,\nas an end and motive of his institution: sometimes giving him the\npith and substance of it ready chewed. And if of himselfe he be not\nso throughly acquainted with bookes, that hee may readily find so\nmany notable discourses as are in them to effect his purpose, it\nshall not be amisse that some learned man bee appointed to keepe\nhim, company, who at any time of need may furnish him with such\nmunition as hee shall stand in need of; that hee may afterward\ndistribute and dispense them to his best use. And that this kind of\nlesson be more easie and naturall than that of Gaza, who will make\nquestion? Those are but harsh, thornie, and unpleasant precepts;\nvaine, idle and immaterial words, on which small hold may be taken;\nwherein is nothing to quicken the minde. In this the spirit findeth\nsubstance to bide and feed upon. A fruit without all comparison much\nbetter, and that will soone be ripe. It is a thing worthy\nconsideration, to see what state things are brought unto in this our\nage; and how Philosophie, even to the wisest, and men of best\nunderstanding, is but an idle, vaine and fantasticall name, of small\nuse and lesse worth, both in opinion and effect. I thinke these\nSophistries are the cause of it, which have forestalled the wayes to\ncome unto it: They doe very ill that goe about to make it seeme as\nit were inaccessible for children to come unto, setting it foorth\nwith a wrimpled [Footnote: wrinkled.] gastlie, and frowning visage;\nwho hath masked her with so counterfet, pale, and hideous a\ncountenance? There is nothing more beauteous, nothing more\ndelightful, nothing more gamesome; and as I may say, nothing more\nfondly wanton: for she presenteth nothing to our eyes, and preacheth\nnothing to our eares, but sport and pastime. A sad and lowring looke\nplainly declareth that that is not her haunt. Demetrius the\nGramarian, finding a companie of Philosophers sitting close together\nin the Temple of Delphos, said unto them, \"Either I am deceived, or\nby your plausible and pleasant lookes, you are not in any serious\nand earnest discourse amongst your selves;\" to whom one of them,\nnamed Heracleon the Megarian, answered, \"That belongeth to them, who\nbusie themselves in seeking whether the future tense of the verbe\n___, hath a double, or that labour to find the derivation of the\ncomparatives, [omitted] and of the superlatives [omitted], it is\nthey that must chafe in intertaining themselves with their science:\nas for discourses of Philosophie they are wont to glad, rejoyce, and\nnot to vex and molest those that use them.\"\n\n     Deprendas animi tormenta latentis in agro\n     Corpore, deprendas et gaudia; sumit utrumque\n     Inde habitum facies.\n     [Footnote: Juven, SAT. ix, 18]\n\n     You may perceive the torments of the mind,\n     Hid in sicke bodie, you the joyes may find;\n     The face such habit takes in either kind.\n\nThat mind which harboureth Philosophie, ought by reason of her sound\nhealth, make that bodie also sound and healthie: it ought to make\nher contentment to through-shine in all exteriour parts: it ought to\nshapen and modell all outward demeanours to the modell of it: and by\nconsequence arme him that doth possesse it, with a gracious\nstoutnesse and lively audacite, with an active and pleasing gesture,\nand with a setled and cheerefull countenance. The most evident token\nand apparant signe of true wisdome is a constant and unconstrained\nrejoycing, whose estate is like unto all things above the Moone,\nthat is ever cleare, alwaies bright. It is Baroco [Footnote:\nMnemonic words invented by the scholastic logicians] and Baralipton\n[Footnote: Mnemonic words invented by the scholastic logicians],\nthat makes their followers prove so base and idle, and not\nPhilosophie; they know her not but by heare-say; what? Is it not\nshee that cleereth all stormes of the mind? And teacheth miserie,\nfamine, and sicknesse to laugh? Not by reason of some imaginarie\nEpicicles [Footnote: A term of the old astronomy.], but by naturall\nand palpable reasons. Shee aymeth at nothing but vertue; it is\nvertue shee seekes after; which as the schoole saith, is not pitcht\non the top of an high, steepie, or inaccessible hill; for they that\nhave come unto her, affirme that cleane-contrarie shee keeps her\nstand, and holds her mansion in a faire, flourishing, and pleasant\nplaine, whence as from an high watch tower, she survaieth all\nthings, to be subject unto her, to whom any man may with great\nfacilitie come, if he but know the way or entrance to her palace:\nfor, the pathes that lead unto her are certaine fresh and shadie\ngreene allies, sweet and flowrie waies, whose ascent is even, easie,\nand nothing wearisome, like unto that of heavens vaults. Forsomuch\nas they have not frequented this vertue, who gloriously, as in a\nthrone of Majestie sits soveraigne, goodly, triumphant, lovely,\nequally delicious, and couragious, protesting her selfe to be a\nprofessed and irreconcileable enemie to all sharpnesse, austeritie,\nfeare, and compulsion; having nature for her guide, fortune and\nvoluptuousnesse for her companions; they according to their\nweaknesse have imaginarily fained her, to have a foolish, sad, grim,\nquarelous, spitefull, threatning, and disdainfull visage, with an\nhorride and unpleasant looke; and have placed her upon a craggie,\nsharpe, and unfrequented rocke, amidst desert cliffes and uncouth\ncrags, as a scar-crow, or bugbeare, to affright the common people\nwith. Now the tutour, which ought to know that he should rather seek\nto fill the mind and store the will of his disciple, as much, or\nrather more, with love and affection, than with awe, and reverence\nunto vertue, may shew and tell him, that Poets follow common\nhumours, making him plainly to perceive, and as it were palpably to\nfeele, that the Gods have rather placed labour and sweat at the\nentrances which lead to Venus chambers, than at the doores that\ndirect to Pallas cabinets.\n\nAnd when he shall perceive his scholler to have a sensible feeling\nof himselfe, presenting Bradamant [Footnote: A warlike heroine in\nBoiardo's \"Orlando Innamorato\" and Ariosto's \"Orlando Furioso.\"] or\nAngelica [Footnote: The faithless princess, on account of whom\nOrlando goes mad, in the same poems.] before him, as a Mistresse to\nenjoy, embelished with a naturall, active, generous, and unspotted\nbeautie not uglie or Giant-like, but blithe and livelie, in respect\nof a wanton, soft, affected, and artificiall-flaring beautie; the\none attired like unto a young man, coyfed with a bright-shining\nhelmet, the other disguised and drest about the head like unto an\nimpudent harlot, with embroyderies, frizelings, and carcanets of\npearles: he will no doubt deeme his owne love to be a man and no\nwoman, if in his choice he differ from that effeminate shepheard of\nPhrygia. In this new kind of lesson he shall declare unto him, that\nthe prize, the glorie, and height of true vertue, consisted in the\nfacilitie, profit, and pleasure of his exercises: so far from\ndifficultie and incumbrances, that children as well as men, the\nsimple as soone as the wise, may come unto her. Discretion and\ntemperance, not force or way-wardnesse are the instruments to bring\nhim unto her. Socrates (vertues chiefe favorite) that he might the\nbetter walke in the pleasant, naturall, and open path of her\nprogresses, doth voluntarily and in good, earnest, quit all\ncompulsion. Shee is the nurse and foster-mother of all humane\n[Footnote: Human.] pleasures, who in making them just and upright,\nshe also makes them sure and sincere. By moderating them, she\nkeepeth them in ure [Footnote: Practice.] and breath. In limiting\nand cutting them off, whom she refuseth; she whets us on toward\nthose she leaveth unto us; and plenteously leaves us them, which\nNature pleaseth, and like a kind mother giveth us over unto\nsatietie, if not unto wearisomnesse, unlesse we will peradventure\nsay that the rule and bridle, which stayeth the drunkard before\ndrunkennesse, the glutton before surfetting, and the letcher before\nthe losing of his haire, be the enemies of our pleasures. If common\nfortune faile her, it cleerely scapes her; or she cares not for her,\nor she frames another unto herselfe, altogether her owne, not so\nfleeting nor so rowling. She knoweth the way how to be rich, mightie\nand wise, and how to lie in sweet-perfumed beds. She loveth life;\nshe delights in beautie, in glorie, and in health. But her proper\nand particular office is, first to know how to use such goods\ntemperately, and how to lose them constantly. An office much more\nnoble than severe, without which all course of life is unnaturall,\nturbulent, and deformed, to which one may lawfully joyne those\nrocks, those incumbrances, and those hideous monsters. If so it\nhappen, that his Disciple prove of so different a condition, that he\nrather love to give eare to an idle fable than to the report of some\nnoble voiage, or other notable and wise discourse, when he shall\nheare it; that at the sound of a Drum or clang of a Trumpet, which\nare wont to rowse and arme the youthly heat of his companions,\nturneth to another that calleth him to see a play, tumbling, jugling\ntricks, or other idle lose-time sports; and who for pleasures sake\ndoth not deeme it more delightsome to returne all sweatie and wearie\nfrom a victorious combat, from wrestling, or riding of a horse, than\nfrom a Tennis-court or dancing schoole, with the prize or honour of\nsuch exercises; The best remedy I know for such a one is, to put him\nprentice to some base occupation, in some good towne or other, yea,\nwere he the sonne of a Duke; according to Platoes rule, who saith\n\"That children must be placed, not according to their fathers\nconditions, but the faculties of their mind.\" Since it is\nPhilosophie that teacheth us to live, and that infancie as well as\nother ages, may plainly read her lessons in the same, why should it\nnot be imparted unto young Schollers?\n\n     Vdum et molle lutum est, nunc nunc properandus, et acri\n     Fingendus sine fine rota.\n     [Footnote: PES. Sat. iii. 23.]\n\n     He's moist and soft mould, and must by and by\n     Be cast, made up, while wheele whirls readily.\n\nWe are taught to live when our life is well-nigh spent. Many\nschollers have been infected with that loathsome and marrow-wasting\ndisease before ever they came to read Aristotles treatise of\nTemperance. Cicero was wont to say, \"That could he out-live the\nlives of two men, he should never find leasure to study the Lyrike\nPoets.\" And I find these Sophisters both worse and more\nunprofitable. Our childe is engaged in greater matters; And but the\nfirst fifteene or sixteene yeares of his life are due unto\nPedantisme, the rest unto action: let us therefore imploy so short\ntime as we have to live in more necessarie instructions. It is an\nabuse; remove these thornie quiddities of Logike, whereby our life\ncan no whit be amended, and betake our selves to the simple\ndiscourses of Philosophy; know how to chuse and fitly to make use of\nthem: they are much more easie to be conceived than one of Bocace\nhis tales. A childe comming from nurse is more capable of them, than\nhe is to learne to read or write. Philosophy hath discourses,\nwhereof infancie as well as decaying old-age may make good use. I am\nof Plutarkes mind, which is, that Aristotle did not so much ammuse\nhis great Disciple about the arts how to frame Syllogismes, or the\nprinciples of Geometric, as he endevoured to instruct him with good\nprecepts concerning valour, prowesse, magnanimitie, and temperance,\nand an undanted assurance not to feare any thing; and with such\nmunition he sent him, being yet verie young, to subdue the Empire of\nthe world, only with 30000 footmen, 4000 horsemen, and 42000 Crownes\nin monie. As for other arts and sciences; he saith Alexander\nhonoured them, and commended their excellencie and comlinesse; but\nfor any pleasure he tooke in them, his affection could not easily be\ndrawne to exercise them.\n\n       --petite hinc juvenesque senesque\n     Finem animo certum, miserisque viatica canis.\n     [Footnote: Sat. v. 64]\n\n     Young men and old, draw hence (in your affaires)\n     Your minds set marke, provision for gray haires.\n\nIt is that which Epicurus said in the beginning of his letter to\nMemiceus: \"Neither let the youngest shun nor the oldest wearie\nhimselfe in philosophying, for who doth otherwise seemeth to say,\nthat either the season to live happily is not yet come, or is\nalready past.\" Yet would I not have this young gentleman pent-up,\nnor carelesly cast-off to the heedlesse choler, or melancholy humour\nof the hasty Schoole-master. I would not have his budding spirit\ncorrupted with keeping him fast-tied, and as it were labouring\nfourteene or fifteene houres a day poaring on his booke, as some\ndoe, as if he were a day-labouring man; neither doe I thinke it fit,\nif at any time, by reason of some solitairie or melancholy\ncomplexion, he should be scene with an over-indiscreet application\ngiven to his booke, it should be cherished in him; for, that doth\noften make him both unapt for civill conversation and distracts him\nfrom better imployments: How many have I scene in my daies, by an\nover-greedy desire of knowledge, become as it were foolish?\nCarneades was so deeply plunged, and as I may say besotted in it,\nthat he could never have leasure to cut his haire, or pare his\nnailes: nor would I have his noble manners obscured by the\nincivilitie and barbarisme of others. The French wisdome hath long\nsince proverbially been spoken of as verie apt to conceive study in\nher youth, but most unapt to keepe it long. In good truth, we see at\nthis day that there is nothing lovelier to behold than the young\nchildren of France; but for the most part, they deceive the hope\nwhich was fore-apprehended of them: for when they once become men,\nthere is no excellencie at all in them. I have heard men of\nunderstanding hold this opinion, that the Colleges to which they are\nsent (of which there are store) doe thus besot them: whereas to our\nscholler, a cabinet, a gardin, the table, the bed, a solitarinesse,\na companie, morning and evening, and all houres shall be alike unto\nhim, all places shall be a study for him: for Philosophy (as a\nformer of judgements, and modeler of customes) shall be his\nprincipall lesson, having the privilege to entermeddle her selfe\nwith all things, and in all places. Isocrates the Orator, being once\nrequested at a great banket to speake of his art, when all thought\nhe had reason to answer, said, \"It is not now time to doe what I\ncan, and what should now be done, I cannot doe it; For, to present\norations, or to enter into disputation of Rhetorike, before a\ncompanie assembled together to be merrie, and make good cheere,\nwould be but a medley of harsh and jarring musicke.\" The like may be\nsaid of all other Sciences. But touching Philosophy, namely, in that\npoint where it treateth of man, and of his duties and offices, it\nhath been the common judgement of the wisest, that in regard of the\npleasantnesse of her conversatione, she ought not to be rejected,\nneither at banquets nor at sports. And Plato having invited her to\nhis solemne feast, we see how kindly she entertaineth the companie\nwith a milde behaviour, fitly suting her selfe to time and place,\nnotwithstanding it be one of his learned'st and profitable\ndiscourses.\n\n     AEque pauperibus prodest, locupletibus aque,\n     Et neglecta aeque pueris senibusque nocebit.\n     [Footnote: HOR. 1. i. Epist. 125.]\n\n     Poore men alike, alike rich men it easeth,\n     Alike it, scorned, old and young displeaseth.\n\nSo doubtlesse he shall lesse be idle than others; for even as the\npaces we bestow walking in a gallerie, although they be twice as\nmany more, wearie us not so much as those we spend in going a set\njourney: So our lesson being past over, as it were, by chance, or\nway of encounter, without strict observance of time or place, being\napplied to all our actions, shall be digested, and never felt. All\nsports and exercises shall be a part of his study; running,\nwrestling, musicke, dancing, hunting, and managing of armes and\nhorses. I would have the exterior demeanor or decencie, and the\ndisposition of his person to be fashioned together with his mind:\nfor, it is not a mind, it is not a body that we erect, but it is a\nman, and we must not make two parts of him. And as Plato saith, They\nmust not be erected one without another, but equally be directed, no\notherwise than a couple of horses matched to draw in one selfe-same\nteeme. And to heare him, doth he not seeme to imploy more time and\ncare in the exercises of his bodie: and to thinke that the minde is\ntogether with the same exercised, and not the contrarie? As for\nother matters, this institution ought to be directed by a sweet-\nsevere mildnesse; Not as some do, who in liew of gently-bidding\nchildren to the banquet of letters, present them with nothing but\nhorror and crueltie. Let me have this violence and compulsion\nremoved, there is nothing that, in my seeming, doth more bastardise\nand dizzie a welborne and gentle nature: If you would have him stand\nin awe of shame and punishment, doe not so much enure him to it:\naccustome him patiently to endure sweat and cold, the sharpnesse of\nthe wind, the heat of the sunne, and how to despise all hazards.\nRemove from him all nicenesse and quaintnesse in clothing, in lying,\nin eating, and in drinking: fashion him to all things, that he prove\nnot a faire and wanton-puling boy, but a lustie and vigorous boy:\nWhen I was a child, being a man, and now am old, I have ever judged\nand believed the same. But amongst other things, I could never away\nwith this kind of discipline used in most of our Colleges. It had\nperadventure been lesse hurtfull, if they had somewhat inclined to\nmildnesse, or gentle entreatie. It is a verie prison of captivated\nyouth, and proves dissolute in punishing it before it be so. Come\nupon them when they are going to their lesson, and you heare nothing\nbut whipping and brawling, both of children tormented, and masters\nbesotted with anger and chafing. How wide are they, which go about\nto allure a childs mind to go to its booke, being yet but tender and\nfearefull, with a stearne-frowning countenance, and with hands full\nof rods? Oh wicked and pernicious manner of teaching! which\nQuintillian hath very wel noted, that this imperious kind of\nauthoritie, namely, this way of punishing of children, drawes many\ndangerous inconveniences within. How much more decent were it to see\ntheir school-houses and formes strewed with greene boughs and\nflowers, than with bloudy burchen-twigs? If it lay in me, I would\ndoe as the Philosopher Speusippus did, who caused the pictures of\nGladness and Joy, of Flora and of the Graces, to be set up round\nabout his school-house. Where their profit lieth, there should also\nbe their recreation. Those meats ought to be sugred over, that are\nhealthful for childrens stomakes, and those made bitter that are\nhurtfull for them. It is strange to see how carefull Plato sheweth\nhim selfe in framing of his lawes about the recreation and pastime\nof the youth of his Citie, and how far he extends him selfe about\ntheir exercises, sports, songs, leaping, and dancing, whereof he\nsaith, that severe antiquitie gave the conduct and patronage unto\nthe Gods themselves, namely, to Apollo, to the Muses, and to\nMinerva. Marke but how far-forth he endevoreth to give a thousand\nprecepts to be kept in his places of exercises both of bodie and\nmind. As for learned Sciences, he stands not much upon them, and\nseemeth in particular to commend Poesie, but for Musickes sake. All\nstrangenesse and selfe-particularitie in our manners and conditions,\nis to be shunned, as an enemie to societie and civill conversation.\nWho would not be astonished at Demophons complexion, chiefe steward\nof Alexanders household, who was wont to sweat in the shadow, and\nquiver for cold in the sunne? I have seene some to startle at the\nsmell of an apple more than at the shot of a peece; some to be\nfrighted with a mouse, some readie to cast their gorge [Footnote:\nVomit.] at the sight of a messe of creame, and others to be scared\nwith seeing a fether bed shaken: as Germanicus, who could not abide\nto see a cock, or heare his crowing. There may haply be some hidden\npropertie of nature, which in my judgement might easilie be removed,\nif it were taken in time. Institution hath gotten this upon me (I\nmust confesse with much adoe) for, except beere, all things else\nthat are mans food agree indifferently with my taste. The bodie\nbeing yet souple, ought to be accommodated to all fashions and\ncustomes; and (alwaies provided, his appetites and desires be kept\nunder) let a yong man boldly be made fit for al Nations and\ncompanies; yea, if need be, for al disorders and surfetings; let him\nacquaint him selfe with al fashions; That he may be able to do al\nthings, and love to do none but those that are commendable. Some\nstrict Philosophers commend not, but rather blame Calisthenes, for\nlosing the good favour of his Master Alexander, only because he\nwould not pledge him as much as he had drunke to him. He shall\nlaugh, jest, dally, and debauch himselfe with his Prince. And in his\ndebauching, I would have him out-go al his fellowes in vigor and\nconstancie, and that he omit not to doe evill, neither for want of\nstrength or knowledge, but for lacke of will. Multum interest utrum\npeccare quis nolit, aut nesciat: [Footnote: HOR. Epist. xvii. 23.]\n\"There is a great difference, whether one have no will, or no wit to\ndoe amisse.\" I thought to have honoured a gentleman (as great a\nstranger, and as far from such riotous disorders as any is in\nFrance) by enquiring of him in verie good companie, how many times\nin all his life he had bin drunke in Germanie during the time of his\nabode there, about the necessarie affaires of our King; who tooke it\neven as I meant it, and answered three times, telling the time and\nmanner how. I know some, who for want of that qualitie, have been\nmuch perplexed when they have had occasion to converse with that\nnation. I have often noted with great admiration, that wonderfull\nnature of Alcibiades, to see how easilie he could sute himselfe to\nso divers fashions and different humors, without prejudice unto his\nhealth; sometimes exceeding the sumptuousnesse and pompe of the\nPersians, and now and then surpassing. the austeritie and frugalitie\nof the Lacedemonians; as reformed in Sparta, as voluptuous in Ionia.\n\n     Omnis Atistippum decuit color, et status, et res.\n     [Footnote: HOR. Epist. xvii. 25.]\n\n     All colours, states, and things are fit\n     For courtly Aristippus wit.\n\nSuch a one would I frame my Disciple,\n\n   --quem duplici panno patientia velat,\n      Mirabor, vita via si conversa decebit.\n\n     Whom patience clothes with sutes of double kind,\n     I muse, if he another way will find.\n\n     Personavnque feret non inconcinnus utramque.\n     [Footnote: CIC. Tusc. Qu. 1. iv.]\n\n     He not unfitly may,\n     Both parts and persons play.\n\nLoe here my lessons, wherein he that acteth them, profiteth more\nthan he that but knoweth them, whom if you see, you heare, and if\nyou heare him, you see him. God forbid, saith some bodie in Plato,\nthat to Philosophize, be to learne many things, and to exercise the\narts. Hanc amplissimam omnium artium bene vivendi disciplinam, vita\nmagis quant litteris persequntd sunt [Footnote: Ib. 29.] \"This\ndiscipline of living well, which is the amplest of all other arts,\nthey followed rather in their lives than in their learning or\nwriting.\" Leo Prince of the Phliasians, enquiring of Heraclides\nPonticus, what art he professed, he answered, \"Sir, I professe\nneither art nor science; but I am a Philosopher.\" Some reproved\nDiogenes, that being an ignorant man, he did neverthelesse meddle\nwith Philosophie, to whom he replied, \"So much the more reason have\nI and to greater purpose doe I meddle with it.\" Hegesias praid him\nupon a time to reade some booke unto him: \"You are a merry man,\"\nsaid he: \"As you chuse naturall and not painted, right and not\ncounterfeit figges to eat, why doe you not likewise chuse, not the\npainted and written, but the true and naturall exercises?\" He shall\nnot so much repeat, as act his lesson. In his actions shall he make\nrepetition of the same. We must observe, whether there bee wisdome\nin his enterprises, integritie in his demeanor, modestie in his\njestures, justice in his actions, judgement and grace in his speech,\ncourage in his sicknesse, moderation in his sports, temperance in\nhis pleasures, order in the government of his house, and\nindifference in his taste, whether it be flesh, fish, wine, or\nwater, or whatsoever he feedeth upon. Qui disciplinam suam non\nostentationem scientiae sed legem vitae putet: quique obtemperet\nipse sibi, et decretis pareat [Footnote: Ib. I. ii.] \"Who thinks his\nlearning not an ostentation of knowledge, but a law of life, and\nhimselfe obayes himselfe, and doth what is decreed.\"\n\nThe true mirror of our discourses is the course of our lives.\nZeuxidamus answered one that demanded of him, why the Lacedemonians\ndid not draw into a booke, the ordinances of prowesse, that so their\nyong men might read them; \"it is,\" saith he, \"because they would\nrather accustome them to deeds and actions, than to bookes and\nwritings.\" Compare at the end of fifteene or sixteene yeares one of\nthese collegiall Latinizers, who hath imployed all that while onely\nin learning how to speake, to such a one as I meane. The world is\nnothing but babling and words, and I never saw man that doth not\nrather speake more than he ought, than lesse. Notwithstanding halfe\nour age is consumed that way. We are kept foure or five yeares\nlearning to understand bare words, and to joine them into clauses,\nthen as long in proportioning a great bodie extended into foure or\nfive parts; and five more at least ere we can succinctly know how to\nmingle, joine, and interlace them handsomly into a subtil fashion,\nand into one coherent orbe. Let us leave it to those whose\nprofession is to doe nothing else. Being once on my journey to\nOrleans, it was my chance to meet upon that plaine that lieth on\nthis side Clery, with two Masters of Arts, traveling toward\nBordeaux, about fiftie paces one from another; far off behind them,\nI descride a troupe of horsemen, their Master riding formost, who\nwas the Earle of Rochefocault; one of my servants enquiring of the\nfirst of those Masters of Arts, what Gentleman he was that followed\nhim; supposing my servant had meant his fellow-scholler, for he had\nnot yet seen the Earles traine, answered pleasantly, \"He is no\ngentleman, Sir, but a Gramarian, and I am a Logitian.\" Now, we that\ncontrariwise seek not to frame a Gramarian, nor a Logitian, but a\ncompleat gentleman, let us give them leave to mispend their time; we\nhave else-where, and somewhat else of more import to doe. So that\nour Disciple be well and sufficiently stored with matter; words will\nfollow apace, and if they will hot follow gently, he shall hale them\non perforce. I heare some excuse themselves, that they cannot\nexpresse their meaning, and make a semblance that their heads are so\nfull stuft with many goodly things, but for want of eloquence they\ncan neither titter nor make show of them. It is a meere fopperie.\nAnd will you know what, in my seeming, the cause is? They are\nshadows and Chimeraes, proceeding of some formelesse conceptions,\nwhich they cannot distinguish or resolve within, and by consequence\nare not able to produce them in as-much as they understand not\nthemselves: And if you but marke their earnestnesse, and how they\nstammer and labour at the point of their deliverle, you would deeme\nthat what they go withall, is but a conceiving, and therefore\nnothing neere downelying; and that they doe but licke that imperfect\nand shapelesse lump of matter. As for me, I am of opinion, and\nSocrates would have it so, that he who had a cleare and lively\nimagination in his mind, may easilie produce and utter the same,\nalthough it be in Bergamaske [Footnote: A rustic dialect of the\nnorth of Italy.] or Welsh, and if he be dumbe, by signes and tokens.\n\n     Verbaque praevisam rem non invita sequentur.\n     [Footnote: HOR. Art. Poet. 311.]\n\n     When matter we fore-know,\n     Words voluntarie flow.\n\nAs one said, as poetically in his prose, Cum res animum occupavere,\nverba ambiunt; [Footnote: SED. Controv. 1. vii. prae.] \"When matter\nhath possest their minds, they hunt after words:\" and another: Ipsa\nres verba rapiunt: [Footnote: CIC. de Fin. I. iii. c. 5.] \"Things\nthemselves will catch and carry words:\" He knowes neither Ablative,\nConjunctive, Substantive, nor Gramar, no more doth his Lackey, nor\nany Oyster-wife about the streets, and yet if you have a mind to it\nhe will intertaine you, your fill, and peradventure stumble as\nlittle and as seldome against the rules of his tongue, as the best\nMaster of arts in France. He hath no skill in Rhetoricke, nor can he\nwith a preface fore-stall and captivate the Gentle Readers good\nwill: nor careth he greatly to know it. In good sooth, all this\ngarish painting is easilie defaced, by the lustre of an in-bred and\nsimple truth; for these dainties and quaint devices serve but to\nammuse the vulgar sort; unapt and incapable to taste the most solid\nand firme meat: as Afer verie plainly declareth in Cornelius\nTacitus. The Ambassadours of Samos being come to Cleomenes King of\nSparta, prepared with a long prolix Oration, to stir him up to war\nagainst the tyrant Policrates, after he had listned a good while\nunto them, his answer was: \"Touching your Exordium or beginning I\nhave forgotten it; the middle I remember not; and for your\nconclusion I will do nothing in it.\" A fit, and (to my thinking) a\nverie good answer; and the Orators were put to such a shift; as they\nknew not what to replie. And what said another? the Athenians from\nout two of their cunning Architects, were to chuse one to erect a\nnotable great frame; the one of them more affected and selfe\npresuming, presented himselfe before them, with a smooth fore-\npremeditated discourse, about the subject of that piece of worke,\nand thereby drew the judgements of the common people unto his\nliking; but the other in few words spake thus: \"Lords of Athens,\nwhat this man hath said I will performe.\" In the greatest\nearnestnesse of Ciceroes eloquence many were drawn into a kind of\nadmiration; But Cato jesting at it, said, \"Have we not a pleasant\nConsull?\" A quicke cunning Argument, and a wittie saying, whether it\ngo before or come after, it is never out of season. If it have no\ncoherence with that which goeth before, nor with what commeth after;\nit is good and commendable in it selfe. I am none of those that\nthink a good Ryme, to make a good Poeme; let him hardly (if so he\nplease) make a short syllable long, it is no great matter; if the\ninvention be rare and good, and his wit and judgement have cunningly\nplayed their part. I will say to such a one; he is a good Poet, but\nan ill Versifier.\n\n     Emunciae naris, durus componere versus.\n     [Footnote: HOR. 1. i. Sat. iv.]\n\n     A man whose sense could finely pierce,\n     But harsh and hard to make a verse.\n\nLet a man (saith Horace) make his worke loose all seames, measures,\nand joynts.\n\n Tempora certa moddsque, et quod prius ordine verbum est,\n [Footnote: Ib. 58.]\n Posterius facias, praeponens ultima primis:\n Invenias etiam disjecti membra Poetae.\n [Footnote: Ib. 62.]\n\n Set times and moods, make you the first word last,\n The last word first, as if they were new cast:\n Yet find th' unjoynted Poets joints stand fast.\n\nHe shall for all that, nothing gain-say himselfe, every piece will\nmake a good shew. To this purpose answered Menander those that chid\nhim, the day being at hand, in which he had promised a Comedy, and\nhad not begun the same, \"Tut-tut,\" said he, \"it is alreadie\nfinished, there wanteth nothing but to adde the verse unto it;\" for,\nhaving ranged and cast the plot in his mind, he made small accompt\nof feet, of measures, or cadences of verses, which indeed are but of\nsmall import in regard of the rest. Since great Ronsarde and learned\nBellay have raised our French Poesie unto that height of honour\nwhere it now is: I see not one of these petty ballad-makers, or\nprentise dogrell rymers, that doth not bombast his labours with\nhigh-swelling and heaven-disimbowelling words, and that doth not\nmarshall his cadences verie neere as they doe. Plus sonat quam\nvalet. [Footnote: Sen, Epist. xl.] \"The sound is more than the\nweight or worth.\" And for the vulgar sort there were never so many\nPoets, and so few good: but as it hath been easie for them to\nrepresent their rymes, so come they far short in imitating the rich\ndescriptions of the one, and rare inventions of the other. But what\nshall he doe, if he be urged with sophisticall subtilties about a\nSillogisme? A gammon of Bacon makes a man drink, drinking quencheth\na mans thirst; Ergo, a gammon of bacon quencheth a mans thirst. Let\nhim mock at it, it is more wittie to be mockt at than to be\nanswered. Let him borrow this pleasant counter-craft of Aristippus;\n\"Why shall I unbind that, which being bound doth so much trouble\nme?\" Some one proposed certaine Logicall quiddities against\nCleanthes, to whom Chrisippus said; use such jugling tricks to play\nwith children, and divert not the serious thoughts of an aged man to\nsuch idle matters. If such foolish wiles, Contorta et aculeata\nsophismata, [Footnote: Cic. Acad. Qu. 1. iv.] \"Intricate and stinged\nsophismes,\" must perswade a lie, it is dangerous: but if they proove\nvoid of any effect, and move him but to laughter, I see not why he\nshall beware of them. Some there are so foolish that will go a\nquarter of a mile out of the way to hunt after a quaint new word, if\nthey once get in chace; Aut qui non verba rebus aptant, sed res\nextrinsecus arcessunt, quibus verba conveniant: \"Or such as fit not\nwords to matter, but fetch matter from abroad, whereto words be\nfitted.\" And another, Qui alicujus verbi decore placentis, vocentur\nad id quod non proposuerant scribere: [Footnote: Sen. Epist. liii.]\n\"Who are allured by the grace of some pleasing word, to write what\nthey intended not to write.\" I doe more willingly winde up a wittie\nnotable sentence, that so I may sew it upon me, than unwinde my\nthread to go fetch it. Contrariwise, it is for words to serve and\nwait upon the matter, and not for matter to attend upon words, and\nif the French tongue cannot reach unto it, let the Gaskonie, or any\nother. I would have the matters to surmount, and so fill the\nimagination of him that harkeneth, that he have no remembrance at\nall of the words. It is a naturall, simple, and unaffected speech\nthat I love, so written as it is spoken, and such upon the paper, as\nit is in the mouth, a pithie, sinnowie, full, strong, compendious\nand materiall speech, not so delicate and affected as vehement and\npiercing.\n\n     Hac demum sapiet dictio qua feriet.\n     [Footnote: Epitaph on Lucan, 6.]\n\n     In fine, that word is wisely fit,\n     Which strikes the fence, the marke doth hit.\n\nRather difficult than tedious, void of affection, free, loose and\nbold, that every member of it seeme to make a bodie; not\nPedanticall, nor Frier-like, nor Lawyer-like, but rather downe\nright, Souldier-like. As Suetonius calleth that of Julius Caesar,\nwhich I see no reason wherefore he calleth it. I have sometimes\npleased myselfe in imitating that licenciousnesse or wanton humour\nof our youths, in wearing of their garments; as carelessly to let\ntheir cloaks hang downe over one shoulder; to weare their cloakes\nscarfe or bawdrikewise, and their stockings loose hanging about\ntheir legs. It represents a kind of disdainful fiercenesse of these\nforraine embellishings, and neglect carelesnesse of art: But I\ncommend it more being imployed in the course and forme of speech.\nAll manner of affectation, namely [Footnote: Especially,] in the\nlivelinesse and libertie of France, is unseemely in a Courtier. And\nin a Monarchie every Gentleman ought to addresse himselfe unto\n[Footnote: Aim at] a Courtiers carriage. Therefore do we well\nsomewhat to incline to a native and carelesse behaviour. I like not\na contexture, where the seames and pieces may be seen: As in a well\ncompact bodie, what need a man distinguish and number all the bones\nand veines severally? Quae veritati operam dat oratio, incomposita\nsit et simplex [Footnote: Sen. Epist. xl] Quis accurate loquitur\nnisi qui vult putide loqui [Footnote: Ib. Epist. ixxr.] \"The speach\nthat intendeth truth must be plaine and unpollisht: Who speaketh\nelaborately, but he that meanes to speake unfavourably?\" That\neloquence offereth injurie unto things, which altogether drawes us\nto observe it. As in apparell, it is a signe of pusillanimitie for\none to marke himselfe, in some particular and unusuall fashion: so\nlikewise in common speech, for one to hunt after new phrases, and\nunaccustomed quaint words, proceedeth of a scholasticall and\nchildish ambition. Let me use none other than are spoken in the hals\nof Paris. Aristophanes the Gramarian was somewhat out of the way,\nwhen he reproved Epicurus, for the simplicitie of his words, and the\nend of his art oratorie, which was onely perspicuitie in speech. The\nimitation of speech, by reason of the facilitie of it, followeth\npresently a whole nation. The imitation of judging and inventing\ncomes more slow. The greater number of Readers, because they have\nfound one self-same kind of gowne, suppose most falsely to holde one\nlike bodie. Outward garments and cloakes may be borrowed, but never\nthe sinews and strength of the bodie. Most of those that converse\nwith me, speake like unto these Essayes; but I know not whether they\nthink alike. The Athenians (as Plato averreth) have for their part\ngreat care to be fluent and eloquent in their speech; The\nLacedemonians endevour to be short and compendious; and those of\nCreet labour more to bee plentifull in conceits than in language.\nAnd these are the best. Zeno was wont to say, \"That he had two sorts\nof disciples; the one he called [Greek word omitted], curious to\nlearne things, and those were his darlings, the other he termed\n[Greek word omitted], who respected nothing more than the language.\"\nYet can no man say, but that to speake well, is most gracious and\ncommendable, but not so excellent as some make it: and I am grieved\nto see how we imploy most part of our time about that onely. I would\nfirst know mine owne tongue perfectly, then my neighbours with whom\nI have most commerce. I must needs acknowledge, that the Greeke and\nLatine tongues are great ornaments in a gentleman, but they are\npurchased at over-high a rate. Use it who list, I will tell you how\nthey may be gotten better, cheaper, and much sooner than is\nordinarily used, which was tried in myselfe. My late father, having,\nby all the meanes and industrie that is possible for a man, sought\namongst the wisest, and men of best understanding, to find a most\nexquisite and readie way of teaching, being advised of the\ninconveniences then in use; was given to understand that the\nlingring while, and best part of our youth, that we imploy in\nlearning the tongues, which cost them nothing, is the onely cause we\ncan never attaine to that absolute perfection of skill and knowledge\nof the Greekes and Romanes. I doe not beleeve that to be the onely\ncause. But so it is, the expedient my father found out was this;\nthat being yet at nurse, and before the first loosing of my tongue,\nI was delivered to a Germane (who died since, a most excellent\nPhysitian in France) he being then altogether ignorant of the French\ntongue, but exquisitely readie and skilfull in the Latine. This man,\nwhom my father had sent for of purpose, and to whom he gave verie\ngreat entertainment, had me continually in his armes, and was mine\nonely overseer. There were also joyned unto him two of his\ncountrimen, but not so learned; whose charge was to attend, and now\nand then to play with me; and all these together did never\nentertaine me with other than the Latine tongue. As for others of\nhis household, it was an inviolable rule, that neither himselfe, nor\nmy mother, nor man, nor maid-servant, were suffered to speake one\nword in my companie, except such Latine words as every one had\nlearned to chat and prattle with me. It were strange to tell how\nevery one in the house profited therein. My Father and my Mother\nlearned so much Latine, that for a need they could understand it,\nwhen they heard it spoken, even so did all the household servants,\nnamely such as were neerest and most about me. To be short, we were\nall so Latinized, that the townes round about us had their share of\nit; insomuch as even at this day, many Latine names both of workmen\nand of their tooles are yet in use amongst them. And as for myselfe,\nI was about six years old, and could understand no more French or\nPerigordine than Arabike; and that without art, without bookes,\nrules, or grammer, without whipping or whining, I had gotten as pure\na Latin tongue as my Master could speake; the rather because I could\nneither mingle or confound the same with other tongues. If for an\nEssay they would give me a Theme, whereas the fashion in Colleges\nis, to give it in French, I had it in bad Latine, to reduce the same\ninto good. And Nicholas Grouchy, who hath written De comitiis\nRomanorum, William Guerente, who hath commented Aristotele: George\nBuchanan, that famous Scottish Poet, and Marke Antonie Muret, whom\n(while he lived) both France and Italie to this day, acknowledge to\nhave been the best orator: all which have beene my familiar tutors,\nhave often told me, that in mine infancie I had the Latine tongue so\nreadie and so perfect, that themselves feared to take me in hand.\nAnd Buchanan, who afterward I saw attending on the Marshall of\nBrissacke, told me, he was about to write a treatise of the\ninstitution of children, and that he tooke the model and patterne\nfrom mine: for at that time he had the charge and bringing up of the\nyoung Earle of Brissack, whom since we have scene prove so worthy\nand so valiant a Captaine. As for the Greeke, wherein I have but\nsmall understanding, my father purposed to make me learne it by art;\nBut by new and uncustomed meanes, that is, by way of recreation and\nexercise. We did tosse our declinations and conjugations to and fro,\nas they doe, who by way of a certaine game at tables learne both\nArithmetike and Geometrie. For, amongst other things he had\nespecially beene persuaded to make me taste and apprehend the fruits\nof dutie and science by an unforced kinde of will, and of mine owne\nchoice; and without any compulsion or rigor to bring me up in all\nmildnesse and libertie: yea with such kinde of superstition, that,\nwhereas some are of opinion that suddenly to awaken young children,\nand as it were by violence to startle and fright them out of their\ndead sleepe in a morning (wherein they are more heavie and deeper\nplunged than we) doth greatly trouble and distemper their braines,\nhe would every morning cause me to be awakened by the sound of some\ninstrument; and I was never without a servant who to that purpose\nattended upon me. This example may serve to judge of the rest; as\nalso to commend the judgement and tender affection of so carefull\nand loving a father: who is not to be blamed, though hee reaped not\nthe fruits answerable to his exquisite toyle and painefull manuring.\n[Footnote: Cultivation.] Two things hindered the same; first the\nbarrennesse and unfit soyle: for howbeit I were of a sound and\nstrong constitution, and of a tractable and yeelding condition, yet\nwas I so heavie, so sluggish, and so dull, that I could not be\nrouzed (yea were it to goe to play) from out mine idle drowzinesse.\nWhat I saw, I saw it perfectly; and under this heavy, and as it were\nLethe-complexion did I breed hardie imaginations, and opinions farre\nabove my yeares. My spirit was very slow, and would goe no further\nthan it was led by others; my apprehension blockish, my invention\npoore; and besides, I had a marvelous defect in my weake memorie: it\nis therefore no wonder, if my father could never bring me to any\nperfection. Secondly, as those that in some dangerous sicknesse,\nmoved with a kind of hope-full and greedie desire of perfect health\nagaine, give eare to every Leach or Emperike, [Footnote: Doctor or\nquack.] and follow all counsels, the good man being exceedingly\nfearefull to commit any oversight, in a matter he tooke so to heart,\nsuffered himselfe at last to be led away by the common opinion,\nwhich like unto the Cranes, followeth ever those that go before, and\nyeelded to customer having those no longer about him, that had given\nhim his first directions, and which they had brought out of Italie.\nBeing but six yeares old I was sent to the College of Guienne, then\nmost flourishing and reputed the best in France, where it is\nimpossible to adde any thing to the great care he had, both to chuse\nthe best and most sufficient masters that could be found, to reade\nunto me, as also for all other circumstances partaining to my\neducation; wherein contrary to usuall customes of Colleges, he\nobserved many particular rules. But so it is, it was ever a College.\nMy Latin tongue was forthwith corrupted, whereof by reason of\ndiscontinuance, I afterward lost all manner of use: which new kind\nof institution stood me in no other stead, but that at my first\nadmittance it made me to overskip some of the lower formes, and to\nbe placed in the highest. For at thirteene yeares of age, that I\nleft the College, I had read over the whole course of Philosophie\n(as they call it) but with so small profit, that I can now make no\naccount of it. The first taste or feeling I had of bookes, was of\nthe pleasure I tooke in reading the fables of Ovids Metamorphosies;\nfor, being but seven or eight yeares old, I would steale and\nsequester my selfe from all other delights, only to reade them:\nForsomuch as the tongue wherein they were written was to me\nnaturall; and it was the easiest booke I knew, and by reason of the\nmatter therein contained most agreeing with my young age. For of\nKing Arthur, of Lancelot du Lake, of Amadis, of Huon of Burdeaux,\nand such idle time consuming and wit-besotting trash of bookes\nwherein youth doth commonly ammuse it selfe, I was not so much as\nacquainted with their names, and to this day know not their bodies,\nnor what they containe: So exact was my discipline. Whereby I became\nmore carelesse to studie my other prescript lessons. And well did it\nfall out for my purpose, that I had to deale with a very discreet\nMaster, who out of his judgement could with such dexterite winke at\nand second my untowardlinesse, and such other faults that were in\nme. For by that meanes I read over Virgils AEneados, Terence,\nPlautus, and other Italian Comedies, allured thereunto by the\npleasantnesse of their severall subjects: Had he beene so foolishly-\nsevere, or so severely froward as to crosse this course of mine, I\nthinke verily I had never brought any thing from the College, but\nthe hate and contempt of Bookes, as doth the greatest part of our\nNobilitie. Such was his discretion, and so warily did he behave\nhimselfe, that he saw and would not see: hee would foster and\nincrease my longing: suffering me but by stealth and by snatches to\nglut my selfe with those Bookes, holding ever a gentle hand over me,\nconcerning other regular studies. For, the chiefest thing my father\nrequired at their hands (unto whose charge he had committed me) was\na kinde of well conditioned mildnesse and facilitie of complexion.\n[Footnote: Easiness of disposition.] And, to say truth, mine had no\nother fault, but a certaine dull languishing and heavie\nslothfullnesse. The danger was not, I should doe ill, but that I\nshould doe nothing.\n\nNo man did ever suspect I would prove a bad, but an unprofitable\nman: foreseeing in me rather a kind of idlenesse than a voluntary\ncraftinesse. I am not so selfe-conceited but I perceive what hath\nfollowed. The complaints that are daily buzzed in mine eares are\nthese; that I am idle, cold, and negligent in offices of friendship,\nand dutie to my parents and kinsfolkes; and touching publike\noffices, that I am over singular and disdainfull. And those that are\nmost injurious cannot aske, wherefore I have taken, and why I have\nnot paied? but may rather demand, why I doe not quit, and wherefore\nI doe not give? I would take it as a favour, they should wish such\neffects of supererogation in me. But they are unjust and over\npartiall, that will goe about to exact that from me which I owe not,\nwith more vigour than they will exact from themselves that which\nthey owe; wherein if they condemne me, they utterly cancell both the\ngratifying of the action, and the gratitude, which thereby would be\ndue to me. Whereas the active well doing should be of more\nconsequence, proceeding from my hand, in regard I have no passive at\nall. Wherefore I may so much the more freely dispose of my fortune,\nby how much more it is mine, and of my selfe that am most mine owne.\nNotwithstanding, if I were a great blazoner of mine owne actions, I\nmight peradventure barre such reproches, and justly upraid some,\nthat they are not so much offended, because I doe not enough, as for\nthat I may, and it lies in my power to doe much more than I doe. Yet\nmy minde ceased not at the same time to have peculiar unto it selfe\nwell setled motions, true and open judgements concerning the objects\nwhich it knew; which alone, and without any helpe or communication\nit would digest. And amongst other things, I verily beleeve it would\nhave proved altogether incapable and unfit to yeeld unto force, or\nstoope unto violence. Shall I account or relate this qualitie of my\ninfancie, which was, a kinde of boldnesse in my lookes, and gentle\nsoftnesse in my voice, and affabilitie in my gestures, and a\ndexterite in conforming my selfe to the parts I undertooke? for\nbefore the age of the\n\n     Alter ab undecimo turn me vix ceperat annus.\n     [Footnote: Virg. Buc. Ecl. viii. 39.]\n\n     Yeares had I (to make even)\n     Scarce two above eleven.\n\nI have under-gone and represented the chiefest part in the Latin\nTragedies of Buchanan, Guerente, and of Muret; which in great state\nwere acted and plaid in our College of Guienne: wherein Andreas\nGoveanus our Rector principall; who as in all other parts belonging\nto his charge, was without comparison the chiefest Rector of France,\nand my selfe (without ostentation be it spoken) was reputed, if not\na chiefe-master, yet a principall Actor in them. It is an exercise I\nrather commend than disalow in young Gentlemen: and have seene some\nof our Princes (in imitation of some of former ages) both\ncommendably and honestly, in their proper persons act and play some\nparts in Tragedies. It hath heretofore been esteemed a lawfull\nexercise, and a tolerable profession in men of honor, namely in\nGreece. Aristoni tragico actori rem aperit: huic et genus et fortuna\nhonesta erant: nec ars, quia nihil tale apud Graecos pudori est, ea\ndeformabat. [Footnote: Liv. Deo. iii. 1. iv.] \"He imparts the matter\nto Ariston a Player of tragedies, whose progenie and fortune were\nboth honest; nor did his profession disgrace them, because no such\nmatter is a disparagement amongst the Grecians.\"\n\nAnd I have ever accused them of impertinencie, that condemne and\ndisalow such kindes of recreations, and blame those of injustice,\nthat refuse good and honest Comedians, or (as we call them) Players,\nto enter our good townes, and grudge the common people such publike\nsports. Politike and wel ordered commonwealths endevour rather\ncarefully to unite and assemble their Citizens together; as in\nserious offices of devotion, so in honest exercises of recreation.\nCommon societie and loving friendship is thereby cherished and\nincreased. And besides, they cannot have more formal and regular\npastimes allowed them, than such as are acted and represented in\nopen view of all, and in the presence of the magistrates themselves;\nAnd if I might beare sway, I would thinke it reasonable, that\nPrinces should sometimes, at their proper charges, gratifie the\ncommon people with them, as an argument of a fatherly affection, and\nloving goodnesse towards them: and that in populous and frequented\ncities, there should be Theatres and places appointed for such\nspectacles; as a diverting of worse inconveniences, and secret\nactions. But to come to my intended purpose there is no better way\nto allure the affection, and to entice the appetite: otherwise a man\nshall breed but asses laden with Bookes. With jerks of rods they\nhave their satchels full of learning given them to keepe. Which to\ndoe well, one must not only harbor in himselfe, but wed and marry\nthe same with his minde.\n\n\n\n\nOF FRIENDSHIP\n\nConsidering the proceeding of a Painters worke I have, a desire hath\npossessed mee to imitate him: He maketh choice of the most\nconvenient place and middle of everie wall, there to place a\npicture, laboured with all his skill and sufficiencie; and all void\nplaces about it he filleth up with antike Boscage [Footnote:\nFoliated ornament] or Crotesko [Footnote: Grotesque] works; which\nare fantasticall pictures, having no grace, but in the variety and\nstrangenesse of them. And what are these my compositions in truth,\nother than antike workes, and monstrous bodies, patched and hudled\nup together of divers members, without any certaine or well ordered\nfigure, having neither order, dependencie, or proportion, but\ncasuall and framed by chance?\n\n     Definit in piscem mulier formosa superne.\n     [Footnote: Hon. Art. Poet. 4.]\n\n     A woman faire for parts superior,\n     Ends in a fish for parts inferior.\n\nTouching this second point I goe as farre as my Painter, but for the\nother and better part I am farre behinde: for my sufficiency\nreacheth not so farre as that I dare undertake a rich, a polished,\nand, according to true skill, an art-like table. I have advised\nmyselfe to borrow one of Steven de la Boetie, who with this kinde of\nworke shall honour all the world. It is a discourse he entitled\nVoluntary Servitude, but those who have not knowne him, have since\nvery properly rebaptized the same, The Against-one. In his first\nyouth he writ, by way of Essaie, in honour of libertie against\nTyrants. It hath long since beene dispersed amongst men of\nunderstanding, not without great and well deserved commendations:\nfor it is full of wit, and containeth as much learning as may be:\nyet doth it differ much from the best he can do. And if in the age I\nknew him in, he would have undergone my dessigne to set his\nfantasies downe in writing, we should doubtlesse see many rare\nthings, and which would very neerely approch the honour of\nantiquity: for especially touching that part of natures gifts, I\nknow none may be compared to him. But it was not long of him, that\never this Treatise came to mans view, and I beleeve he never saw it\nsince it first escaped his hands: with certaine other notes\nconcerning the edict of Januarie, famous by reason of our intestine\nwarre, which haply may in other places finde their deserved praise.\nIt is all I could ever recover of his reliques (whom when death\nseized, he by his last will and testament, left with so kinde\nremembrance, heire and executor of his librarie and writings)\nbesides the little booke, I since caused to be published: To which\nhis pamphlet I am particularly most bounden, for so much as it was\nthe instrumentall meane of our first acquaintance. For it was shewed\nme long time before I saw him; and gave me the first knowledge of\nhis name, addressing, and thus nourishing that unspotted friendship\nwhich we (so long as it pleased God) have so sincerely, so entire\nand inviolably maintained betweene us, that truly a man shall not\ncommonly heare of the like; and amongst our moderne men no signe of\nany such is scene. So many parts are required to the erecting of\nsuch a one, that it may be counted a wonder if fortune once in three\nages contract the like. There is nothing to which Nature hath more\naddressed us than to societie. And Aristotle saith that perfect Law-\ngivers have had more regardfull care of friendship than of justice.\nAnd the utmost drift of its perfection is this. For generally, all\nthose amities which are forged and nourished by voluptuousnesse or\nprofit, publike or private need, are thereby so much the lesse faire\nand generous, and so much the lesse true amities, in that they\nintermeddle other causes, scope, and fruit with friendship, than it\nselfe alone: Nor doe those foure ancient kindes of friendships,\nNaturall, sociall, hospitable, and venerian, either particularly or\nconjointly beseeme the same. That from children to parents may\nrather be termed respect: Friendship is nourished by communication,\nwhich by reason of the over-great disparitie cannot bee found in\nthem, and would happly offend the duties of nature: for neither all\nthe secret thoughts of parents can be communicated unto children,\nlest it might engender an unbeseeming familiaritie betweene them,\nnor the admonitions and corrections (which are the chiefest offices\nof friendship) could be exercised from children to parents. There\nhave nations beene found, where, by custome, children killed their\nparents, and others where parents slew their children, thereby to\navoid the hindrance of enterbearing [Footnote: Mutually supporting.]\none another in after-times: for naturally one dependeth from the\nruine of another. There have Philosophers beene found disdaining\nthis naturall conjunction: witnesse Aristippus, who being urged with\nthe affection he ought [Footnote: Owed.] his children, as proceeding\nfrom his loyns, began to spit, saying, That also that excrement\nproceeded from him, and that also we engendred wormes and lice. And\nthat other man, whom Plutarke would have perswaded to agree with his\nbrother, answered, \"I care not a straw the more for him, though he\ncame out of the same wombe I did.\" Verily the name of Brother is a\nglorious name, and full of loving kindnesse, and therefore did he\nand I terme one another sworne brother: but this commixture,\ndividence, and sharing of goods, this joyning wealth to wealth, and\nthat the riches of one shall be the povertie of another, doth\nexceedingly distemper and distract all brotherly alliance, and\nlovely conjunction: If brothers should conduct the progresse of\ntheir advancement and thrift in one same path and course, they must\nnecessarily oftentimes hinder and crosse one another. Moreover, the\ncorrespondencie and relation that begetteth these true and mutually\nperfect amities, why shall it be found in these? The father and the\nsonne may very well be of a farre differing complexion, and so many\nbrothers: He is my sonne, he is my kinsman; but he may be a foole, a\nbad, or a peevish-minded man. And then according as they are\nfriendships which the law and dutie of nature doth command us, so\nmuch the lesse of our owne voluntarie choice and libertie is there\nrequired unto it: And our genuine libertie hath no production more\nproperly her owne, than that of affection and amitie. Sure I am,\nthat concerning the same I have assaied all that might be, having\nhad the best and most indulgent father that ever was, even to his\nextremest age, and who from father to sonne was descended of a\nfamous house, and touching this rare-seene vertue of brotherly\nconcord very exemplare:\n\n       ----et ipse\n     Notus in fratres animi paterni.\n     [Footnote: Hor. 1. ii. Qd. li. 6.]\n\n     To his brothers knowne so kinde.\n     As to beare a fathers minde.\n\nTo compare the affection toward women unto it, although it proceed\nfrom our owne free choice, a man cannot, nor may it be placed in\nthis ranke: Her fire, I confesse it to be more\n\n     (---neque enim est dea nescia nostri\n     Quae dulcem curis miscet amaritiem.)\n     [Footnote: Catul. Epig. lxvi.]\n\n     (Nor is that Goddesse ignorant of me,\n     Whose bitter-sweets with my cares mixed be.)\n\nactive, more fervent, and more sharpe. But it is a rash and wavering\nfire, waving and divers: the fire of an ague subject to fits and\nstints, and that hath but slender hold-fast of us. In true\nfriendship, it is a generall and universall heat, and equally\ntempered, a constant and setled heat, all pleasure and smoothnes,\nthat hath no pricking or stinging in it, which the more it is in\nlustfull love, the more is it but a raging and mad desire in\nfollowing that which flies us,\n\n     Come segue la lepre il cacciatore\n     Alfreddo, al caldo, alia montagna, a lito,\n     Ne pin l'estima poi che presa vede,\n     E sol dietro a chi fugge affretta il piede.\n     [Footnote: Ariost. can. x. st. 7.]\n\n     Ev'n as the huntsman doth the hare pursue,\n     In cold, in heat, on mountaines, on the shore,\n     But cares no more, when he her ta'en espies\n     Speeding his pace only at that which flies.\n\nAs soone as it creepeth into the termes of friendship, that is to\nsay, in the agreement of wits, it languisheth and vanisheth away:\nenjoying doth lose it, as having a corporall end, and subject to\nsatietie. On the other side, friendship is enjoyed according as it\nis desired, it is neither bred, nourished, nor increaseth but in\njovissance, as being spirituall, and the minde being refined by use\ncustome. Under this chiefe amitie, these fading affections have\nsometimes found place in me, lest I should speake of him, who in his\nverses speakes but too much of it. So are these two passions entered\ninto me in knowledge one of another, but in comparison never: the\nfirst flying a high, and keeping a proud pitch, disdainfully\nbeholding the other to passe her points farre under it. Concerning\nmarriage, besides that it is a covenant which hath nothing free but\nthe entrance, the continuance being forced and constrained,\ndepending else-where than from our will, and a match ordinarily\nconcluded to other ends: A thousand strange knots are therein\ncommonly to be unknit, able to break the web, and trouble the whole\ncourse of a lively affection; whereas in friendship there is no\ncommerce or busines depending on the same, but it selfe. Seeing (to\nspeake truly) that the ordinary sufficiency of women cannot answer\nthis conference and communication, the nurse of this sacred bond:\nnor seeme their mindes strong enough to endure the pulling of a knot\nso hard, so fast, and durable. And truly, if without that, such a\ngenuine and voluntarie acquaintance might be contracted, where not\nonly mindes had this entire jovissance, [Footnote: Enjoyment.] but\nalso bodies, a share of the alliance, and where a man might wholly\nbe engaged: It is certaine, that friendship would thereby be more\ncompleat and full: But this sex could never yet by any example\nattaine unto it, and is by ancient schooles rejected thence. And\nthis other Greeke licence is justly abhorred by our customes, which\nnotwithstanding, because according to use it had so necessarie a\ndisparitie of ages, and difference of offices betweene lovers, did\nno more sufficiently answer the perfect union and agreement, which\nhere we require: Quis est enim iste amor amicitiae? cur neque\ndeformem adolescentem quisquam amat, neque formosum senem?\n[Footnote: Cic. Tusc. Qu. lv. c. 33.] \"For, what love is this of\nfriendship? why doth no man love either a deformed young man, or a\nbeautifull old man?\" For even the picture the Academic makes of it,\nwill not (as I suppose) disavowe mee, to say thus in her behalfe:\nThat the first furie, enspired by the son of Venus in the lovers\nhart, upon the object of tender youths-flower, to which they allow\nall insolent and passionate violences, an immoderate heat may\nproduce, was simply grounded upon an externall beauty; a false image\nof corporall generation: for in the spirit it had no power, the\nsight whereof was yet concealed, which was but in his infancie, and\nbefore the age of budding. For, if this furie did seize upon a base\nminded courage, the meanes of its pursuit were riches, gifts, favour\nto the advancement of dignities, and such like vile merchandice,\nwhich they reprove. If it fell into a more generous minde, the\ninterpositions [Footnote: Means of approach.] were likewise\ngenerous: Philosophicall instructions, documents [Footnote:\nTeachings.] to reverence religion, to obey the lawes, to die for the\ngood of his countrie: examples of valor, wisdome and justice; the\nlover endevoring and studying to make himselfe acceptable by the\ngood grace and beauty of his minde (that of his body being long\nsince decayed) hoping by this mentall society to establish a more\nfirme and permanent bargaine. When this pursuit attained the effect\nin due season (for by not requiring in a lover, he should bring\nleasure and discretion in his enterprise, they require it exactly in\nthe beloved; forasmuch as he was to judge of an internall beauty, of\ndifficile knowledge, and abstruse discovery) then by the\ninterposition of a spiritual beauty was the desire of a spiritual\nconception engendred in the beloved. The latter was here chiefest;\nthe corporall, accidentall and second, altogether contrarie to the\nlover. And therefore doe they preferre the beloved, and verifie that\nthe gods likewise preferre the same: and greatly blame the Poet\nAEschylus, who in the love betweene Achilles and Patroclus ascribeth\nthe lovers part unto Achilles, who was in the first and beardlesse\nyouth of his adolescency, and the fairest of the Graecians. After\nthis general communitie, the mistris and worthiest part of it,\npredominant and exercising her offices (they say the most availefull\ncommodity did thereby redound both to the private and publike). That\nit was the force of countries received the use of it, and the\nprincipall defence of equitie and libertie: witnesse the comfortable\nloves of Hermodius and Aristogiton. Therefore name they it sacred\nand divine, and it concerns not them whether the violence of\ntyrants, or the demisnesse of the people be against them: To\nconclude, all that can be alleged in favour of the Academy, is to\nsay, that it was a love ending in friendship, a thing which hath no\nbad reference unto the Stoical definition of love: Amorem conatum\nesse amicitiae faciendae ex pulchritudinis specie: [Footnote: Cic.\nTusc. Qu. ir. c. 34. ] \"That love is an endevour of making\nfriendship, by the shew of beautie.\" I returne to my description in\na more equitable and equall manner. Omnino amicitiae, corroboratis\njam confirmatisque ingeniis et aetatibus, judicandae sunt.\n[Footnote: Cic. Amic.] \"Clearely friendships are to be judged by\nwits, and ages already strengthened and confirmed.\" As for the rest,\nthose we ordinarily call friendes and amities, are but acquaintances\nand familiarities, tied together by some occasion or commodities, by\nmeanes whereof our mindes are entertained. In the amitie I speake\nof, they entermixe and confound themselves one in the other, with so\nuniversall a commixture, that they weare out and can no more finde\nthe seame that hath conjoined them together. If a man urge me to\ntell wherefore I loved him, I feele it cannot be expressed, but by\nanswering; Because it was he, because it was my selfe. There is\nbeyond all my discourse, and besides what I can particularly report\nof it, I know not what inexplicable and fatall power, a meane and\nMediatrix of this indissoluble union. We sought one another before\nwe had scene one another, and by the reports we heard one of\nanother; which wrought a greater violence in us, than the reason of\nreports may well beare; I thinke by some secret ordinance of the\nheavens, we embraced one another by our names. And at our first\nmeeting, which was by chance at a great feast, and solemne meeting\nof a whole towneship, we found our selves so surprized, so knowne,\nso acquainted, and so combinedly bound together, that from thence\nforward, nothing was so neer unto us as one unto anothers. He writ\nan excellent Latyne Satyre since published; by which he excuseth and\nexpoundeth the precipitation of our acquaintance, so suddenly come\nto her perfection; Sithence it must continue so short a time, and\nbegun so late (for we were both growne men, and he some yeares older\nthan my selfe) there was no time to be lost. And it was not to bee\nmodelled or directed by the paterne of regular and remisse\n[Footnote: Slight, languid.] friendship, wherein so many precautions\nof a long and preallable conversation [Footnote: Preceding\nintercourse.] are required. This hath no other Idea than of it\nselfe, and can have no reference but to itselfe. It is not one\nespeciall consideration, nor two, nor three, nor foure, nor a\nthousand: It is I wot not what kinde of quintessence, of all this\ncommixture, which having seized all my will, induced the same to\nplunge and lose it selfe in his, which likewise having seized all\nhis will, brought it to lose and plunge it selfe in mine, with a\nmutuall greedinesse, and with a semblable concurrance. I may truly\nsay, lose, reserving nothing unto us, that might properly be called\nour owne, nor that was either his or mine. When Lelius in the\npresence of the Romane Consuls, who after the condemnation of\nTiberius Gracchus, pursued all those that had beene of his\nacquaintance, came to enquire of Caius Blosius (who was one of his\nchiefest friends) what he would have done for him, and that he\nanswered, \"All things.\" \"What, all things?\" replied he. \"And what if\nhe had willed thee to burne our Temples?\" Blosius answered, \"He\nwould never have commanded such a thing.\" \"But what if he had done\nit?\" replied Lelius. The other answered, \"I would have obeyed him.\"\nIf hee were so perfect a friend to Gracchus as Histories report, he\nneeded not offend the Consuls with this last and bold confession,\nand should not have departed from the assurance hee had of Gracchus\nhis minde. But yet those who accuse this answer as seditious,\nunderstand not well this mysterie: and doe not presuppose in what\ntermes he stood, and that he held Gracchus his will in his sleeve,\nboth by power and knowledge. They were rather friends than Citizens,\nrather friends than enemies of their countrey, or friends of\nambition and trouble. Having absolutely committed themselves one to\nanother, they perfectly held the reines of one anothers inclination:\nand let this yoke be guided by vertue and conduct of reason (because\nwithout them it is altogether impossible to combine and proportion\nthe same). The answer of Blosius was such as it should be. If their\naffections miscarried, according to my meaning, they were neither\nfriends one to other, nor friends to themselves. As for the rest,\nthis answer sounds no more than mine would doe, to him that would in\nsuch sort enquire of me; if your will should command you to kill\nyour daughter, would you doe it? and that I should consent unto it:\nfor, that beareth no witnesse of consent to doe it: because I am not\nin doubt of my will, and as little of such a friends will. It is not\nin the power of the worlds discourse to remove me from the\ncertaintie I have of his intentions and judgments of mine: no one of\nits actions might be presented unto me, under what shape soever, but\nI would presently finde the spring and motion of it. Our mindes have\njumped [Footnote: Agreed.] so unitedly together, they have with so\nfervent an affection considered of each other, and with like\naffection so discovered and sounded, even to the very bottome of\neach others heart and entrails, that I did not only know his, as\nwell as mine owne, but I would (verily) rather have trusted him\nconcerning any matter of mine, than my selfe. Let no man compare any\nof the other common friendships to this. I have as much knowledge of\nthem as another, yea of the perfectest of their kinde: yet wil I not\nperswade any man to confound their rules, for so a man might be\ndeceived. In these other strict friendships a man must march with\nthe bridle of wisdome and precaution in his hand: the bond is not so\nstrictly tied but a man may in some sort distrust the same. Love him\n(said Chilon) as if you should one day hate him againe. Hate him as\nif you should love him againe. This precept, so abhominable in this\nsoveraigne and mistris Amitie, is necessarie and wholesome in the\nuse of vulgar and customarie friendships: toward which a man must\nemploy the saying Aristotle was wont so often repeat, \"Oh you my\nfriends, there is no perfect friend.\"\n\nIn this noble commerce, offices and benefits (nurses of other\namities) deserve not so much as to bee accounted of: this confusion\nso full of our wills is cause of it: for even as the friendship I\nbeare unto my selfe, admits no accrease, [Footnote: Increase.] by\nany succour I give my selfe in any time of need, whatsoever the\nStoickes allege; and as I acknowledge no thanks unto my selfe for\nany service I doe unto myselfe, so the union of such friends, being\ntruly perfect, makes them lose the feeling of such duties, and hate,\nand expell from one another these words of division, and difference:\nbenefit, good deed, dutie, obligation, acknowledgement, prayer,\nthanks, and such their like. All things being by effect common\nbetweene them; wils, thoughts, judgements, goods, wives, children,\nhonour, and life; and their mutual agreement, being no other than\none soule in two bodies, according to the fit definition of\nAristotle, they can neither lend or give ought to each other. See\nhere the reason why Lawmakers, to honour marriage with some\nimaginary resemblance of this divine bond, inhibite donations\nbetween husband and wife; meaning thereby to inferre, that all\nthings should peculiarly bee proper to each of them, and that they\nhave nothing to divide and share together. If in the friendship\nwhereof I speake, one might give unto another, the receiver of the\nbenefit should binde his fellow. For, each seeking more than any\nother thing to doe each other good, he who yeelds both matter and\noccasion, is the man sheweth himselfe liberall, giving his friend\nthat contentment, to effect towards him what he desireth most. When\nthe Philosopher Diogenes wanted money, he was wont to say that he\nredemanded the same of his friends, and not that he demanded it: And\nto show how that is practised by effect, I will relate an ancient\nsingular example. Eudamidas the Corinthiam had two friends:\nCharixenus a Sycionian, and Aretheus a Corinthian; being upon his\ndeath-bed, and very poore, and his two friends very rich, thus made\nhis last will and testament: \"To Aretheus, I bequeath the keeping of\nmy mother, and to maintaine her when she shall be old: To Charixenus\nthe marrying of my daughter, and to give her as great a dowry as he\nmay: and in case one of them shall chance to die before, I appoint\nthe survivor to substitute his charge, and supply his place.\" Those\nthat first saw this testament laughed and mocked at the same; but\nhis heires being advertised thereof, were very well pleased, and\nreceived it with singular contentment. And Charixenus, one of them,\ndying five daies after Eudamidas, the substitution being declared in\nfavour of Aretheus, he carefully and very kindly kept and maintained\nhis mother, and of five talents that he was worth he gave two and a\nhalfe in marriage to one only daughter he had, and the other two and\na halfe to the daughter of Eudamidas, whom he married both in one\nday. This example is very ample, if one thing were not, which is the\nmultitude of friends: For, this perfect amity I speake of, is\nindivisible; each man doth so wholly give himselfe unto his friend,\nthat he hath nothing left him to divide else-where: moreover he is\ngrieved that he is not double, triple, or quadruple, and hath not\nmany soules, or sundry wils, that he might conferre them all upon\nthis subject. Common friendships may bee divided; a man may love\nbeauty in one, facility of behaviour in another, liberality in one,\nand wisdome in another, paternity in this, fraternity in that man,\nand so forth: but this amitie which possesseth the soule, and swaies\nit in all sovereigntie, it is impossible it should be double. If two\nat one instant should require helpe, to which would you run? Should\nthey crave contrary offices of you, what order would you follow?\nShould one commit a matter to your silence, which if the other knew\nwould greatly profit him, what course would you take? Or how would\nyou discharge your selfe? A singular and principall friendship\ndissolveth all other duties, and freeth all other obligations. The\nsecret I have sworne not to reveale to another, I may without\nperjurie impart it unto him, who is no other but my selfe. It is a\ngreat and strange wonder for a man to double himselfe; and those\nthat talke of tripling know not, nor cannot reach into the height of\nit. \"Nothing is extreme that hath his like.\" And he who shal\npresuppose that of two I love the one as wel as the other, and that\nthey enter-love [Footnote: Love mutually.] one another, and love me\nas much as I love them: he multiplied! in brotherhood, a thing most\nsingular, and a lonely one, and than which one alone is also the\nrarest to be found in the world. The remainder of this history\nagreeth very wel with what I said; for, Eudamidas giveth us a grace\nand favor to his friends to employ them in his need: he leaveth them\nas his heires of his liberality, which consisteth in putting the\nmeanes into their hands to doe him good. And doubtlesse the force of\nfriendship is much more richly shewen in his deed than in Aretheus.\nTo conclude, they are imaginable effects to him that hath not tasted\nthem; and which makes me wonderfully to honor the answer of that\nyoung Souldier to Cyrus, who enquiring of him what he would take for\na horse with which he had lately gained the prize of a race, and\nwhether he would change him for a Kingdome? \"No surely, my Liege\n(said he), yet would I willingly forgot him to game a true friend,\ncould I but finde a man worthy of so precious an alliance.\" He said\nnot ill, in saying \"could I but finde.\" For, a man shall easily\nfinde men fit for a superficiall acquaintance; but in this, wherein\nmen negotiate from the very centre of their harts, and make no spare\nof any thing, it is most requisite all the wards and springs be\nsincerely wrought and perfectly true. In confederacies, which hold\nbut by one end, men have nothing to provide for, but for the\nimperfections, which particularly doe interest and concerne that end\nand respect. It is no great matter what religion my Physician or\nLawyer is of: this consideration hath nothing common with the\noffices of that friendship they owe mee. So doe I in the familiar\nacquaintances that those who serve me contract with me. I am nothing\ninquisitive whether a Lackey be chaste or no, but whether he be\ndiligent: I feare not a gaming Muletier, so much as if he be weake:\nnor a hot swearing Cooke, as one that is ignorant and unskilfull; I\nnever meddle with saying what a man should doe in the world; there\nare over many others that doe it; but what my selfe doe in the\nworld.\n\n     Mihi sic usus est: Tibi, ut opus est facto, face\n     [Footnote: Ter. Heau. act. i. sc. i, 28.]\n\n     So is it requisite for me:\n     Doe thou as needfull is for thee.\n\nConcerning familiar table-talke, I rather acquaint my selfe with and\nfollow a merry conceited [Footnote: Fanciful] humour, than a wise\nman: And in bed I rather prefer beauty than goodnesse; and in\nsociety or conversation of familiar discourse, I respect rather\nsufficiency, though without Preud'hommie, [Footnote: Probity.] and\nso of all things else. Even as he that was found riding upon an\nhobby-horse, playing with his children besought him who thus\nsurprized him not to speake of it untill he were a father himselfe,\nsupposing the tender fondnesse and fatherly passion which then would\nposesse his minde should make him an impartiall judge of such an\naction; so would I wish to speake to such as had tried what I speake\nof: but knowing how far such an amitie is from the common use, and\nhow seld scene and rarely found, I looke not to finde a competent\njudge. For, even the discourses, which sterne antiquitie hath left\nus concerning this subject, seeme to me but faint and forcelesse in\nrespect of the feeling I have of it; And in that point the effects\nexceed the very precepts of Philosophie.\n\n     Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.\n     [Footnote: Hor. 1. i. Sat. vii. 44]\n\n     For me, be I well in my wit,\n     Nought, as a merry friend, so fit.\n\nAncient Menander accounted him happy that had but met the shadow of\na true friend: verily he had reason to say so, especially if he had\ntasted of any: for truly, if I compare all the rest of my forepassed\nlife, which although I have, by the meere mercy of God, past at rest\nand ease, and except the losse of so deare a friend, free from all\ngrievous affliction, with an ever-quietnesse of minde, as one that\nhave taken my naturall and originall commodities in good payment,\nwithout searching any others: if, as I say, I compare it all unto\nthe foure yeares I so happily enjoied the sweet company and deare-\ndeare society of that worthy man, it is nought but a vapour, nought\nbut a darke and yrkesome light. Since the time I lost him,\n\n             quem semper acerbum,\n     Semper honoratum (sic Dii voluistis) habebo,\n     [Footnote: Virg. AEn. iii. 49.]\n\n     Which I shall ever hold a bitter day,\n     Yet ever honour'd (so my God t' obey),\n\nI doe but languish, I doe but sorrow: and even those pleasures, all\nthings present me with, in stead of yeelding me comfort, doe but\nredouble the griefe of his losse. We were copartners in all things.\nAll things were with us at halfe; me thinkes I have stolne his part\nfrom him.\n\n   --Nee fas esse iilla me voluptate hic frui\n     Decrevi, tantisper dum ille abest meus particeps.\n     [Footnote: Ter. Heau. act. i. sc. i, 97.]\n\n     I have set downe, no joy enjoy I may,\n     As long as he my partner is away.\n\nI was so accustomed to be ever two, and so enured [Footnote:\nAccustomed] to be never single, that me thinks I am but halfe my\nselfe.\n\n     Illam mea si partem animce tulit,\n     Maturior vis, quid moror altera.\n     Nec charus aeque nec superstes,\n     Integer? Ille dies utramque\n     Duxit ruinam.\n     [Footnote: Hor. 1. ii. Od. xvii.]\n\n     Since that part of my soule riper fate reft me,\n     Why stay I heere the other part he left me?\n     Nor so deere, nor entire, while heere I rest:\n     That day hath in one mine both opprest.\n\nThere is no action can betide me, or imagination possesse me, but I\nheare him saying, as indeed he would have done to me: for even as he\ndid excell me by an infinite distance in all other sufficiencies and\nvertues, so did he in all offices and duties of friendship.\n\n     Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus,\n     Tam chari capitis?\n     [Footnote: Id. 1. i. Od. xxiv.]\n\n     What modesty or measure may I beare,\n     In want and wish of him that was so deare?\n\n     O misero frater adempte mihi!\n     Omnia tecum una perieruni gaudia nostra.\n     Qua tuus in vita dulcis alebat amor.\n     [Footnote: CATUL. Eleg. iv. 20, 92, 26, 95.]\n     Tu mea, tu moriens fregisti commoda frater.\n     [Footnote: Ib. 21.]\n     Tecum una tota est nostra sepulta anima,\n     Cujus ego interitu tota de mente fugavi\n     Hac studia, atque omnes delicias animi\n     [Footnote: CATUL. Bl. iv. 94.]\n     Alloquar? audiero nunquam tua verba loquentem?\n     [Footnote: Ib. 25.]\n     Nunquam ego te vita frater amabilior,\n     Aspiciam posthac? at certe semper amabo.\n     [Footnote: El. i. 9.]\n\n     O brother rest from miserable me,\n     All our delights are perished with thee,\n     Which thy sweet love did nourish in my breath.\n     Thou all my good hast spoiled in thy death:\n     With thee my soule is all and whole enshrinde,\n     At whose death I have cast out of my minde\n     All my mindes sweet-meats, studies of this kinde;\n     Never shall I, heare thee speake, speake with thee?\n     Thee brother, than life dearer, never see?\n     Yet shalt them ever be belov'd of mee.\n\nBut let us a little feare this yong man speake, being but sixteene\nyeares of age.\n\nBecause I have found this worke to have since beene published (and\nto an ill end) by such as seeke to trouble and subvert the state of\nour common-wealth, nor caring whether they shall reforme it or no;\nwhich they have fondly inserted among other writings of their\ninvention, I have revoked my intent, which was to place it here. And\nlest the Authors memory should any way be interessed with those that\ncould not thoroughly know his opinions and actions, they shall\nunderstand that this subject was by him treated of in his infancie,\nonly by way of exercise, as a subject, common, bareworne, and wyer-\ndrawne in a thousand bookes. I will never doubt but he beleeved what\nhe writ, and writ as he thought: for hee was so conscientious that\nno lie did ever passe his lips, yea were it but in matters of sport\nor play: and I know, that had it beene in his choyce, he would\nrather have beene borne at Venice than at Sarlac; and good, reason\nwhy: But he had another maxime deepely imprinted in his minde, which\nwas, carefully to obey, and religiously to submit himselfe to the\nlawes, under which he was borne. There was never a better citizen,\nnor more affected to the welfare and quietnesse of his countrie, nor\na sharper enemie of the changes, innovations, newfangles, and hurly-\nburlies of his time: He would more willingly have imployed the\nutmost of his endevours to extinguish and suppresse, than to favour\nor further them: His minde was modelled to the patterne of other\nbest ages. But yet in exchange of his serious treatise, I will here\nset you downe another, more pithie, materiall, and of more\nconsequence, by him likewise produced at that tender age.\n\n\n\n\nOF BOOKS\n\nI make no doubt but it shall often befall me to speake of things\nwhich are better, and with more truth, handled by such as are their\ncrafts-masters. Here is simply an essay of my natural faculties, and\nno whit of those I have acquired. And he that shall tax me with\nignorance shall have no great victory at my hands; for hardly could\nI give others reasons for my discourses that give none unto my\nselfe, and am not well satisfied with them. He that shall make\nsearch after knowledge, let him seek it where it is there is nothing\nI professe lesse. These are but my fantasies by which I endevour not\nto make things known, but my selfe. They may haply one day be knowne\nunto me, or have bin at other times, according as fortune hath\nbrought me where they were declared or manifested. But I remember\nthem no more. And if I be a man of some reading, yet I am a man of\nno remembering, I conceive no certainty, except it bee to give\nnotice how farre the knowledge I have of it doth now reach. Let no\nman busie himselfe about the matters, but on the fashion I give\nthem. Let that which I borrow be survaied, and then tell me whether\nI have made good choice of ornaments to beautifie and set foorth the\ninvention which ever comes from mee. For I make others to relate\n(not after mine owne fantasie but as it best falleth out) what I\ncannot so well expresse, either through unskill of language or want\nof judgement. I number not my borrowings, but I weigh them. And if I\nwould have made their number to prevail, I would have had twice as\nmany. They are all, or almost all, of so famous and ancient names,\nthat me thinks they sufficiently name themselves without mee. If in\nreasons, comparisons, and arguments, I transplant any into my soile,\nor confound them with mine owne, I purposely conceale the author,\nthereby to bridle the rashnesse of these hastie censures that are so\nheadlong cast upon all manner of compositions, namely young writings\nof men yet living; and in vulgare that admit all the world to talke\nof them, and which seemeth to convince the conception and publike\ndesigne alike. I will have them to give Plutarch a barb [Footnote:\nThrust, taunt] upon mine own lips, and vex themselves in wronging\nSeneca in mee. My weaknesse must be hidden under such great credits.\nI will love him that shal trace or unfeather me; I meane through\nclearenesse of judgement, and by the onely distinction of the force\nand beautie of my discourses. For my selfe, who for want of memorie\nam ever to seeke how to trie and refine them by the knowledge of\ntheir country, knowe perfectly, by measuring mine owne strength,\nthat my soyle is no way capable of some over-pretious flowers that\ntherein I find set, and that all the fruits of my increase could not\nmake it amends. This am I bound to answer for if I hinder my selfe,\nif there be either vanitie or fault in my discourses that I perceive\nnot or am not able to discerne if they be showed me. For many faults\ndo often escape our eyes; but the infirmitie of judgement consisteth\nin not being able to perceive them when another discovereth them\nunto us. Knowledge and truth may be in us without judgement, and we\nmay have judgment without them: yea, the acknowledgement of\nignorance is one of the best and surest testimonies of judgement\nthat I can finde. I have no other sergeant of band to marshall my\nrapsodies than fortune. And looke how my humours or conceites\npresent themselves, so I shuffle them up. Sometimes they prease out\nthicke and three fold, and other times they come out languishing one\nby one. I will have my naturall and ordinarie pace scene as loose\nand as shuffling as it is. As I am, so I goe on plodding. And\nbesides, these are matters that a man may not be ignorant of, and\nrashly and casually to speake of them. I would wish to have a more\nperfect understanding of things, but I will not purchase it so deare\nas it cost. My intention is to passe the remainder of my life\nquietly and not laboriously, in rest and not in care. There is\nnothing I will trouble or vex myselfe about, no not for science it\nselfe, what esteeme soever it be of. I doe not search and tosse over\nbooks but for an honester recreation to please, and pastime to\ndelight my selfe: or if I studie, I only endevour to find out the\nknowledge that teacheth or handleth the knowledge of my selfe, and\nwhich may instruct me how to die well and how to live well.\n\n     Has meus ad metas sudet oportet equus.\n     [Footnote: Propeet. 1. iv. El. i. 70]\n\n     My horse must sweating runne,\n     That this goale may be wonne.\n\nIf in reading I fortune to meet with any difficult points, I fret\nnot my selfe about them, but after I have given them a charge or\ntwo, I leave them as I found them. Should I earnestly plod upon\nthem, I should loose both time and my selfe, for I have a skipping\nwit. What I see not at the first view, I shall lesse see it if I\nopinionate my selfe upon it. I doe nothing without blithnesse; and\nan over obstinate continuation and plodding contention doth dazle,\ndul, and wearie the same: my sight is thereby confounded and\ndiminished. I must therefore withdraw it, and at fittes goe to\nit againe. Even as to judge well of the lustre of scarlet we are\ntaught to cast our eyes over it, in running over by divers glances,\nsodaine glimpses and reiterated reprisings. [Footnote: Repeated\nobservations.] If one booke seeme tedious unto me I take another,\nwhich I follow not with any earnestnesse, except it be at such\nhoures as I am idle, or that I am weary with doing nothing. I am\nnot greatly affected to new books, because ancient Authors are, in\nmy judgement, more full and pithy: nor am I much addicted to Greeke\nbooks, forasmuch as my understanding cannot well rid [Footnote:\nAccomplish.] his worke with a childish and apprentise intelligence.\nAmongst moderne bookes meerly pleasant, I esteeme Bocace his\nDecameron, Rabelais, and the kisses of John the second (if they\nmay be placed under this title), worth the paines-taking to reade\nthem.  As for Amadis and such like trash of writings, they had\nnever the credit so much as to allure my youth to delight in them.\nThis I will say more, either boldly or rashly, that this old and\nheavie-pased minde of mine will no more be pleased with Aristotle,\nor tickled with good Ovid: his facility and quaint inventions,\nwhich heretofore have so ravished me, they can now a days scarcely\nentertaine me. I speake my minde freely of all things, yea, of such\nas peradventure exceed my sufficiencie, and that no way I hold to\nbe of my jurisdiction. What my conceit is of them is told also to\nmanifest the proportion of my insight, and not the measure of things.\nIf at any time I finde my selfe distasted of Platoes Axiochus, as of\na forceles worke, due regard had to such an Author, my judgement doth\nnothing beleeve it selfe: It is not so fond-hardy, or selfe-conceited,\nas it durst dare to oppose it selfe against the authority of so\nmany other famous ancient judgements, which he reputeth his regents\nand masters, and with whom hee had rather erre. He chafeth with,\nand condemneth himselfe, either to rely on the superficiall sense,\nbeing unable to pierce into the centre, or to view the thing by some\nfalse lustre. He is pleased only to warrant himselfe from trouble\nand unrulinesse: As for weaknesse, he acknowledgeth and ingeniously\navoweth the same. He thinks to give a just interpretation to the\napparences which his conception presents unto him, but they are\nshallow and imperfect. Most of AEsopes fables have divers senses,\nand severall interpretations: Those which Mythologize them, chuse\nsome kinde of colour well suting with the fable; but for the most\npart, it is no other than the first and superficiall glosse: There\nare others more quicke, more sinnowie, more essentiall, and more\ninternall, into which they could never penetrate; and thus thinke\nI with them. But to follow my course, I have ever deemed that in\nPoesie, Virgil, Lucretius, Catullus, and Horace, doe doubtles by\nfar hold the first ranke: and especially Virgil in his Georgiks,\nwhich I esteeme to be the most accomplished peece of worke of\nPoesie: In comparison of which one may easily discerne, that there\nare some passages in the AEneidos to which the Author (had he\nlived) would no doubt have given some review or correction: The\nfifth booke whereof is (in my mind) the most absolutely perfect. I\nalso love Lucan, and willingly read him, not so much for his stile,\nas for his owne worth and truth of his opinion and judgement. As\nfor good Terence, I allow the quaintnesse and grace of his Latine\ntongue, and judge him wonderfull conceited and apt, lively to\nrepresent the motions and passions of the minde, and the condition\nof our manners: our actions make me often remember him. I can never\nreade him so often but still I discover some new grace and beautie\nin him. Those that lived about Virgil's time, complained that some\nwould compare Lucretius unto him. I am of opinion that verily it is\nan unequall comparison; yet can I hardly assure my selfe in this\nopinion whensoever I finde my selfe entangled in some notable\npassage of Lucretius. If they were moved at this comparison, what\nwould they say now of the fond, hardy and barbarous stupiditie of\nthose which now adayes compare Ariosto unto him? Nay, what\nwould Ariosto say of it himselfe?\n\n     O seclum insipiens et infacetutn.\n     [Footnote: Catul. Epig, xl. 8.]\n\n     O age that hath no wit,\n     And small conceit in it.\n\nI thinke our ancestors had also more reason to cry out against those\nthat blushed not to equall Plautus unto Terence (who makes more show\nto be a Gentleman) than Lucretius unto Virgil. This one thing doth\ngreatly advantage the estimation and preferring of Terence, that the\nfather of the Roman eloquence, of men of his quality doth so often\nmake mention of him; and the censure [Footnote: Opinion.] which the\nchiefe Judge of the Roman Poets giveth of his companion. It hath\noften come unto my minde, how such as in our dayes give themselves\nto composing of comedies (as the Italians who are very happy in\nthem) employ three or foure arguments of Terence and Plautus to make\nup one of theirs. In one onely comedy they will huddle up five or\nsix of Bocaces tales. That which makes them so to charge themselves\nwith matter, is the distrust they have of their owne sufficiency,\nand that they are not able to undergoe so heavie a burthen with\ntheir owne strength. They are forced to finde a body on which they\nmay rely and leane themselves: and wanting matter of their owne\nwherewith to please us, they will have the story or tale to busie\nand ammuse us: where as in my Authors it is cleane contrary: The\nelegancies, the perfections and ornaments of his manner of speech,\nmake us neglect and lose the longing for his subject. His\nquaintnesse and grace doe still retaine us to him. He is every where\npleasantly conceited, [Footnote: Full of pleasant notions.]\n\n     Liquidus puroque simillimus amni\n     [Footnote: Hor. 1. ii. Epist. II. 120.]\n\n     So clearely-neate, so neately-cleare,\n     As he a fine-pure River were,\n\nand doth so replenish our minde with his graces that we forget those\nof the fable. The same consideration drawes me somewhat further. I\nperceive that good and ancient Poets have shunned the affectation\nand enquest, not only of fantasticall, new fangled, Spagniolized,\nand Petrarchisticall elevations, but also of more sweet and sparing\ninventions, which are the ornament of all the Poeticall workes of\nsucceeding ages. Yet is there no competent Judge that findeth them\nwanting in those Ancient ones, and that doth not much more admire\nthat smoothly equall neatnesse, continued sweetnesse, and\nflourishing comelinesse of Catullus his Epigrams, than all the\nsharpe quips and witty girds wherewith Martiall doth whet and\nembellish the conclusions of his. It is the same reason I spake of\nerewhile, as Martiall of himselfe. Minus illi ingenio laborandum\nfuit, in cuius locum materia successerat. [Footnote: Mart. Praf. 1.\nviii.] \"He needed the lesse worke with his wit, in place whereof\nmatter came in supply.\" The former without being moved or pricked\ncause themselves to be heard lowd enough: they have matter to laugh\nat every where, and need not tickle themselves; where as these must\nhave foraine helpe: according as they have lesse spirit, they must\nhave more body. They leape on horsebacke, because they are not\nsufficiently strong in their legs to march on foot. Even as in our\ndances, those base conditioned men that keepe dancing-schooles,\nbecause they are unfit to represent the port and decencie of our\nnobilitie, endevour to get commendation by dangerous lofty trickes,\nand other strange tumbler-like friskes and motions. And some Ladies\nmake a better shew of their countenances in those dances, wherein\nare divers changes, cuttings, turnings, and agitations of the body,\nthan in some dances of state and gravity, where they need but simply\nto tread a naturall measure, represent an unaffected cariage, and\ntheir ordinary grace; And as I have also seene some excellent\nLourdans, or Clownes, attired in their ordinary worky-day clothes,\nand with a common homely countenance, affoord us all the pleasure\nthat may be had from their art: but prentises and learners that are\nnot of so high a forme, besmeare their faces, to disguise\nthemselves, and in motions counterfeit strange visages and antickes,\nto enduce us to laughter. This my conception is no where better\ndiscerned than in the comparison betweene Virgils AEneidos and\nOrlando Furioso. The first is seene to soare aloft with full-spread\nwings, and with so high and strong a pitch, ever following his\npoint; the other faintly to hover and flutter from tale to tale, and\nas it were skipping from bough to bough, always distrusting his owne\nwings, except it be for some short flight, and for feare his\nstrength and breath should faile him, to sit downe at every fields-\nend;\n\n     Excursusque breves tentat.\n     [Footnote: Virg. AEn. 1. iv. 194.]\n\n     Out-lopes [Footnote: Wanderings out.] sometimes he doth assay,\n     But very short, and as he may.\n\nLoe here then, concerning this kinde of subjects, what Authors\nplease me best: As for my other lesson, which somewhat more mixeth\nprofit with pleasure, whereby I learne to range my opinions and\naddresse my conditions, the Bookes that serve me thereunto are\nPlutarke (since he spake [Footnote: Was translated by Angot] French)\nand Seneca; both have this excellent commodity for my humour, that\nthe knowledge I seeke in them is there so scatteringly and loosely\nhandled, that whosoever readeth them is not tied to plod long upon\nthem, whereof I am uncapable. And so are Plutarkes little workes and\nSenecas Epistles, which are the best and most profitable parts of\ntheir writings. It is no great matter to draw mee to them, and I\nleave them where I list. For they succeed not and depend not one of\nanother. Both jumpe [Footnote: Agree] and suit together, in most\ntrue and profitable opinions: And fortune brought them both into the\nworld in one age. Both were Tutors unto two Roman Emperours: Both\nwere strangers, and came from farre Countries; both rich and mighty\nin the common-wealth, and in credit with their masters. Their\ninstruction is the prime and creame of Philosophy, and presented\nwith a plaine, unaffected, and pertinent fashion. Plutarke is more\nuniforme and constant; Seneca more waving and diverse. This doth\nlabour, force, and extend himselfe, to arme and strengthen vertue\nagainst weaknesse, feare, and vitious desires; the other seemeth\nnothing so much to feare their force or attempt, and in a manner\nscorneth to hasten or change his pace about them, and to put\nhimselfe upon his guard. Plutarkes opinions are Platonicall, gentle\nand accommodable unto civill societie: Senecaes Stoicall and\nEpicurian, further from common use, but in my conceit [Footnote:\nOpinion.] more proper, particular, and more solid. It appeareth in\nSeneca that he somewhat inclineth and yeeldeth to the tyrannic of\nthe Emperors which were in his daies; for I verily believe, it is\nwith a forced judgement he condemneth the cause of those noblie-\nminded murtherers of Caesar; Plutarke is every where free and open\nhearted; Seneca full-fraught with points and sallies; Plutarke stuft\nwith matters. The former doth move and enflame you more; the latter\ncontent, please, and pay you better: This doth guide you, the other\ndrive you on. As for Cicero, of all his works, those that treat of\nPhilosophie (namely morall) are they which best serve my turne, and\nsquare with my intent. But boldly to confess the truth (for, since\nthe bars of impudencie were broken downe, all curbing is taken\naway), his manner of writing seemeth verie tedious unto me, as doth\nall such like stuffe. For his prefaces, definitions, divisions, and\nEtymologies consume the greatest part of his works; whatsoever\nquick, wittie, and pithie conceit is in him is surcharged and\nconfounded by those his long and far-fetcht preambles. If I bestow\nbut one hour in reading them, which is much for me, and let me call\nto minde what substance or juice I have drawne from him, for the\nmost part I find nothing but wind and ostentation in him; for he is\nnot yet come to the arguments which make for his purpose, and\nreasons that properly concerne the knot or pith I seek after. These\nLogicall and Aristotelian ordinances are not avail full for me, who\nonely endeavour to become more wise and sufficient, and not more\nwittie or eloquent. I would have one begin with the last point: I\nunderstand sufficiently what death and voluptuousnesse are: let not\na man busie himselfe to anatomize them. At the first reading of a\nbooke I seeke for good and solid reasons that may instruct me how to\nsustaine their assaults. It is neither grammaticall subtilties nor\nlogicall quiddities, nor the wittie contexture of choice words or\narguments and syllogismes, that will serve my turne. I like those\ndiscourses that give the first charge to the strongest part of the\ndoubt; his are but flourishes, and languish everywhere. They are\ngood for schooles, at the barre, or for Orators and Preachers, where\nwe may slumber: and though we wake a quarter of an houre after, we\nmay finde and trace him soone enough. Such a manner of speech is fit\nfor those judges that a man would corrupt by hooke or crooke, by\nright or wrong, or for children and the common people, unto whom a\nman must tell all, and see what the event would be. I would not have\na man go about and labour by circumlocutions to induce and winne me\nto attention, and that (as our Heralds or Criers do) they shall ring\nout their words: Now heare me, now listen, or ho-yes. [Footnote:\nOyez, hear.] The Romanes in their religion were wont to say, \"Hoc\nage; [Footnote: Do this.] \"which in ours we say, \"Sursum corda.\n[Footnote: Lift up your hearts.] There are so many lost words for\nme. I come readie prepared from my house. I neede no allurement nor\nsawce, my stomacke is good enough to digest raw meat: And whereas\nwith these preparatives and flourishes, or preambles, they thinke to\nsharpen my taste or stir my stomacke, they cloy and make it\nwallowish. [Footnote: Mawkish.] Shall the privilege of times excuse\nme from this sacrilegious boldnesse, to deem Platoes Dialogismes to\nbe as languishing, by over-filling and stuffing his matter? And to\nbewaile the time that a man who had so many thousands of things to\nutter, spends about so many, so long, so vaine, and idle\ninterloqutions, and preparatives? My ignorance shall better excuse\nme, in that I see nothing in the beautie of his language. I\ngenerally enquire after bookes that use sciences, and not after such\nas institute them. The two first, and Plinie, with others of their\nranke, have no Hoc age in them, they will have to doe with men that\nhave forewarned themselves; or if they have, it is a materiall and\nsubstantial! Hoc age, and that hath his bodie apart I likewise love\nto read the Epistles and ad Atticum, not onely because they containe\na most ample instruction of the historic and affaires of his times,\nbut much more because in them I descrie his private humours. For (as\nI have said elsewhere) I am wonderfull curious to discover and know\nthe minde, the soul, the genuine disposition and naturall judgement\nof my authors. A man ought to judge their sufficiencie and not their\ncustomes, nor them by the shew of their writings, which they set\nforth on this world's theatre. I have sorrowed a thousand times that\never we lost the booke that Brutus writ of Vertue. Oh it is a goodly\nthing to learne the Theorike of such as understand the practice\nwell. But forsomuch as the Sermon is one thing and the Preacher an\nother, I love as much to see Brutus in Plutarke as in himself: I\nwould rather make choice to know certainly what talk he had in his\ntent with some of his familiar friends, the night fore-going the\nbattell, than the speech he made the morrow after to his Armie; and\nwhat he did in his chamber or closet, than what in the senate or\nmarket place. As for Cicero, I am of the common judgement, that\nbesides learning there was no exquisite [Footnote: Overelaborate.]\neloquence in him: He was a good citizen, of an honest, gentle\nnature, as are commonly fat and burly men: for so was he: But to\nspeake truly of thim? full of ambitious vanity and remisse niceness.\n[Footnote: Ineffectual fastidiousness.] And I know not well how to\nexcuse him, in that he deemed his Poesie worthy to be published. It\nis no great imperfection to make bad verses, but it is an\nimperfection in him that he never perceived how unworthy they were\nof the glorie of his name. Concerning his eloquence, it is beyond\nall comparison, and I verily beleeve that none shall ever equall it.\nCicero the younger, who resembled his father in nothing but in name,\ncommanding in Asia, chanced one day to have many strangers at his\nboard, and amongst others, one Caestius sitting at the lower end, as\nthe manner is to thrust in at great mens tables: Cicero inquired of\none of his men what he was, who told him his name, but he dreaming\non other matters, and having forgotten what answere his man made\nhim, asked him his name twice or thrice more: the servant, because\nhe would not be troubled to tell him one thing so often, and by some\ncircumstance to make him to know him better, \"It is,\" said he, \"the\nsame Caestius of whom some have told you that, in respect of his\nowne, maketh no accompt of your fathers eloquence:\" Cicero being\nsuddainly mooved, commanded the said poore Caestius to be presently\ntaken from the table, and well whipt in his presence: Lo heere an\nuncivill and barbarous host. Even amongst those which (all things\nconsidered) have deemed his eloquence matchlesse and incomparable,\nothers there have been who have not spared to note some faults in\nit. As great Brutus said, that it was an eloquence broken, halting,\nand disjoynted, fractam et elumbem: \"Incoherent and sinnowlesse.\"\nThose Orators that lived about his age, reproved also in him the\ncurious care he had of a certaine long cadence at the end of his\nclauses, and noted these words, esse videatur, which he so often\nuseth. As for me, I rather like a cadence that falleth shorter, cut\nlike Iambikes: yet doth he sometimes confounde his numbers,\n[Footnote: Confuse his rhythm.] but it is seldome: I have especially\nobserved this one place: \"Ego vero me minus diu senem esse mallem,\nquam esse senem, antequam essem? [Footnote: Cic. De Senect.] \"But I\nhad rather not be an old man, so long as I might be, than to be old\nbefore I should be.\" Historians are my right hand, for they are\npleasant and easie; and therewithall the man with whom I desire\ngenerally to be acquainted may more lively and perfectly be\ndiscovered in them than in any other composition: the varictic and\ntruth of his inward conditions, in grosse and by retale: the\ndiversitie of the meanes of his collection and composing, and of the\naccidents that threaten him. Now those that write of mens lives,\nforasmuch as they ammuse and busie themselves more about counsels\nthan events, more about that which commeth from within than that\nwhich appeareth outward; they are fittest for me: And that's the\nreason why Plutarke above all in that kind doth best please me.\nIndeed I am not a little grieved that we have not a dozen of\nLaertius, or that he is not more knowne, or better understood; for I\nam no lesse curious to know the fortunes and lives of these great\nmasters of the world than to understand the diversitie of their\ndecrees and conceits. In this kind of studie of historie a man must,\nwithout distinction, tosse and turne over all sorts of Authors, both\nold and new, both French and others, if he will learne the things\nthey so diversly treat of. But me thinkes that Caesar above all doth\nsingularly deserve to be studied, not onely for the understanding of\nthe historie as of himselfe; so much perfection and excellencie is\nthere in him more than in others, although Salust be reckoned one of\nthe number. Verily I read that author with a little more reverence\nand respects than commonly men reade profane and humane Workes:\nsometimes considering him by his actions and wonders of his\ngreatnesse, and other times waighing the puritie and inimitable\npolishing and elegancie of his tongue, which (as Cicero saith) hath\nnot onely exceeded all historians, but haply Cicero himselfe: with\nsuch sinceritie in his judgement, speaking of his enemies, that\nexcept the false colours wherewith he goeth about to cloake his bad\ncause, and the corruption and filthinesse of his pestilent ambition,\nI am perswaded there is nothing in him to be found fault with: and\nthat he hath been over-sparing to speake of himselfe; for so many\nnotable and great things could never be executed by him, unlesse he\nhad put more of his owne into them than he setteth downe. I love\nthose Historians that are either very simple or most excellent. The\nsimple who have nothing of their owne to adde unto the storie and\nhave but the care and diligence to collect whatsoever come to their\nknowledge, and sincerely and faithfully to register all things,\nwithout choice or culling, by the naked truth leave our judgment\nmore entire and better satisfied.\n\nSuch amongst others (for examples sake) plaine and well-meaning\nFroissard, who in his enterprise hath marched with so free and\ngenuine a puritie, that having committed some oversight, he is\nneither ashamed to acknowledge nor afraid to correct the same,\nwheresoever he hath either notice or warning of it; and who\nrepresenteth unto us the diversitie of the newes then current and\nthe different reports that were made unto him. The subject of an\nhistorie should be naked, bare, and formelesse; each man according\nto his capacitie or understanding may reap commoditie out of it. The\ncurious and most excellent have the sufficiencie to cull and chuse\nthat which is worthie to be knowne and may select of two relations\nthat which is most likely: from the condition of Princes and of\ntheir humours, they conclude their counsels and attribute fit words\nto them: they assume a just authoritie and bind our faith to theirs.\nBut truly that belongs not to many. Such as are betweene both (which\nis the most common fashion), it is they that spoil all; they will\nneeds chew our meat for us and take upon them a law to judge, and by\nconsequence to square and encline the storie according to their\nfantasie; for, where the judgement bendeth one way, a man cannot\nchuse but wrest and turne his narration that way. They undertake to\nchuse things worthy to bee knowne, and now and then conceal either a\nword or a secret action from us, which would much better instruct\nus: omitting such things as they understand not as incredible: and\nhaply such matters as they know not how to declare, either in good\nLatin or tolerable French. Let them boldly enstall their eloquence\nand discourse: Let them censure at their pleasure, but let them also\ngive us leave to judge after them: And let them neither alter nor\ndispense by their abridgements and choice anything belonging to the\nsubstance of the matter; but let them rather send it pure and entire\nwith all her dimensions unto us. Most commonly (as chiefly in our\nage) this charge of writing histories is committed unto base,\nignorant, and mechanicall kind of people, only for this\nconsideration that they can speake well; as if we sought to learne\nthe Grammer of them; and they have some reason, being only hired to\nthat end, and publishing nothing but their tittle-tattle to aime at\nnothing else so much. Thus with store of choice and quaint words,\nand wyre drawne phrases, they huddle up and make a hodge-pot of a\nlaboured contexture of the reports which they gather in the market\nplaces or such other assemblies. The only good histories are those\nthat are written by such as commanded or were imploied themselves in\nweighty affaires or that were partners in the conduct of them, or\nthat at least have had the fortune to manage others of like\nqualitie. Such in a manner are all the Graecians and Romans. For\nmany eye-witnesses having written of one same subject (as it hapned\nin those times when Greatnesse and Knowledge did commonly meet) if\nany fault or over-sight have past them, it must be deemed exceeding\nlight and upon some doubtful accident. What may a man expect at a\nPhisitians hand that discourseth of warre, or of a bare Scholler\ntreating of Princes secret designes? If we shall but note the\nreligion which the Romans had in that, wee need no other example:\nAsinius Pollio found some mistaking or oversight in Caesars\nCommentaries, whereinto he was falne, only because he could not\npossiblie oversee all things with his owne eyes that hapned in his\nArmie, but was faine to rely on the reports of particular men, who\noften related untruths unto him: or else because he had not been\ncuriously advertized [Footnote: Minutely informed.] and distinctly\nenformed by his Lieutenants and Captaines of such matters as they in\nhis absence had managed or effected. Whereby may be seen that\nnothing is so hard or so uncertaine to be found out as the\ncertaintie of the truth, sithence [Footnote: Since.] no man can put\nany assured confidence concerning the truth of a battel, neither in\nthe knowledge of him that was Generall or commanded over it, nor in\nthe soldiers that fought, of anything that hath hapned amongst them;\nexcept after the manner of a strict point of law, the severall\nwitnesses are brought and examined face to face, and that all\nmatters be nicely and thorowly sifted by the objects and trials of\nthe successe of every accident. Verily the knowledge we have of our\nowne affaires is much more barren and feeble. But this hath\nsufficiently been handled by Bodin, and agreeing with my conception.\nSomewhat to aid the weaknesse of my memorie and to assist her great\ndefects; for it hath often been my chance to light upon bookes which\nI supposed to be new and never to have read, which I had not\nunderstanding diligently read and run over many years before, and\nall bescribled with my notes; I have a while since accustomed my\nselfe to note at the end of my booke (I meane such as I purpose to\nread but once) the time I made an end to read it, and to set downe\nwhat censure or judgement I gave of it; that so it may at least at\nanother time represent unto my mind the aire and generall idea I had\nconceived of the Author in reading him. I will here set downe the\nCopie of some of my annotations, and especially what I noted upon my\nGuicciardine about ten yeares since: (For what language soever my\nbooks speake unto me I speake unto them in mine owne.) He is a\ndiligent Historiographer and from whom in my conceit a man may as\nexactly learne the truth of such affaires as passed in his time, as\nof any other writer whatsoever: and the rather because himselfe hath\nbeen an Actor of most part of them and in verie honourable place.\nThere is no signe or apparance that ever he disguised or coloured\nany matter, either through hatred, malice, favour, or vanitie;\nwhereof the free and impartiall judgements he giveth of great men,\nand namely of those by whom he had been advanced or imployed in his\nimportant charges, as of Pope Clement the seaventh, beareth\nundoubted testimony. Concerning the parts wherein he most goeth\nabout to prevaile, which are his digressions and discourses, many of\nthem are verie excellent and enriched with faire ornaments, but he\nhath too much pleased himselfe in them: for endeavouring to omit\nnothing that might be spoken, having so full and large a subject,\nand almost infinite, he proveth somewhat languishing, and giveth a\ntaste of a kind of scholasticall tedious babling. Moreover, I have\nnoted this, that of so severall and divers armes, successes, and\neffects he judgeth of; of so many and variable motives, alterations,\nand counsels, that he relateth, he never referreth any one unto\nvertue, religion or conscience: as if they were all extinguished and\nbanished the world. And of all actions how glorious soever in\napparance they be of themselves, he doth ever impute the cause of\nthem to some vicious and blame-worthie occasion, or to some\ncommoditie and profit. It is impossible to imagine that amongst so\ninfinite a number of actions whereof he judgeth, some one have not\nbeen produced and compassed by way of reason. No corruption could\never possesse men so universally but that some one must of necessity\nescape the contagion; which makes me to feare he hath had some\ndistaste or blame in his passion, and it hath haply fortuned that he\nhath judged or esteemed of others according to himselfe. In my\nPhilip de Comines there is this: In him you shall find a pleasing-\nsweet and gently-gliding speech, fraught with a purely sincere\nsimplicitie, his narration pure and unaffected, and wherein the\nAuthours unspotted good meaning doth evidently appeare, void of all\nmanner of vanitie or ostentation speaking of himselfe, and free from\nall affection or envie-speaking of others; his discourses and\nperswasions accompanied more with a well-meaning zeale and meere\n[Footnote: Pure.] veritie than with any laboured and exquisite\nsufficiencie, and allthrough with gravitie and authoritie,\nrepresenting a man well-borne and brought up in high negotiations.\nUpon the Memoires and historic of Monsieur du Bellay: It is ever a\nwell-pleasing thing to see matters written by those that have as\nsaid how and in what manner they ought to be directed and managed:\nyet can it not be denied but that in both these Lords there will\nmanifestly appeare a great declination from a free libertie of\nwriting, which clearely shineth in ancient writers of their kind: as\nin the Lord of louinille, familiar unto Saint Lewis; Eginard,\nChancellor unto Charlemaine; and of more fresh memorie in Philip de\nComines. This is rather a declamation or pleading for King Francis\nagainst the Emperour Charles the fifth, than an Historic. I will not\nbeleeve they have altered or changed any thing concerning the\ngeneralitie of matters, but rather to wrest and turne the judgement\nof the events many times against reason, to our advantage, and to\nomit whatsoever they supposed to be doubtful or ticklish in their\nmasters life: they have made a business of it: witnesse the\nrecoylings of the Lords of Momorancy and Byron, which therein are\nforgotten; and which is more, you shall not so much as find the name\nof the Ladie of Estampes mentioned at all. A man may sometimes\ncolour and haply hide secret actions, but absolutely to conceal that\nwhich all the world knoweth, and especially such things as have\ndrawne-on publike effects, and of such consequence, it is an\ninexcusable defect, or as I may say unpardonable oversight. To\nconclude, whosoever desireth to have perfect information and\nknowledge of king Francis the first, and of the things hapned in his\ntime, let him addresse himselfe elsewhere if he will give any credit\nunto me. The profit he may reap here is by the particular\ndescription of the battels and exploits of warre wherein these\ngentlemen were present; some privie conferences, speeches, or secret\nactions of some princes that then lived, and the practices managed,\nor negotiations directed by the Lord of Langeay, in which doubtless\nare verie many things well worthy to be knowne, and diverse\ndiscourses not vulgare.\n\n\n\n\nMONTAIGNE\n\nWHAT IS A CLASSIC?\n\nBY\n\nCHARLES-AUGUSTIN SAINTE-BEUVE\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nE. LEE\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\n\nCharles Augustin Sainte-Beuve, the foremost French critic of the\nnineteenth century, and, in the view of many, the greatest literary\ncritic of the world, was born at Boulogne-sur-Mer, December 23,\n1804. He studied medicine, but soon abandoned it for literature; and\nbefore he gave himself up to criticism he made some mediocre\nattempts in poetry and fiction. He became professor at the College\nde France and the Ecole Normale and was appointed Senator in 1865. A\ncourse of lectures given at Lausanne in 1837 resulted in his great\n\"Histoire de Port-Royal\" and another given at Liege in his\n\"Chateaubriand et son groupe litteraire.\" But his most famous\nproductions were his critical essays published periodically in the\n\"Constitutionnel\" the \"Moniteur\" and the \"Temps\" later collected in\nsets under the names of \"Critiques et Portraits Litteraires\"\n\"Portraits Contemporains\" \"Causeries du Lundi\" and \"Nouveaux\nLundis.\" At the height of his vogue, these Monday essays were events\nof European importance. He died in 1869.\n\nSainte-Beuve's work was much more than literary criticism as that\ntype of writing had been generally conceived before his time. In\nplace of the mere classification of books and the passing of a\njudgment upon them as good or bad, he sought to illuminate and\nexplain by throwing light on a literary work from a study of the\nlife, circumstances, and aim of the writer, and by a comparison with\nthe literature of other times and countries. Thus his work was\nhistorical, psychological, and ethical, as well as esthetic, and\ndemanded vast learning and a literary outlook of unparalleled\nbreadth. In addition to this equipment he had fine taste and an\nadmirable style; and by his universality, penetration, and balance\nhe raised to a new level the profession of critic.\n\n\n\n\nMONTAIGNE\n\nWhile the good ship France is taking a somewhat haphazard course,\ngetting into unknown seas, and preparing to double what the pilots\n(if there is a pilot) call the Stormy Cape, while the look-out at\nthe mast-head thinks he sees the spectre of the giant Adamastor\nrising on the horizon, many honourable and peaceable men continue\ntheir work and studies all the same, and follow out to the end, or\nas far as they can, their favourite hobbies. I know, at the present\ntime, a learned man who is collating more carefully than has ever\nyet been done the different early editions of Rabelais--editions,\nmark you, of which only one copy remains, of which a second is not\nto be found: from the careful collation of the texts some literary\nand maybe philosophical result will be derived with regard to the\ngenius of the French Lucian-Aristophanes. I know another scholar\nwhose devotion and worship is given to a very different man--to\nBossuet: he is preparing a complete, exact, detailed history of the\nlife and works of the great bishop. And as tastes differ, and \"human\nfancy is cut into a thousand shapes\" (Montaigne said that),\nMontaigne also has his devotees, he who, himself, was so little of\none: a sect is formed round him. In his lifetime he had Mademoiselle\nde Gournay, his daughter of alliance, who was solemnly devoted to\nhim; and his disciple, Charron, followed him closely, step by step,\nonly striving to arrange his thoughts with more order and method. In\nour time amateurs, intelligent men, practice the religion under\nanother form: they devote themselves to collecting the smallest\ntraces of the author of the Essays, to gathering up the slightest\nrelics, and Dr. Payen may be justly placed at the head of the group.\nFor years he has been preparing a book on Montaigne, of which the\ntitle will be--\"Michel de Montaigne, a collection of unedited or\nlittle known facts about the author of the Essays, his book, and his\nother writings, about his family, his friends, his admirers, his\ndetractors.\"\n\nWhile awaiting the conclusion of the book, the occupation and\namusement of a lifetime, Dr. Payen keeps us informed in short\npamphlets of the various works and discoveries made about Montaigne.\n\nIf we separate the discoveries made during the last five or six\nyears from the jumble of quarrels, disputes, cavilling, quackery,\nand law-suits (for there have been all those), they consist in this-\n-\n\nIn 1846 M. Mace found in the (then) Royal Library, amongst the\n\"Collection Du Puys,\" a letter of Montaigne, addressed to the king,\nHenri IV., September 2, 1590.\n\nIn 1847 M. Payen printed a letter, or a fragment of a letter of\nMontaigne of February 16, 1588, a letter corrupt and incomplete,\ncoming from the collection of the Comtesse Boni de Castellane.\n\nBut, most important of all, in 1848, M. Horace de Viel-Castel found\nin London, at the British Museum, a remarkable letter of Montaigne,\nMay 22, 1585, when Mayor of Bordeaux, addressed to M. de Matignon,\nthe king's lieutenant in the town. The great interest of the letter\nis that it shows Montaigne for the first time in the full discharge\nof his office with all the energy and vigilance of which he was\ncapable. The pretended idler was at need much more active than he\nwas ready to own.\n\nM. Detcheverry, keeper of the records to the mayoralty of Bordeaux,\nfound and published (1850) a letter of Montaigne, while mayor, to\nthe Jurats, or aldermen of the town, July 30, 1585.\n\nM. Achille Jubinal found among the manuscripts of the National\nLibrary, and published (1850), a long, remarkable letter from\nMontaigne to the king, Henri IV., January 18, 1590, which happily\ncoincides with that already found by M. Mace.\n\nLastly, to omit nothing and do justice to all, in a \"Visit to\nMontaigne's Chateau in Perigord,\" of which the account appeared in\n1850, M. Bertrand de Saint-Germain described the place and pointed\nout the various Greek and Latin inscriptions that may still be read\nin Montaigne's tower in the third-storey chamber (the ground floor\ncounting as the first), which the philosopher made his library and\nstudy.\n\nM. Payen, collecting together and criticising in his last pamphlet\nthe various notices and discoveries, not all of equal importance,\nallowed himself to be drawn into some little exaggeration of praise;\nbut we cannot blame him. Admiration, when applied to such noble,\nperfectly innocent, and disinterested subjects, is truly a spark of\nthe sacred fire: it produces research that a less ardent zeal would\nquickly leave aside, and sometimes leads to valuable results.\nHowever, it would be well for those who, following M. Payen's\nexample, intelligently understand and greatly admire Montaigne, to\nremember, even in their ardour, the advice of the wise man and the\nmaster. \"There is more to do,\" said he, speaking of the commentators\nof his time, \"in interpreting the interpretations than in\ninterpreting the things themselves; and more bdoks about books than\non any other subject. We do nothing, but everything swarms with\ncommentators; of authors there is a great rarity.\" Authors are of\ngreat price and very scared at all times--that is to say, authors\nwho really increase the sum of human knowledge. I should like all\nwho write on Montaigne, and give us the details of their researches\nand discoveries, to imagine one thing,--Montaigne himself reading\nand criticising them. \"What would he think of me and the manner in\nwhich I am going to speak of him to the public?\" If such a question\nwas put, how greatly it would suppress useless phrases and shorten\nidle discussions! M. Payen's last pamphlet was dedicated to a man\nwho deserves equally well of Montaigne--M. Gustave Brunet, of\nBordeaux. He, speaking of M. Payen, in a work in which he pointed\nout interesting and various corrections of Montaigne's text, said:\n\"May he soon decide to publish the fruits of his researches: he will\nhave left nothing for future Montaignologues\" Montaignologues! Great\nHeaven! what would Montaigne say of such a word coined in his\nhonour? You who occupy yourselves so meritoriously with him, but who\nhave, I think, no claim to appropriate him to yourselves, in the\nname of him whom you love, and whom we all love by a greater or\nlesser title, never, I beg of you, use such words; they smack of the\nbrotherhood and the sect, of pedantry and of the chatter of the\nschools--things utterly repugnant to Montaigne.\n\nMontaigne had a simple, natural, affable mind, and a very happy\ndisposition. Sprung from an excellent father, who, though of no\ngreat education, entered with real enthusiasm into the movement of\nthe Renaissance and all the liberal novelties of his time, the son\ncorrected the excessive enthusiasm, vivacity, and tenderness he\ninherited by a great refinement and justness of reflection; but he\ndid not abjure the original groundwork. It is scarcely more than\nthirty years ago that whenever the sixteenth century was mentioned\nit was spoken of as a barbarous epoch, Montaigne only excepted:\ntherein lay error and ignorance. The sixteenth century was a great\ncentury, fertile, powerful, learned, refined in parts, although in\nsome aspects it was rough, violent, and seemingly coarse. What it\nparticularly lacked was taste, if by taste is meant the faculty of\nclear and perfect selection, the extrication of the elements of the\nbeautiful. But in the succeeding centuries taste quickly became\ndistaste. If, however, in literature it was crude, in the arts\nproperly so-called, in those of the hand and the chisel, the\nsixteenth century, even in France, is, in the quality of taste, far\ngreater than the two succeeding centuries: it is neither meagre nor\nmassive, heavy nor distorted. In art its taste is rich and of fine\nquality,--at once unrestrained and complex, ancient and modern,\nspecial to itself and original. In the region of morals it is\nunequal and mixed. It was an age of contrasts, of contrasts in all\ntheir crudity, an age of philosophy and fanaticism, of scepticism\nand strong faith. Everything was at strife and in collision; nothing\nwas blended and united. Everything was in ferment; it was a period\nof chaos; every ray of light caused a storm. It was not a gentle\nage, or one we can call an age of light, but an age of struggle and\ncombat. What distinguished Montaigne and made a phenomenon of him\nwas, that in such an age he should have possessed moderation,\ncaution, and order.\n\nBorn on the last day of February, 1533, taught the ancient languages\nas a game while still a child, waked even in his cradle by the sound\nof musical instruments, he seemed less fitted for a rude and violent\nepoch than for the commerce and sanctuary of the muses. His rare\ngood sense corrected what was too ideal and poetical in his early\neducation; but he preserved the happy faculty of saying everything\nwith freshness and wit. Married, when past thirty, to an estimable\nwoman who was his companion for twenty-eight years, he seems to have\nput passion only into friendship. He immortalised his love for\nEtienne de la Boetie, whom he lost after four years of the sweetest\nand closest intimacy. For some time counsellor in the Parliament of\nBordeaux, Montaigne, before he was forty, retired from public life,\nand flung away ambition to live in his tower of Montaigne, enjoying\nhis own society and his own intellect, entirely given up to his own\nobservations and thoughts, and to the busy idleness of which we know\nall the sports and fancies. The first edition of the Essays appeared\nin 1580, consisting of only two books, and in a form representing\nonly the first rough draft of what we have in the later editions.\nThe same year Montaigne set out on a voyage to Switzerland and\nItaly. It was during that voyage that the aldermen of Bordeaux\nelected him mayor of their town. At first he refused and excused\nhimself, but warned that it would be well to accept, and enjoined by\nthe king, he took the office, \"the more beautiful,\" he said, \"that\nthere was neither renunciation nor gain other than the honour of its\nperformance.\" He filled the office for four years, from July 1582 to\nJuly 1586, being re-elected after the first two years. Thus\nMontaigne, at the age of fifty, and a little against his will, re-\nentered public life when the country was on the eve of civil\ndisturbances which, quieted and lulled to sleep for a while, broke\nout more violently at the cry of the League. Although, as a rule,\nlessons serve for nothing, since the art of wisdom and happiness\ncannot be taught, let us not deny ourselves the pleasure of\nlistening to Montaigne; let us look on his wisdom and happiness; let\nhim speak of public affairs, of revolutions and disturbances, and of\nhis way of conducting himself with regard to them. We do not put\nforward a model, but we offer our readers an agreeable recreation.\n\nAlthough Montaigne lived in so agitated and stormy a time, a period\nthat a man who had lived through the Terror (M. Daunou) called the\nmost tragic century in all history, he by no means regarded his age\nas the worst of ages. He was not of those prejudiced and afflicted\npersons, who, measuring everything by their visual horizon, valuing\neverything according to their present sensations, alway declare that\nthe disease they suffer from is worse than any ever before\nexperienced by a human being. He was like Socrates, who did not\nconsider himself a citizen of one city but of the world; with his\nbroad and full imagination he embraced the universality of countries\nand of ages; he even judged more equitably the very evils of which\nhe was witness and victim. \"Who is it,\" he said, \"that, seeing the\nbloody havoc of these civil wars of ours, does not cry out that the\nmachine of the world is near dissolution, and that the day of\njudgment is at hand, without considering that many worse revolutions\nhave been seen, and that, in the mean time, people are being merry\nin a thousand other parts of the earth for all this? For my part,\nconsidering the license and impunity that always attend such\ncommotions, I admire they are so moderate, and that there is not\nmore mischief done. To him who feels the hailstones patter about his\nears, the whole hemisphere appears to be in storm and tempest.\" And\nraising his thoughts higher and higher, reducing his own suffering\nto what it was in the immensity of nature, seeing there not only\nhimself but whole kingdoms as mere specks in the infinite, he added\nin words which foreshadowed Pascal, in words whose outline and\nsalient points Pascal did not disdain to borrow: \"But whoever shall\nrepresent to his fancy, as in a picture, that great image of our\nmother nature, portrayed in her full majesty and lustre, whoever in\nher face shall read so general and so constant a variety, whoever\nshall observe himself in that figure, and not himself but a whole\nkingdom, no bigger than the least touch or prick of a pencil in\ncomparison of the whole, that man alone is able to value things\naccording to their true estimate and grandeur.\"\n\nThus Montaigne gives us a lesson, a useless lesson, but I state it\nall the same, because among the many unprofitable ones that have\nbeen written down, it is perhaps of greater worth than most. I do\nnot mean to underrate the gravity of the circumstances in which\nFrance is just now involved, for I believe there is pressing need to\nbring together all the energy, prudence, and courage she possesses\nin order that the country may come out with honour [Footnote: This\nessay appeared April 28, 1851]. However, let us reflect, and\nremember that, leaving aside the Empire, which as regards internal\naffairs was a period of calm, and before 1812 of prosperity, we who\nutter such loud complaints, lived in peace from 1815 to 1830,\nfifteen long years; that the three days of July only inaugurated\nanother order of things that for eighteen years guaranteed peace and\nin dustrial prosperity; in all, thirty-two years of repose. Stormy\ndays came; tempests burst, and will doubtless burst again. Let us\nlearn how to live through them, but do not let us cry out every day,\nas we are disposed to do, that never under the sun were such storms\nknown as we are enduring. To get away from the present state of\nfeeling, to restore lucidity and proportion to our judgments, let us\nread every evening a page of Montaigne.\n\nA criticism of Montaigne on the men of his day struck me, and it\nbears equally well on those of ours. Our philosopher says somewhere\nthat he knows a fair number of men possessing various good\nqualities--one, intelligence; another, heart; another, address,\nconscience or knowledge, or skill in languages, each has his share:\n\"but of a great man as a whole, having so many good qualities\ntogether, or one with such a degree of excellence that we ought to\nadmire him, or compare him with those we honour in the past, my\nfortune has never shown me one.\" He afterwards made an exception in\nfavour of his friend Etienne de la Boetie, but he belonged to the\ncompany of great men dead before attaining maturity, and showing\npromise without having time to fulfil it. Montaigne's criticism\ncalled up a smile. He did not see a true and wholly great man in his\ntime, the age of L'Hopital, Coligny, and the Guises. Well! how does\nours seem to you? We have as many great men as in Montaigne's time,\none distinguished for his intellect, another for his heart, a third\nfor skill, some (a rare thing) for conscience, many for knowledge\nand language. But we too lack the perfect man, and he is greatly to\nbe desired. One of the most intelligent observers of our day\nrecognised and proclaimed it some years ago: \"Our age,\" said M. de\nRemusat, \"is wanting in great men.\" [Footnote: Essais de\nPhilosophie, vol. i, p. 22]\n\nHow did Montaigne conduct himself in his duties as first magistrate\nof a great city? If we take him literally and on a hasty first\nglance we should believe he discharged them slackly and languidly.\nDid not Horace, doing the honours to himself, say that in war he one\nday let his shield fall (relicta non bene parmula)? We must not be\nin too great a hurry to take too literally the men of taste who have\na horror of over-estimating themselves. Minds of a fine quality are\nmore given to vigilance and to action than they are apt to confess.\nThe man who boasts and makes a great noise, will, I am almost sure,\nbe less brave in the combat than Horace, and less vigilant at the\ncouncil board than Montaigne.\n\nOn entering office Montaigne was careful to warn the aldermen of\nBordeaux not to expect to find in him more than there really was; he\npresented himself to them without affectation. \"I represented to\nthem faithfully and conscientiously all that I felt myself to be,--a\nman without memory, without vigilance, without experience, and\nwithout energy; but also, without hate, without ambition, without\navarice, and without violence.\" He should be sorry, while taking the\naffairs of the town in hand, that his feelings should be so strongly\naffected as those of his worthy father had been, who in the end had\nlost his place and health. The eager and ardent pledge to satisfy an\nimpetuous desire was not his method. His opinion was \"that you must\nlend yourself to others, and only give yourself to yourself.\" And\nrepeating his thought, according to his custom in all kinds of\nmetaphors and picturesque forms, he said again that if he some times\nallowed himself to be urged to the management of other men's\naffairs, he promised to take them in hand, not \"into my lungs and\nliver.\" We are thus forewarned, we know what to expect. The mayor\nand Montaigne were two distinct persons; under his role and office\nhe reserved to himself a certain freedom and secret security. He\ncontinued to judge things in his own fashion and impartially,\nalthough acting loyally for the cause confided to him. He was far\nfrom approving or even excusing all he saw in his party, and he\ncould judge his adversaries and say of them: \"He did that thing\nwickedly, and this virtuously.\" \"I would have,\" he added, \"matters\ngo well on our side; but if they do not, I shall not run mad. I am\nheartily for the right party; but I do not affect to be taken notice\nof for an especial enemy to others.\" And he entered into some\ndetails and applications which at that time were piquant. Let us\nremark, however, in order to explain and justify his somewhat\nextensive profession of impartiality, that the chiefs of the party\nthen in evidence, the three Henris, were famous and considerable men\non several counts: Henri, Duke of Guise, head of the League; Henri,\nKing of Navarre, leader of the Opposition; and the King Henri III.\nin whose name Montaigne was mayor, who wavered between the two. When\nparties have neither chief nor head, when they are known by the body\nonly, that is to say, in their hideous and brutal reality, it is\nmore difficult and also more hazardous to be just towards them and\nto assign to each its share of action.\n\nThe principle which guided him in his administration was to look\nonly at the fact, at the result, and to grant nothing to noise and\noutward show: \"How much more a good effect makes a noise, so much I\nabate of the goodness of it.\" For it is always to be feared that it\nwas more performed for the sake of the noise than upon the account\nof goodness: \"Being exposed upon the stall, 'tis half sold.\" That\nwas not Montaigne's way: he made no show; he managed men and affairs\nas quietly as he could; he employed in a manner useful to all alike\nthe gifts of sincerity and conciliation; the personal attraction\nwith which nature endowed him was a quality of the highest value in\nthe management of men. He preferred to warn men of evil rather than\nto take on himself the honour of repressing it: \"Is there any one\nwho desires to be sick that he may see his physician's practice? And\nwould not that physician deserve to be whipped who should wish the\nplague amongst us that he might put his art into practice?\" Far from\ndesiring that trouble and disorder in the affairs of the city should\nrouse and honour his govern ment, he had ever willingly, he said,\ncontributed all he could to their tranquillity and ease. He is not\nof those whom municipal honours intoxicate and elate, those\n\"dignities of office\" as he called them, and of which all the noise\n\"goes from one cross-road to another.\" If he was a man desirous of\nfame, he recognised that it was of a kind greater than that. I do\nnot know, however, if even in a vaster field he would have changed\nhis method and manner of proceed ing. To do good for the public\nimperceptibly would always seem to him the ideal of skill and the\nculminating point of happiness. \"He who will not thank me,\" he said,\n\"for the order and quiet calm that has accompanied my administration,\ncannot, however, deprive me of the share that belongs to me by the\ntitle of my good fortune.\" And he is inexhaustible in describing in\nlively and graceful expressions the kinds of effective and imperceptible\nservices he believed he had rendered--services greatly superior to\nnoisy and glorious deeds: \"Actions which come from the workman's\nhand carelessly and noiselessly have most charm, that some honest\nman chooses later and brings from their obscurity to thrust them into\nthe light for their own sake.\" Thus fortune served Montaigne to\nperfection, and even in his administration of affairs, in difficult\nconjunctures, he never had to belie his maxim, nor to step very far\nout of the way of life he had planned: \"For my part I commend a gliding,\nsolitary, and silent life.\" He reached the end of his magistracy almost\nsatisfied with himself, having accomplished what he had promised\nhimself, and much more than he had promised others.\n\nThe letter lately discovered by M. Horace de Viel-Castel\ncorroborates the chapter in which Montaigne exhibits and criticises\nhimself in the period of his public life. \"That letter,\" says M.\nPayen, \"is entirely on affairs. Montaigne is mayor; Bordeaux, lately\ndisturbed, seems threatened by fresh agitations; the king's\nlieutenant is away. It is Wednesday, May 22, 1585; it is night,\nMontaigne is wakeful, and writes to the governor of the province.\"\nThe letter, which is of too special and local an interest to be\ninserted here, may be summed up in these words:--Montaigne regretted\nthe absence of Marshal de Matignon, and feared the consequences of\nits prolongation; he was keeping, and would continue to keep, him\nacquainted with all that was going on, and begged him to return as\nsoon as his circumstances would permit. \"We are looking after our\ngates and guards, and a little more carefully in your absence. . . .\nIf anything important and fresh occurs, I shall send you a messenger\nimmediately, so that if you hear no news from me, you may consider\nthat nothing has happened.\" He begs M. de Matignon to remember,\nhowever, that he might not have time to warn him, \"entreating you to\nconsider that such movements are usually so sudden, that if they do\noccur they will take me by the throat without any warning.\" Besides,\nhe will do everything to ascertain the march of events beforehand.\n\"I will do what I can to hear news from all parts, and to that end\nshall visit and observe the inclinations of all sorts of men.\"\nLastly, after keeping the marshal informed of everything, of the\nleast rumours abroad in the city, he pressed him to return, assuring\nhim \"that we spare neither our care, nor, if need be, our lives to\npreserve everything in obedience to the king.\" Montaigne was never\nprodigal of protestations and praises, and what with others was a\nmere form of speech, was with him a real undertaking and the truth.\n\nThings, however, became worse and worse: civil war broke out;\nfriendly or hostile parties (the difference was not great) infested\nthe country. Montaigne, who went to his country house as often as he\ncould, whenever the duties of his office, which was drawing near its\nterm, did not oblige him to be in Bordeaux, was exposed to every\nsort of insult and outrage. \"I underwent,\" he said, \"the\ninconveniences that moderation brings along with it in such a\ndisease. I was pitied on all hands; to the Ghibelline I was a\nGuelph, and to the Guelph a Ghibelline.\" In the midst of his\npersonal grievances he could disengage and raise his thoughts to\nreflections on the public misfortunes and on the degradation of\nmen's characters. Considering closely the disorder of parties, and\nall the abject and wretched things which developed so quickly, he\nwas ashamed to see leaders of renown stoop and debase themselves by\ncowardly complacency; for in those circumstances we know, like him,\n\"that in the word of command to march, draw up, wheel, and the like,\nwe obey him indeed; but all the rest is dissolute and free.\" \"It\npleases me,\" said Montaigne ironically, \"to observe how much\npusillanimity and cowardice there is in ambition; by how abject and\nservile ways it must arrive at its end.\" Despising ambition as he\ndid, he was not sorry to see it unmasked by such practices and\ndegraded in his sight. However, his goodness of heart overcoming his\npride and contempt, he adds sadly, \"it displeases me to see good and\ngenerous natures, and that are capable of justice, every day\ncorrupted in the management and command of this confusion. . . . We\nhad ill-contrived souls enough without spoiling those that were\ngenerous and good.\" He rather sought in that misfortune an\nopportunity and motive for fortifying and strengthening himself.\nAttacked one by one by many disagreeables and evils, which he would\nhave endured more cheerfully in a heap--that is to say, all at once-\n-pursued by war, disease, by all the plagues (July 1585), in the\ncourse things were taking, he already asked himself to whom he and\nhis could have recourse, of whom he could ask shelter and\nsubsistence for his old age; and having looked and searched\nthoroughly all around, he found himself actually destitute and\nRUINED. For, \"to let a man's self fall plumb down, and from so great\na height, it ought to be in the arms of a solid, vigorous, and\nfortunate friendship. They are very rare, if there be any.\" Speaking\nin such a manner, we perceive that La Boetie had been some time\ndead. Then he felt that he must after all rely on himself in his\ndistress, and must gain strength; now or never was the time to put\ninto practice the lofty lessons he spent his life in collecting from\nthe books of the philosophers. He took heart again, and attained all\nthe height of his virtue: \"In an ordinary and quiet time, a man\nprepares himself for moderate and common accidents; but in the\nconfusion wherein we have been for these thirty years, every\nFrenchman, whether in particular or in general, sees himself every\nhour upon the point of the total ruin and overthrow of his fortune.\"\nAnd far from being discouraged and cursing fate for causing him to\nbe born in so stormy an age, he suddenly congratulated himself: \"Let\nus thank fortune that has not made us live in an effeminate, idle\nand languishing age.\" Since the curiosity of wise men seeks the past\nfor disturbances in states in order to learn the secrets of history,\nand, as we should say, the whole physiology of the body social, \"so\ndoes my curiosity,\" he declares, \"make me in some sort please myself\nwith seeing with my own eyes this notable spectacle of our public\ndeath, its forms and symptoms; and, seeing I could not hinder it, am\ncontent to be destined to assist in it, and thereby to instruct\nmyself.\" I shall not suggest a consolation of that sort to most\npeople; the greater part of mankind does not possess the heroic and\neager curiosity of Empedocles and the elder Pliny, the two intrepid\nmen who went straight to the volcanoes and the disturbances of\nnature to examine them at close quarters, at the risk of destruction\nand death. But to a man of Montaigne's nature, the thought of that\nstoical observation gave him consolation even amid real evils.\nConsidering the condition of false peace and doubtful truce, the\nregime of dull and profound corruption which had preceded the last\ndisturbances, he almost congratulated himself on seeing their\ncessation; for \"it was,\" he said of the regime of Henri III., \"an\nuniversal juncture of particular members, rotten to emulation of one\nanother, and the most of them with inveterate ulcers, that neither\nrequired nor admitted of any cure. This conclusion therefore did\nreally more animate than depress me.\" Note that his health, usually\ndelicate, is here raised to the level of his morality, although what\nit had suffered through the various disturbances might have been\nenough to undermine it. He had the satisfaction of feeling that he\nhad some hold against fortune, and that it would take a greater\nshock still to crush him.\n\nAnother consideration, humbler and more humane, upheld him in his\ntroubles, the consolation arising from a common misfortune, a\nmisfortune shared by all, and the sight of the courage of others.\nThe people, especially the real people, they who are victims and not\nrobbers, the peasants of his district, moved him by the manner in\nwhich they endured the same, or even worse, troubles than his. The\ndisease or plague which raged at that time in the country pressed\nchiefly on the poor; Montaigne learned from them resignation and the\npractice of philosophy. \"Let us look down upon the poor people that\nwe see scattered upon the face of the earth, prone and intent upon\ntheir business, that neither know Aristotle nor Cato, example nor\nprecept. Even from these does nature every day extract effects of\nconstancy and patience, more pure and manly than those we so\ninquisitively study in the schools.\" And he goes on to describe them\nworking to the bitter end, even in their grief, even in disease,\nuntil their strength failed them. \"He that is now digging in my\ngarden has this morning buried his father, or his son. . . . They\nnever keep their beds but to die.\" The whole chapter is fine,\npathetic, to the point, evincing noble, stoical elevation of mind,\nand also the cheerful and affable disposition which Montaigne said,\nwith truth, was his by inheritance, and in which he had been\nnourished. There could be nothing better as regards \"consolation in\npublic calamities,\" except a chapter of some not more human, but of\nsome truly divine book, in which the hand of God should be\neverywhere visible, not perfunctorily, as with Montaigne, but\nactually and lovingly present. In fact, the consolation Montaigne\ngives himself and others is perhaps as lofty and beautiful as human\nconsolation without prayer can be.\n\nHe wrote the chapter, the twelfth of the third book, in the midst of\nthe evils described, and before they were ended. He concluded it in\nhis graceful and poetical way with a collection of examples, \"a heap\nof foreign flowers,\" to which he furnished only the thread for\nfastening them together.\n\nThere is Montaigne to the life; no matter how seriously he spoke, it\nwas always with the utmost charm. To form an opinion on his style\nyou have only to open him indifferently at any page and listen to\nhis talk on any subject; there is none that he did not enliven and\nmake suggestive. In the chapter \"Of Liars,\" for instance, after\nenlarging on his lack of memory and giving a list of reasons by\nwhich he might console himself, he suddenly added this fresh and\ndelightful reason, that, thanks to his faculty for forgetting, \"the\nplaces I revisit, and the books I read over again, always smile upon\nme with a fresh novelty.\" It is thus that on every subject he\ntouched he was continually new, and created sources of freshness.\n\nMontesquieu, in a memorable exclamation, said: \"The four great\npoets, Plato, Malebranche, Shaftesbury, Montaigne!\" How true it is\nof Montaigne! No French writer, including the poets proper, had so\nlofty an idea of poetry as he had. \"From my earliest childhood,\" he\nsaid, \"poetry had power over me to transport and transpierce me.\" He\nconsidered, and therein shows penetration, that \"we have more poets\nthan judges and interpreters of poetry. It is easier to write than\nto understand.\" In itself and its pure beauty his poetry defies\ndefinition; whoever desired to recognise it at a glance and discern\nof what it actually consisted would see no more than \"the brilliance\nof a flash of lightning.\" In the constitution and continuity of his\nstyle, Montaigne is a writer very rich in animated, bold similes,\nnaturally fertile in metaphors that are never detached from the\nthought, but that seize it in its very centre, in its interior, that\njoin and bind it. In that respect, fully obeying his own genius, he\nhas gone beyond and some times exceeded the genius of language. His\nconcise, vigorous and always forcible style, by its poignancy,\nemphasises and repeats the meaning. It may be said of his style that\nit is a continual epigram, or an ever-renewed metaphor, a style that\nhas only been successfully employed by the French once, by Montaigne\nhimself. If we wanted to imitate him, supposing we had the power and\nwere naturally fitted for it--if we desired to write with his\nseverity, exact proportion, and diverse continuity of figures and\nturns--it would be necessary to force our language to be more\npowerful, and poetically more complete, than is usually our custom.\nStyle a la Montaigne, consistent, varied in the series and\nassortment of the metaphors, exacts the creation of a portion of the\ntissue itself to hold them. It is absolutely necessary that in\nplaces the woof should be enlarged and extended, in order to weave\ninto it the metaphor; but in defining him I come almost to write\nlike him. The French language, French prose, which in fact always\nsavours more or less of conversation, does not, naturally, possess\nthe resources and the extent of canvas necessary for a continued\npicture: by the side of an animated metaphor it will often exhibit a\nsudden lacuna and some weak places. In filling this by boldness and\ninvention as Montaigne did, in creating, in imagining the expression\nand locution that is wanting, our prose should appear equally\nfinished. Style a la Montaigne would, in many respects, be openly at\nwar with that of Voltaire. It could only come into being and\nflourish in the full freedom of the sixteenth century, in a frank,\ningenious, jovial, keen, brave, and refined mind, of an unique\nstamp, that even for that time, seemed free and somewhat licentious,\nand that was inspired and emboldened, but not intoxicated by the\npure and direct spirit of ancient sources.\n\nSuch as he is, Montaigne is the French Horace; he is Horatian in the\ngroundwork, often in the form and expression, although in that he\nsometimes approaches Seneca. His book is a treasure-house of moral\nobservations and of experience; at whatever page it is opened, and\nin what ever condition of mind, some wise thought expressed in a\nstriking and enduring fashion is certain to be found. It will at\nonce detach itself and engrave itself on the mind, a beautiful\nmeaning in full and forcible words, in one vigorous line, familiar\nor great. The whole of his book, said Etienne Pasquier, is a real\nseminary of beautiful and remarkable sentences, and they come in so\nmuch the better that they run and hasten on without thrusting them\nselves into notice. There is something for every age, for every hour\nof life: you cannot read in it for any time without having the mind\nfilled and lined as it were, or, to put it better, fully armed and\nclothed. We have just seen how much useful counsel and actual\nconsolation it contains for an honourable man, born for private\nlife, and fallen on times of disturbance and revolution. To this I\nshall add the counsel he gave those who, like myself and many men of\nmy acquaintance, suffer from political disturbances without in any\nway provoking them, or believing ourselves capable of averting them.\nMontaigne, as Horace would have done, counsels them, while\napprehending everything from afar off, not to be too much\npreoccupied with such matters in advance; to take advantage to the\nend of pleasant moments and bright intervals. Stroke on stroke come\nhis piquant and wise similes, and he concludes, to my thinking, with\nthe most delightful one of all, and one, besides, entirely\nappropriate and seasonable: it is folly and fret, he said, \"to take\nout your furred gown at Saint John because you will want it at\nChristmas.\"\n\n\n\n\nWHAT IS A CLASSIC?\n\nA delicate question, to which somewhat diverse solutions might be\ngiven according to times and seasons. An intelligent man suggests it\nto me, and I intend to try, if not to solve it, at least to examine\nand discuss it face to face with my readers, were it only to\npersuade them to answer it for themselves, and, if I can, to make\ntheir opinion and mine on the point clear. And why, in criticism,\nshould we not, from time to time, venture to treat some of those\nsubjects which are not personal, in which we no longer speak of some\none but of some thing? Our neighbours, the English, have well\nsucceeded in making of it a special division of literature under the\nmodest title of \"Essays.\" It is true that in writing of such\nsubjects, always slightly abstract and moral, it is advisable to\nspeak of them in a season of quiet, to make sure of our own\nattention and of that of others, to seize one of those moments of\ncalm moderation and leisure seldom granted our amiable France; even\nwhen she is desirous of being wise and is not making revolutions,\nher brilliant genius can scarcely tolerate them.\n\nA classic, according to the usual definition, is an old author\ncanonised by admiration, and an authority in his particular style.\nThe word classic was first used in this sense by the Romans. With\nthem not all the citizens of the different classes were properly\ncalled classici, but only those of the chief class, those who\npossessed an income of a certain fixed sum. Those who possessed a\nsmaller income were described by the term infra classem, below the\npreeminent class. The word classicus was used in a figurative sense\nby Aulus Gellius, and applied to writers: a writer of worth and\ndistinction, classicus assiduusque scriptor, a writer who is of\naccount, has real property, and is not lost in the proletariate\ncrowd. Such an expression implies an age sufficiently advanced to\nhave already made some sort of valuation and classification of\nliterature.\n\nAt first the only true classics for the moderns were the ancients.\nThe Greeks, by peculiar good fortune and natural enlightenment of\nmind, had no classics but themselves. They were at first the only\nclassical authors for the Romans, who strove and contrived to\nimitate them. After the great periods of Roman literature, after\nCicero and Virgil, the Romans in their turn had their classics, who\nbecame almost exclusively the classical authors of the centuries\nwhich followed. The middle ages, which were less ignorant of Latin\nantiquity than is believed, but which lacked proportion and taste,\nconfused the ranks and orders. Ovid was placed above Homer, and\nBoetius seemed a classic equal to Plato. The revival of learning in\nthe fifteenth and sixteenth centuries helped to bring this long\nchaos to order, and then only was admiration rightly proportioned.\nThenceforth the true classical authors of Greek and Latin antiquity\nstood out in a luminous background, and were harmoniously grouped on\ntheir two heights.\n\nMeanwhile modern literatures were born, and some of the more\nprecocious, like the Italian, already possessed the style of\nantiquity. Dante appeared, and, from the very first, posterity\ngreeted him as a classic. Italian poetry has since shrunk into far\nnarrower bounds; but, whenever it desired to do so, it always found\nagain and preserved the impulse and echo of its lofty origin. It is\nno indifferent matter for a poetry to derive its point of departure\nand classical source in high places; for example, to spring from\nDante rather than to issue laboriously from Malherbe.\n\nModern Italy had her classical authors, and Spain had every right to\nbelieve that she also had hers at a time when France was yet seeking\nhers. A few talented writers en dowed with originality and\nexceptional animation, a few brilliant efforts, isolated, without\nfollowing, interrupted and recommenced, did not suffice to endow a\nnation with a solid and imposing basis of literary wealth. The idea\nof a classic implies something that has continuance and consistence,\nand which produces unity and tradition fashions and transmits\nitself, and endures. It was only after the glorious years of Louis\nXIV. that the nation felt with tremor and pride that such good\nfortune had happened to her. Every voice in formed Louis XIV. of it\nwith flattery, exaggeration, and emphasis, yet with a certain\nsentiment of truth. Then arose a singular and striking contradiction:\nthose men of whom Perrauit was the chief, the men who were most\nsmitten with the marvels of the age of Louis the Great, who even\nwent the length of sacrificing the ancients to the moderns, aimed at\nexalting and canonising even those whom they regarded as inveterate\nopponents and adversaries. Boileau avenged and angrily upheld the\nancients against Perrault, who extolled the moderns--that is to say,\nCorneille, Moliere, Pascal, and the eminent men of his age, Boileau,\none of the first, included. Kindly La Fontaine, taking part in the\ndispute in behalf of the learned Huet, did not perceive that, in\nspite of his defects, he was in his turn on the point of being held\nas a classic himself.\n\nExample is the best definition. From the time France possessed her\nage of Louis XIV. and could contemplate it at a little distance, she\nknew, better than by any arguments, what to be classical meant. The\neighteenth century, even in its medley of things, strengthened this\nidea through some fine works, due to its four great men. Read\nVoltaire's Age of Louis XIV., Montesquieu's Greatness and Fall of\nthe Romans, Buffon's Epochs of Nature, the beautiful pages of\nreverie and natural description of Rousseau's Savoyard Vicar, and\nsay if the eighteenth century, in these memorable works, did not\nunderstand how to reconcile tradition with freedom of development\nand independence. But at the be ginning of the present century and\nunder the Empire, in sight of the first attempts of a decidedly new\nand somewhat adventurous literature, the idea of a classic in a few\nresist ing minds, more sorrowful than severe, was strangely nar\nrowed and contracted. The first Dictionary of the Academy (1694)\nmerely defined a classical author as \"a much-approved ancient\nwriter, who is an authority as regards the subject he treats.\" The\nDictionary of the Academy of 1835 narrows that definition still\nmore, and gives precision and even limit to its rather vague form.\nIt describes classical authors as those \"who have become models in\nany language whatever,\" and in all the articles which follow, the\nexpressions, models, fixed rules for composition and style, strict\nrules of art to which men must conform, continually recur. That\ndefinition of classic was evidently made by the respectable\nAcademicians, our predecessors, in face and sight of what was then\ncalled romantic--that is to say, in sight of the enemy. It seems to\nme time to renounce those timid and restrictive definitions and to\nfree our mind of them. A true classic, as I should like to hear it\ndefined, is an author who has enriched the human mind, increased its\ntreasure, and caused it to advance a step; who has discovered some\nmoral and not equivocal truth, or revealed some eternal passion in\nthat heart where all seemed known and discovered; who has expressed\nhis thought, observation, or invention, in no matter what form, only\nprovided it be broad and great, refined and sensible, sane and\nbeautiful in itself; who has spoken to all in his own peculiar\nstyle, a style which is found to be also that of the whole world, a\nstyle new without neologism, new and old, easily contemporary with\nall time.\n\nSuch a classic may for a moment have been revolutionary; it may at\nleast have seemed so, but it is not; it only lashed and subverted\nwhatever prevented the restoration of the balance of order and\nbeauty.\n\nIf it is desired, names may be applied to this definition which I\nwish to make purposely majestic and fluctuating, or in a word, all-\nembracing. I should first put there Corneille of the Polyeucte,\nCinna, and Horaces. I should put Moliere there, the fullest and most\ncomplete poetic genius we have ever had in France. Goethe, the king\nof critics, said:--\n\n\"Moliere is so great that he astonishes us afresh every time we read\nhim. He is a man apart; his plays border on the tragic, and no one\nhas the courage to try and imitate him. His Avare, where vice\ndestroys all affection between father and son, is one of the most\nsublime works, and dramatic in the highest degree. In a drama every\naction ought to be important in itself, and to lead to an action\ngreater still. In this respect Tartuffe is a model. What a piece of\nexposition the first scene is! From the beginning everything has an\nimportant meaning, and causes something much more important to be\nforeseen. The exposition in a certain play of Lessing that might be\nmentioned is very fine, but the world only sees that of Tartuffe\nonce. It is the finest of the kind we possess. Every year I read a\nplay of Moliere, just as from time to time I contemplate some\nengraving after the great Italian masters.\"\n\nI do not conceal from myself that the definition of the classic I\nhave just given somewhat exceeds the notion usually ascribed to the\nterm. It should, above all, include conditions of uniformity,\nwisdom, moderation, and reason, which dominate and contain all the\nothers. Having to praise M. Royer-Collard, M. de Remusat said--\"If\nhe derives purity of taste, propriety of terms, variety of\nexpression, attentive care in suiting the diction to the thought,\nfrom our classics, he owes to himself alone the distinctive\ncharacter he gives it all.\" It is here evident that the part\nallotted to classical qualities seems mostly to depend on harmony\nand nuances of expression, on graceful and temperate style: such is\nalso the most general opinion. In this sense the pre-eminent\nclassics would be writers of a middling order, exact, sensible,\nelegant, always clear, yet of noble feeling and airily veiled\nstrength. Marie-Joseph Chenier has described the poetics of those\ntemperate and accomplished writers in lines where he shows himself\ntheir happy disciple:--\n\n\"It is good sense, reason which does all,--virtue, genius, soul,\ntalent, and taste.--What is virtue? reason put in practice;--talent?\nreason expressed with brilliance;--soul? reason delicately put\nforth;--and genius is sublime reason.\"\n\nWhile writing those lines he was evidently thinking of Pope,\nBoileau, and Horace, the master of them all. The peculiar\ncharacteristic of the theory which subordinated imagination and\nfeeling itself to reason, of which Scaliger perhaps gave the first\nsign among the moderns, is, properly speaking, the Latin theory, and\nfor a long time it was also by preference the French theory. If it\nis used appositely, if the term reason is not abused, that theory\npossesses some truth; but it is evident that it is abused, and that\nif, for instance, reason can be confounded with poetic genius and\nmake one with it in a moral epistle, it cannot be the same thing as\nthe genius, so varied and so diversely creative in its expression of\nthe passions, of the drama or the epic. Where will you find reason\nin the fourth book of the AEneid and the transports of Dido? Be that\nas it may, the spirit which prompted the theory, caused writers who\nruled their inspiration, rather than those who abandoned themselves\nto it, to be placed in the first rank of classics; to put Virgil\nthere more surely than Homer, Racine in preference to Corneille. The\nmasterpiece to which the theory likes to point, which in fact brings\ntogether all conditions of prudence, strength, tempered boldness,\nmoral elevation, and grandeur, is Athalie. Turenne in his two last\ncampaigns and Racine in Athalie are the great examples of what wise\nand prudent men are capable of when they reach the maturity of their\ngenius and attain their supremest boldness.\n\nBuffon, in his Discourse on Style, insisting on the unity of design,\narrangement, and execution, which are the stamps of true classical\nworks, said:--\"Every subject is one, and however vast it is, it can\nbe comprised in a single treatise. Interruptions, pauses, sub-\ndivisions should only be used when many subjects are treated, when,\nhaving to speak of great, intricate, and dissimilar things, the\nmarch of genius is interrupted by the multiplicity of obstacles, and\ncontracted by the necessity of circumstances: otherwise, far from\nmaking a work more solid, a great number of divisions destroys the\nunity of its parts; the book appears clearer to the view, but the\nauthor's design remains obscure.\" And he continues his criticism,\nhaving in view Montesquieu's Spirit of Laws, an excellent book at\nbottom, but sub-divided: the famous author, worn out before the end,\nwas unable to infuse inspiration into all his ideas, and to arrange\nall his matter. However, I can scarcely believe that Buffon was not\nalso thinking, by way of contrast, of Bossuet's Discourse on\nUniversal History, a subject vast indeed, and yet of such an unity\nthat the great orator was able to comprise it in a single treatise.\nWhen we open the first edition, that of 1681, before the division\ninto chapters, which was introduced later, passed from the margin\ninto the text, very thing is developed in a single series, almost in\none breath. It might be said that the orator has here acted like the\nnature of which Buffon speaks, that \"he has worked on an eternal\nplan from which he has nowhere departed,\" so deeply does he seem to\nhave entered into the familiar counsels and designs of providence.\n\nAre Athalie and the Discourse on Universal History the greatest\nmasterpieces that the strict classical theory can present to its\nfriends as well as to its enemies? In spite of the admirable\nsimplicity and dignity in the achievement of such unique\nproductions, we should like, nevertheless, in the interests of art,\nto expand that theory a little, and to show that it is possible to\nenlarge it without relaxing the tension. Goethe, whom I like to\nquote on such a subject, said:--\n\n\"I call the classical healthy, and the romantic sickly. In my\nopinion the Nibelungen song is as much a classic as Homer. Both are\nhealthy and vigorous. The works of the day are romantic, not because\nthey are new, but because they are weak, ailing, or sickly. Ancient\nworks are classical not because they are old, but because they are\npowerful, fresh, and healthy. If we regarded romantic and classical\nfrom those two points of view we should soon all agree.\"\n\nIndeed, before determining and fixing the opinions on that matter, I\nshould like every unbiassed mind to take a voyage round the world\nand devote itself to a survey of different literatures in their\nprimitive vigour and infinite variety. What would be seen? Chief of\nall a Homer, the father of the classical world, less a single\ndistinct individual than the vast living expression of a whole epoch\nand a semi-barbarous civilisation. In order to make him a true\nclassic, it was necessary to attribute to him later a design, a\nplan, literary invention, qualities of atticism and urbanity of\nwhich he had certainly never dreamed in the luxuriant development of\nhis natural inspirations. And who appear by his side? August,\nvenerable ancients, the AEschyluses and the Sophocles, mutilated, it\nis true, and only there to present us with a debris of themselves,\nthe survivors of many others as worthy, doubtless, as they to\nsurvive, but who have succumbed to the injuries of time. This\nthought alone would teach a man of impartial mind not to look upon\nthe whole of even classical literatures with a too narrow and\nrestricted view; he would learn that the exact and well-proportioned\norder which has since so largely prevailed in our admiration of the\npast was only the outcome of artificial circumstances.\n\nAnd in reaching the modern world, how would it be? The greatest\nnames to be seen at the beginning of literatures are those which\ndisturb and run counter to certain fixed ideas of what is beautiful\nand appropriate in poetry. For example, is Shakespeare a classic?\nYes, now, for England and the world; but in the time of Pope he was\nnot considered so. Pope and his friends were the only pre-eminent\nclassics; directly after their death they seemed so for ever. At the\npresent time they are still classics, as they deserve to be, but\nthey are only of the second order, and are for ever subordinated and\nrelegated to their rightful place by him who has again come to his\nown on the height of the horizon.\n\nIt is not, however, for me to speak ill of Pope or his great\ndisciples, above all, when they possess pathos and naturalness like\nGoldsmith: after the greatest they are perhaps the most agreeable\nwriters and the poets best fitted to add charm to life. Once when\nLord Bolingbroke was writing to Swift, Pope added a postscript, in\nwhich he said--\"I think some advantage would result to our age, if\nwe three spent three years together.\" Men who, without boasting,\nhave the right to say such things must never be spoken of lightly:\nthe fortunate ages, when men of talent could propose such things,\nthen no chimera, are rather to be envied. The ages called by the\nname of Louis XIV. or of Queen Anne are, in the dispassionate sense\nof the word, the only true classical ages, those which offer\nprotection and a favourable climate to real talent. We know only to\nwell how in our untrammelled times, through the instability and\nstorminess of the age, talents are lost and dissipated.\nNevertheless, let us acknowledge our age's part and superiority in\ngreatness. True and sovereign genius triumphs over the very\ndifficulties that cause others to fail: Dante, Shakespeare, and\nMilton were able to attain their height and produce their\nimperishable works in spite of obstacles, hardships and tempests.\nByron's opinion of Pope has been much discussed, and the explanation\nof it sought in the kind of contradiction by which the singer of Don\nJuan and Childe Harold extolled the purely classical school and\npronounced it the only good one, while himself acting so\ndifferently. Goethe spoke the truth on that point when he remarked\nthat Byron, great by the flow and source of poetry, feared that\nShakespeare was more powerful than himself in the creation and\nrealisation of his characters. \"He would have liked to deny it; the\nelevation so free from egoism irritated him; he felt when near it\nthat he could not display himself at ease. He never denied Pope,\nbecause he did not fear him; he knew that Pope was only a low wall\nby his side.\"\n\nIf, as Byron desired, Pope's school had kept the supremacy and a\nsort of honorary empire in the past, Byron would have been the first\nand only poet in his particular style; the height of Pope's wall\nshuts out Shakespeare's great figure from sight, whereas when\nShakespeare reigns and rules in all his greatness, Byron is only\nsecond.\n\nIn France there was no great classic before the age of Louis XIV.;\nthe Dantes and Shakespeares, the early authorities to whom, in times\nof emancipation, men sooner or later return, were wanting. There\nwere mere sketches of great poets, like Mathurin Regnier, like\nRabelais, without any ideal, without the depth of emotion and the\nseriousness which canonises. Montaigne was a kind of premature\nclassic, of the family of Horace, but for want of worthy\nsurroundings, like a spoiled child, he gave himself up to the\nunbridled fancies of his style and humour. Hence it happened that\nFrance, less than any other nation, found in her old authors a right\nto demand vehemently at a certain time literary liberty and freedom,\nand that it was more difficult for her, in enfranchising herself, to\nremain classical. However, with Moliere and La Fontaine among her\nclassics of the great period, nothing could justly be refused to\nthose who possessed courage and ability.\n\nThe important point now seems to me to be to uphold, while\nextending, the idea and belief. There is no receipt for making\nclassics; this point should be clearly recognised. To believe that\nan author will become a classic by imitating certain qualities of\npurity, moderation, accuracy, and elegance, independently of the\nstyle and inspiration, is to believe that after Racine the father\nthere is a place for Racine the son; dull and estimable role, the\nworst in poetry. Further, it is hazardous to take too quickly and\nwithout opposition the place of a classic in the sight of one's\ncontemporaries; in that case there is a good chance of not retaining\nthe position with posterity. Fontanes in his day was regarded by his\nfriends as a pure classic; see how at twenty-five years' distance\nhis star has set. How many of these precocious classics are there\nwho do not endure, and who are so only for a while! We turn round\none morning and are surprised not to find them standing behind us.\nMadame de Sevigne would wittily say they possessed but an evanescent\ncolour. With regard to classics, the least expected prove the best\nand greatest: seek them rather in the vigorous genius born immortal\nand flourishing for ever. Apparently the least classical of the four\ngreat poets of the age of Louis XIV. was Moliere; he was then\napplauded far more than he was esteemed; men took delight in him\nwithout understanding his worth. After him, La Fontaine seemed the\nleast classical: observe after two centuries what is the result for\nboth. Far above Boileau, even above Racine, are they not now\nunanimously considered to possess in the highest degree the\ncharacteristics of an all-embracing morality?\n\nMeanwhile there is no question of sacrificing or depreciating\nanything. I believe the temple of taste is to be rebuilt; but its\nreconstruction is merely a matter of enlargement, so that it may\nbecome the home of all noble human beings, of all who have\npermanently increased the sum of the mind's delights and\npossessions. As for me, who cannot, obviously, in any degree pretend\nto be the architect or designer of such a temple, I shall confine\nmyself to expressing a few earnest wishes, to submit, as it were, my\ndesigns for the edifice. Above all I should desire not to exclude\nany one among the worthy, each should be in his place there, from\nShakespeare, the freest of creative geniuses, and the greatest of\nclassics without knowing it, to Andrieux, the last of classics in\nlittle. \"There is more than one chamber in the mansions of my\nFather;\" that should be as true of the kingdom of the beautiful here\nbelow, as of the kingdom of Heaven. Homer, as always and everywhere,\nshould be first, likest a god; but behind him, like the procession\nof the three wise kings of the East, would be seen the three great\npoets, the three Homers, so long ignored by us, who wrote epics for\nthe use of the old peoples of Asia, the poets Valmiki, Vyasa of the\nHindoos, and Firdousi of the Persians: in the domain of taste it is\nwell to know that such men exist, and not to divide the human race.\nOur homage paid to what is recognized as soon as perceived, we must\nnot stray further; the eye should delight in a thousand pleasing or\nmajestic spectacles, should rejoice in a thousand varied and\nsurprising combinations, whose apparent confusion would never be\nwithout concord and harmony. The oldest of the wise men and poets,\nthose who put human morality into maxims, and those who in simple\nfashion sung it, would converse together in rare and gentle speech,\nand would not be surprised at understanding each other's meaning at\nthe very first word. Solon, Hesiod, Theognis, Job, Solomon, and why\nnot Confucius, would welcome the cleverest moderns, La Rochefoucauld\nand La Bruyere, who, when listening to them, would say \"they knew\nall that we know, and in repeating life's experiences, we have\ndiscovered nothing.\" On the hill, most easily discernible, and of\nmost accessible ascent, Virgil, surrounded by Menander, Tibullus,\nTerence, Fenelon, would occupy himself in discoursing with them with\ngreat charm and divine enchantment: his gentle countenance would\nshine with an inner light, and be tinged with modesty; as on the day\nwhen entering the theatre at Rome, just as they finished reciting\nhis verses, he saw the people rise with an unanimous movement and\npay to him the same homage as to Augustus. Not far from him,\nregretting the separation from so dear a friend, Horace, in his\nturn, would preside (as far as so accomplished and wise a poet could\npreside) over the group of poets of social life who could talk\nalthough they sang,--Pope, Boileau, the one become less irritable,\nthe other less fault-finding. Montaigne, a true poet, would be among\nthem, and would give the finishing touch that should deprive that\ndelightful corner of the air of a literary school. There would La\nFontaine forget himself, and becoming less volatile would wander no\nmore. Voltaire would be attracted by it, but while finding pleasure\nin it would not have patience to remain. A little lower down, on the\nsame hill as Virgil, Xenophon, with simple bearing, looking in no\nway like a general, but rather resembling a priest of the Muses,\nwould be seen gathering round him the Attics of every tongue and of\nevery nation, the Addisons, Pellissons, Vauvenargues--all who feel\nthe value of an easy persuasiveness, an exquisite simplicity, and a\ngentle negligence mingled with ornament. In the centre of the place,\nin the portico of the principal temple (for there would be several\nin the enclosure), three great men would like to meet often, and\nwhen they were together, no fourth, however great, would dream of\njoining their discourse or their silence. In them would be seen\nbeauty, proportion in greatness, and that perfect harmony which\nappears but once in the full youth of the world. Their three names\nhave become the ideal of art--Plato, Sophocles, and Demosthenes.\nThose demi-gods honoured, we see a numerous and familiar company of\nchoice spirits who follow, the Cervantes and Molieres, practical\npainters of life, indulgent friends who are still the first of\nbenefactors, who laughingly embrace all mankind, turn man's\nexperience to gaiety, and know the powerful workings of a sensible,\nhearty, and legitimate joy. I do not wish to make this description,\nwhich if complete would fill a volume, any longer. In the middle\nages, believe me, Dante would occupy the sacred heights: at the feet\nof the singer of Paradise all Italy would be spread out like a\ngarden; Boccaccio and Ariosto would there disport themselves, and\nTasso would find again the orange groves of Sorrento. Usually a\ncorner would be reserved for each of the various nations, but the\nauthors would take delight in leaving it, and in their travels would\nrecognise, where we should least expect it, brothers or masters.\nLucretius, for example, would enjoy discussing the origin of the\nworld and the reducing of chaos to order with Milton. But both\narguing from their own point of view, they would only agree as\nregards divine pictures of poetry and nature.\n\nSuch are our classics; each individual imagination may finish the\nsketch and choose the group preferred. For it is necessary to make a\nchoice, and the first condition of taste, after obtaining knowledge\nof all, lies not in continual travel, but in rest and cessation from\nwandering. Nothing blunts and destroys taste so much as endless\njourneyings; the poetic spirit is not the Wandering Jew. However,\nwhen I speak of resting and making choice, my meaning is not that we\nare to imitate those who charm us most among our masters in the\npast. Let us be content to know them, to penetrate them, to admire\nthem; but let us, the late-comers, endeavour to be ourselves. Let us\nhave the sincerity and naturalness of our own thoughts, of our own\nfeelings; so much is always possible. To that let us add what is\nmore difficult, elevation, an aim, if possible, towards an exalted\ngoal; and while speaking our own language, and submitting to the\nconditions of the times in which we live, whence we derive our\nstrength and our defects, let us ask from time to time, our brows\nlifted towards the heights and our eyes fixed on the group of\nhonoured mortals: what would that say of us?\n\nBut why speak always of authors and writings? Maybe an age is coming\nwhen there will be no more writing. Happy those who read and read\nagain, those who in their reading can follow their unrestrained\ninclination! There comes a time in life when, all our journeys over,\nour experiences ended, there is no enjoyment more delightful than to\nstudy and thoroughly examine the things we know, to take pleasure in\nwhat we feel, and in seeing and seeing again the people we love: the\npure joys of our maturity. Then it is that the word classic takes\nits true meaning, and is defined for every man of taste by an\nirresistible choice. Then taste is formed, it is shaped and\ndefinite; then good sense, if we are to possess it at all, is\nperfected in us. We have neither more time for experiments, nor a\ndesire to go forth in search of pastures newf We cling to our\nfriends, to those proved by long intercourse. Old wine, old books,\nold friends. We say to ourselves with Voltaire in these delightful\nlines:--\"Let us enjoy, let us write, let us live, my dear Horace!...I\nhave lived longer than you: my verse will not last so long. But on\nthe brink of the tomb I shall make it my chief care--to follow the\nlessons of your philosophy--to despise death in enjoying life--to\nread your writings full of charm and good sense--as we drink an old\nwine which revives our senses.\"\n\nIn fact, be it Horace or another who is the author preferred, who\nreflects our thoughts in all the wealth of their maturity, of some\none of those excellent and antique minds shall we request an\ninterview at every moment; of some one of them shall we ask a\nfriendship which never deceives, which could not fail us; to some\none of them shall we appeal for that sensation of serenity and\namenity (we have often need of it) which reconciles us with mankind\nand with ourselves.\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETRY OF THE CELTIC RACES\n\nBY ERNEST RENAN\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY W. G. HUTCHISON\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\n\nErnest Renan was born in 1823, at Treguier in Brittany. He was\neducated for the priesthood, but never took orders, turning at first\nto teaching. He continued his studies in religion and philology,\nand, after traveling in Syria on a government commission, he\nreturned to Paris and became professor of Hebrew in the College de\nFrance, from which he was suspended for a time on account of\nprotests against his heretical teachings. He died in 1892.\n\nRenan's activity divides itself into two parts. The first culminated\nin his two great works on the \"Origins of Christianity\" and on the\n\"History of Israel.\" As to the scientific value of these books there\nis difference of opinion, as was to be expected in a treatment of\nsuch subjects to the exclusion of the miraculous. But the delicacy\nand vividness of his portraits of the great personalities of Hebrew\nhistory, and the acuteness of his analysis of national psychology,\nare not to be denied.\n\nThe other part of his work is more miscellaneous, but most of it is\nin some sense philosophical or autobiographical. Believing\nprofoundly in scientific method, Renan was unable to find in science\na basis for either ethics or metaphysics, and ended in a skepticism\noften ironical, yet not untinged with mysticism.\n\n\"He was an amazing writer,\" says M. Faguet, \"and disconcerted\ncriticism by the impossibility of explaining his methods of\nprocedure; he was luminous, supple, naturally pliant and yielding;\nbeneath his apparently effeminate grace an extraordinary strength of\ncharacter would suddenly make itself felt; he had, more than any\nnineteenth-century writer, the quality of charm; he exercised a\ncaressing innuence which enveloped, and finally conquered, the\nreader.\"\n\nIn no kind of writing was Renan's command of style more notable than\nin the description of scenery; and in his pictures of his native\nBrittany in the essay on \"The Poetry of the Celtic Races,\" as well\nas in his analysis of national qualities, two of his most\ncharacteristic powers are admirably displayed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE POETRY OF THE CELTIC RACES\n\nEvery one who travels through the Armorican peninsula experiences a\nchange of the most abrupt description, as soon as he leaves behind\nthe district most closely bordering upon the continent, in which the\ncheerful but commonplace type of face of Normandy and Maine is\ncontinually in evidence, and passes into the true Brittany, that\nwhich merits its name by language and race. A cold wind arises full\nof a vague sadness, and carries the soul to other thoughts; the\ntree-tops are bare and twisted; the heath with its monotony of tint\nstretches away into the distance; at every step the granite\nprotrudes from a soil too scanty to cover it; a sea that is almost\nalways sombre girdles the horizon with eternal moaning. The same\ncontrast is manifest in the people: to Norman vulgarity, to a plump\nand prosperous population, happy to live, full of its own interests,\negoistical as are all these who make a habit of enjoyment, succeeds\na timid and reserved race living altogether within itself, heavy in\nappearance but capable of profound feeling, and of an adorable\ndelicacy in its religious instincts. A like change is apparent, I am\ntold, in passing from England into Wales, from the Lowlands of\nScotland, English by language and manners, into the Gaelic\nHighlands; and too, though with a perceptible difference, when one\nburies oneself in the districts of Ireland where the race has\nremained pure from all admixture of alien blood. It seems like\nentering on the subterranean strata of another world, and one\nexperiences in some measure the impression given us by Dante, when\nhe leads us from one circle of his Inferno to another.\n\nSufficient attention is not given to the peculiarity of this fact of\nan ancient race living, until our days and almost under our eyes,\nits own life in some obscure islands and peninsulas in the West,\nmore and more affected, it is true, by external influences, but\nstill faithful to its own tongue, to its own memories, to its own\ncustoms, and to its own genius. Especially is it forgotten that this\nlittle people, now concentrated on the very confines of the world,\nin the midst of rocks and mountains whence its enemies have been\npowerless to force it, is in possession of a literature which, in\nthe Middle Ages, exercised an immense influence, changed the current\nof European civilisation, and imposed its poetical motives on nearly\nthe whole of Christendom. Yet it is only necessary to open the\nauthentic monuments of the Gaelic genius to be convinced that the\nrace which created them has had its own original manner of feeling\nand thinking, that nowhere has the eternal illusion clad itself in\nmore seductive hues, and that in the great chorus of humanity no\nrace equals this for penetrative notes that go to the very heart.\nAlas! it too is doomed to disappear, this emerald set in the Western\nseas. Arthur will return no more from his isle of faery, and St.\nPatrick was right when he said to Ossian, \"The heroes that thou\nweepest are dead; can they be born again?\" It is high time to note,\nbefore they shall have passed away, the divine tones thus expiring\non the horizon before the growing tumult of uniform civilisation.\nWere criticism to set itself the task of calling back these distant\nechoes, and of giving a voice to races that are no more, would not\nthat suffice to absolve it from the reproach, unreasonably and too\nfrequently brought against it, of being only negative?\n\nGood works now exist which facilitate the task of him who undertakes\nthe study of these interesting literatures. Wales, above all, is\ndistinguished by scientific and literary activity, not always\naccompanied, it is true, by a very rigorous critical spirit, but\ndeserving the highest praise. There, researches which would bring\nhonour to the most active centres of learning in Europe are the work\nof enthusiastic amateurs. A peasant called Owen Jones published in\n1801-7, under the name of the Myvyrian Archaiology of Wales, the\nprecious collection which is to this day the arsenal of Cymric\nantiquities. A number of erudite and zealous workers, Aneurin Owen,\nThomas Price of Crickhowell, William Rees, and John Jones, following\nin the footsteps of the Myvyrian peasant, set themselves to finish\nhis work, and to profit from the treasures which he had collected. A\nwoman of distinction, Lady Charlotte Guest, charged herself with the\ntask of acquainting Europe with the collection of the Mabinogion,\n[Footnote: The Mabinogion, from the Llyfr Coch O Hergest and other\nancient Welsh Manuscripts, with an English Translation and Notes. By\nLady Charlotte Guest. London and Llandovery, 1837-49. The word\nMabinogi (in the plural Mabinogion) designates a form of romantic\nnarrative peculiar to Wales. The origin and primitive meaning of\nthis word are very uncertain, and Lady Guest's right to apply it to\nthe whole of the narratives which she has published is open to\ndoubt.] the pearl of Gaelic literature, the completest expression of\nthe Cymric genius. This magnificent work, executed in twelve years\nwith the luxury that the wealthy English amateur knows how to use in\nhis publications, will one day attest how full of life the\nconsciousness of the Celtic races remained in the present century.\nOnly indeed the sincerest patriotism could inspire a woman to\nundertake and achieve so vast a literary monument. Scotland and\nIreland have in like measure been enriched by a host of studies of\ntheir ancient history. Lastly, our own Brittany, though all too\nrarely studied with the philological and critical rigour now exacted\nin works of erudition, has furnished Celtic antiquities with her\nshare of worthy research. Does it not suffice to cite M. de la\nVillemarque, whose name will be henceforth associated among us with\nthese studies, and whose services are so incontestable, that\ncriticism need have no fear of depreciating him in the eyes of a\npublic which has accepted him with so much warmth and sympathy?\n\nI.\n\nIf the excellence of races is to be appreciated by the purity of\ntheir blood and the inviolability of their national character, it\nmust needs be admitted that none can vie in nobility with the still\nsurviving remains of the Celtic race. [Footnote: To avoid all\nmisunderstanding, I ought to point out that by the word Celtic I\ndesignate here, not the whole of the great race which, at a remote\nepoch, formed the population of nearly the whole of Western Europe,\nbut simply the four groups which, in our days, still merit this\nname, as opposed to the Teutons and to the Neo-Latin peoples. These\nfour groups are: (i) The inhabitants of Wales or Cambria, and the\npeninsula of Cornwall, bearing even now the ancient name of Cymry;\n(2) the Bretons bretonnants, or dwellers in French Brittany speaking\nBas-Breton, who represent an emigration of the Cymry from Wales; (3)\nthe Gaels of the North of Scotland speaking Gaelic; (4) the Irish,\nalthough a very profound line of demarcation separates Ireland from\nthe rest of the Celtic family. [It is also necessary to point out\nthat Renan in this essay applies the name Breton both to the Bretons\nproper, i. e. the inhabitants of Brittany, and to the British\nmembers of the Celtic race.--Translator's Note.]]\n\nNever has a human family lived more apart from the world, and been\npurer from all alien admixture. Confined by conquest within\nforgotten islands and peninsulas, it has reared an impassable\nbarrier against external influences; it has drawn all from itself;\nit has lived solely on its own capital. From this ersues that\npowerful individuality, that hatred of the foreigner, which even in\nour own days has formed the essential feature of the Celtic peoples.\nRoman civilisation scarcely reached them, and left among them but\nfew traces. The Teutonic invasion drove them back, but did not\npenetrate them. At the present hour they are still constant in\nresistance to an invasion dangerous in an altogether different way,-\n-that of modern civilisation, destructive as it is of local\nvariations and national types. Ireland in particular (and herein we\nperhaps have the secret of her irremediable weakness) is the only\ncountry in Europe where the native can produce the titles of his\ndescent, and designate with certainty, even in the darkness of\nprehistoric ages, the race from which he has sprung.\n\nIt is in this secluded life, in this defiance of all that comes from\nwithout, that we must search for the explanation of the chief\nfeatures of the Celtic character. It has all the failings, and all\nthe good qualities, of the solitary man; at once proud and timid,\nstrong in feeling and feeble in action, at home free and unreserved,\nto the outside world awkward and embarrassed. It distrusts the\nforeigner, because it sees in him a being more refined than itself,\nwho abuses its simplicity. Indifferent to the admiration of others,\nit asks only one thing, that it should be left to itself. It is\nbefore all else a domestic race, fitted for family life and fireside\njoys. In no other race has the bond of blood been stronger, or has\nit created more duties, or attached man to his fellow with so much\nbreadth and depth. Every social institution of the Celtic peoples\nwas in the beginning only an extension of the family. A common\ntradition attests, to this very day, that nowhere has the trace of\nthis great institution of relationship been better preserved than in\nBrittany. There is a widely-spread belief in that country, that\nblood speaks, and that two relatives, unknown one to the other, in\nany part of the world wheresoever it may be, recognise each other by\nthe secret and mysterious emotion which they feel in each other's\npresence. Respect for the dead rests on the same principle. Nowhere\nhas reverence for the dead been greater than among the Briton\npeoples; nowhere have so many memories and prayers clustered about\nthe tomb. This is because life is not for these people a personal\nadventure, undertaken by each man on his own account, and at his own\nrisks and perils; it is a link in a long chain, a gift received and\nhanded on, a debt paid and a duty done.\n\nIt is easily discernible how little fitted were natures so strongly\nconcentrated to furnish one of those brilliant developments, which\nimposes the momentary ascendency of a people on the world; and that,\nno doubt, is why the part played externally by the Cymric race has\nalways been a secondary one. Destitute of the means of expansion,\nalien to all idea of aggression and conquest, little desirous of\nmaking its thought prevail outside itself, it has only known how to\nretire so far as space has permitted, and then, at bay in its last\nplace of retreat, to make an invincible resistance to its enemies.\nIts very fidelity has been a useless devotion. Stubborn of\nsubmission and ever behind the age, it is faithful to its conquerors\nwhen its conquerors are no longer faithful to themselves. It was the\nlast to defend its religious independence against Rome--and it has\nbecome the staunchest stronghold of Catholicism; it was the last in\nFrance to defend its political independence against the king--and it\nhas given to the world the last royalists.\n\nThus the Celtic race has worn itself out in resistance to its time,\nand in the defence of desperate causes. It does not seem as though\nin any epoch it had any aptitude for political life. The spirit of\nfamily stifled within it all attempts at more extended organisation.\nMoreover, it does not appear that the peoples which form it are by\nthemselves susceptible of progress. To them life appears as a fixed\ncondition, which man has no power to alter. Endowed with little\ninitiative, too much inclined to look upon themselves as minors and\nin tutelage, they are quick to believe in destiny and resign\nthemselves to it. Seeing how little audacious they are against God,\none would scarcely believe this race to be the daughter of Japhet.\n\nThence ensues its sadness. Take the songs of its bards of the sixth\ncentury; they weep more defeats than they sing victories. Its\nhistory is itself only one long lament; it still recalls its exiles,\nits flights across the seas. If at times it seems to be cheerful, a\ntear is not slow to glisten behind its smile; it does not know that\nstrange forgetfulness of human conditions and destinies which is\ncalled gaiety. Its songs of joy end as elegies; there is nothing to\nequal the delicious sadness of its national melodies. One might call\nthem emanations from on high which, falling drop by drop upon the\nsoul, pass through it like memories of another world. Never have men\nfeasted so long upon these solitary delights of the spirit, these\npoetic memories which simultaneously intercross all the sensations\nof life, so vague, so deep, so penetrative, that one might die from\nthem, without being able to say whether it was from bitterness or\nsweetness.\n\nThe infinite delicacy of feeling which characterises the Celtic race\nis closely allied to its need of concentration. Natures that are\nlittle capable of expansion are nearly always those that feel most\ndeeply, for the deeper the feeling, the less it tends to express\nitself. Thence we have that charming shamefastness, that veiled and\nexquisite sobriety, equally far removed from the sentimental\nrhetoric too familiar to the Latin races, and the reflective\nsimplicity of Germany, which are so admirably displayed in the\nballads published by M. de la Villemarque. The apparent reserve of\nthe Celtic peoples, often taken for coldness, is due to this inward\ntimidity which makes them believe that a feeling loses half its\nvalue if it be expressed; and that the heart ought to have no other\nspectator than itself.\n\nIf it be permitted us to assign sex to nations as to individuals, we\nshould have to say without hesitance that the Celtic race,\nespecially with regard to its Cymric or Breton branch, is an\nessentially feminine race. No human family, I believe, has carried\nso much mystery into love. No other has conceived with more delicacy\nthe ideal of woman, or been more fully dominated by it. It is a sort\nof intoxication, a madness, a vertigo. Read the strange Mabinogi of\nPeredur, or its French imitation Parceval le Gallois; its pages are,\nas it were, dewy with feminine sentiment. Woman appears therein as a\nkind of vague vision, an intermediary between man and the\nsupernatural world. I am acquainted with no literature that offers\nanything analogous to this. Compare Guinevere or Iseult with those\nScandinavian furies Gudrun and Chrimhilde, and you will avow that\nwoman such as chivalry conceived her, an ideal of sweetness and\nloveliness set up as the supreme end of life, is a creation neither\nclassical, nor Christian, nor Teutonic, but in reality Celtic.\n\nImaginative power is nearly always proportionate to concentration of\nfeeling, and lack of the external development of life. The limited\nnature of Greek and Italian imagination is due to the easy\nexpansiveness of the peoples of the South, with whom the soul,\nwholly spread abroad, reflects but little within itself. Compared\nwith the classical imagination, the Celtic imagination is indeed the\ninfinite contrasted with the finite. In the fine Mabinogi of the\nDream of Maxem Wledig, the Emperor Maximus beholds in a dream a\nyoung maiden so beautiful, that on waking he declares he cannot live\nwithout her. For several years his envoys scour the world in search\nof her; at last she is discovered in Brittany. So is it with the\nCeltic race; it has worn itself out in taking dreams for realities,\nand in pursuing its splendid visions. The essential element in the\nCelt's poetic life is the adventure--that is to say, the pursuit of\nthe unknown, an endless quest after an object ever flying from\ndesire. It was of this that St. Brandan dreamed, that Peredur sought\nwith his mystic chivalry, that Knight Owen asked of his subterranean\njourneyings. This race desires the infinite, it thirsts for it, and\npursues it at all costs, beyond the tomb, beyond hell itself. The\ncharacteristic failing of the Breton peoples, the tendency to\ndrunkenness--a failing which, according to the traditions of the\nsixth century, was the cause of their disasters--is due to this\ninvincible need of illusion. Do not say that it is an appetite for\ngross enjoyment; never has there been a people more sober and more\nalien to all sensuality. No, the Bretons sought in mead what Owen,\nSt. Brandan, and Peredur sought in their own way,--the vision of the\ninvisible world. To this day in Ireland drunkenness forms a part of\nall Saint's Day festivals--that is to say, the festivals which best\nhave retained their national and popular aspect.\n\nThence arises the profound sense of the future and of the eternal\ndestinies of his race, which has ever borne up the Cymry, and kept\nhim young still beside his conquerors who have grown old. Thence\nthat dogma of the resurrection of the heroes, which appears to have\nbeen one of those that Christianity found most difficulty in rooting\nout. Thence Celtic Messianism, that belief in a future avenger who\nshall restore Cambria, and deliver her out of the hands of her\noppressors, like the mysterious Leminok promised by Merlin, the Lez-\nBreiz of the Armoricans, the Arthur of the Welsh. [Footnote: M.\nAugustin Thierry has finely remarked that the renown attaching to\nWelsh prophecies in the Middle Ages was due to their steadfastness\nin affirming the future of their race. (Histoire de la Conquete\nd'Angleterre.)] The hand that arose from the mere, when the sword of\nArthur fell therein, that seized it, and brandished it thrice, is\nthe hope of the Celtic races. It is thus that little peoples dowered\nwith imagination revenge themselves on their conquerors. Feeling\nthemselves to be strong inwardly and weak outwardly, they protest,\nthey exult; and such a strife unloosing their might, renders them\ncapable of miracles. Nearly all great appeals to the supernatural\nare due to peoples hoping against all hope. Who shall say what in\nour own times has fermented in the bosom of the most stubborn, the\nmost powerless of nationalities--Poland? Israel in humiliation\ndreamed of the spiritual conquest of the world, and the dream has\ncome to pass.\n\nII\n\nAt a first glance the literature of Wales is divided into three\nperfectly distinct distinct branches: the bardic or lyric, which\nshines forth in splendour in the sixth century by the works of\nTaliessin, of Aneurin, and of Liware'h Hen, and continues through an\nuninterrupted series of imitations up to modern times; the\nMabinogion, or literature of romance, fixed towards the twelfth\ncentury, but linking themselves in the groundwork of their ideas\nwith the remotest ages of the Celtic genius; finally, an\necclesiastical and legendary literature, impressed with a distinct\nstamp of its own. These three literatures seem to have existed side\nby side, almost without knowledge of one another. The bards, proud\nof their solemn rhetoric, held in disdain the popular tales, the\nform of which they considered careless; on the other hand, both\nbards and romancers appear to have had few relations with the\nclergy; and one at times might be tempted to suppose that they\nignored the existence of Christianity. To our thinking it is in the\nMabinogion that the true expression of the Celtic genius is to be\nsought; and it is surprising that so curious a literature, the\nsource of nearly all the romantic creations of Europe, should have\nremained unknown until our own days. The cause is doubtless to be\nascribed to the dispersed state of the Welsh manuscripts, pursued\ntill last century by the English, as seditious books compromising\nthose who possessed them. Often too they fell into hands of ignorant\nowners whose caprice or ill-will sufficed to keep them from critical\nresearch.\n\nThe Mabinogion have been preserved for us in two principal\ndocuments--one of the thirteenth century from the library of\nHengurt, belonging to the Vaughan family; the other dating from the\nfourteenth century, known under the name of the Red Book of Hergest,\nand now in Jesus College, Oxford. No doubt it was some such\ncollection that charmed the weary hours of the hapless Leolin in the\nTower of London, and was burned after his condemnation, with the\nother Welsh books which had been the companions of his captivity.\nLady Charlotte Guest has based her edition on the Oxford manuscript;\nit cannot be sufficiently regretted that paltry considerations have\ncaused her to be refused the use of the earlier manuscript, of which\nthe later appears to be only a copy. Regrets are redoubled when one\nknows that several Welsh texts, which were seen and copied fifty\nyears ago, have now disappeared. It is in the presence of facts such\nas these that one comes to believe that revolutions--in general so\ndestructive of the works of the past--are favourable to the\npreservation of literary monuments, by compelling their\nconcentration in great centres, where their existence, as well as\ntheir publicity, is assured.\n\nThe general tone of the Mabinogion is rather romantic than epic.\nLife is treated naively and not too emphatically. The hero's\nindividuality is limitless. We have free and noble natures acting in\nall their spontaneity. Each man appears as a kind of demi-god\ncharacterised by a supernatural gift. This gift is nearly always\nconnected with some miraculous object, which in some measure is the\npersonal seal of him who possesses it. The inferior classes, which\nthis people of heroes necessarily supposes beneath it, scarcely show\nthemselves, except in the exercise of some trade, for practising\nwhich they are held in high esteem. The somewhat complicated\nproducts of human industry are regarded as living beings, and in\ntheir manner endowed with magical properties. A multiplicity of\ncelebrated objects have proper names, such as the drinking-cup, the\nlance, the sword, and the shield of Arthur; the chess-board of\nGwendolen, on which the black pieces played of their own accord\nagainst the white; the horn of Bran Galed, where one found whatever\nliquor one desired; the chariot of Morgan, which directed itself to\nthe place to which one wished to go; the pot of Tyrnog, which would\nnot cook when meat for a coward was put into it; the grindstone of\nTudwal, which would only sharpen brave men's swords; the coat of\nPadarn, which none save a noble could don; and the mantle of Tegan,\nwhich no woman could put upon herself were she not above reproach.\n[Footnote: Here may be recognised the origin of trial by court\nmantle, one of the most interesting episodes in Lancelot of the\nLake.] The animal is conceived in a still more individual way; it\nhas a proper name, personal qualities, and a role which it develops\nat its own will and with full consciousness. The same hero appears\nas at once man and animal, without it being possible to trace the\nline of demarcation between the two natures.\n\nThe tale of Kilhwch and Olwen, the most extraordinary of the\nMabinogion, deals with Arthur's struggle against the wild-boar king\nTwrch Trwyth, who with his seven cubs holds in check all the heroes\nof the Round Table. The adventures of the three hundred ravens of\nKerverhenn similarly form the subject of the Dream of Rhonabwy. The\nidea of moral merit and demerit is almost wholly absent from all\nthese compositions. There are wicked beings who insult ladies, who\ntyrannise over their neighbours, who only find pleasure in evil\nbecause such is their nature; but it does not appear that they incur\nwrath on that account. Arthur's knights pursue them, not as\ncriminals but as mischievous fellows. All other beings are perfectly\ngood and just, but more or less richly gifted. This is the dream of\nan amiable and gentle race which looks upon evil as being the work\nof destiny, and not a product of the human conscience. All nature is\nenchanted, and fruitful as imagination itself in indefinitely varied\ncreations. Christianity rarely discloses itself; although at times\nits proximity can be felt, it alters in no respect the purely\nnatural surroundings in which everything takes place. A bishop\nfigures at table beside Arthur, but his function is strictly limited\nto blessing the dishes. The Irish saints, who at one time present\nthemselves to give their benediction to Arthur and receive favours\nat his hands, are portrayed as a race of men vaguely known and\ndifficult to understand. No mediaeval literature held itself further\nremoved from all monastic influence. We evidently must suppose that\nthe Welsh bards and story-tellers lived in a state of great\nisolation from the clergy, and had their culture and traditions\nquite apart.\n\nThe charm of the Mabinogion principally resides in the amiable\nserenity of the Celtic mind, neither sad nor gay, ever in suspense\nbetween a smile and a tear. We have in them the simple recital of a\nchild, unwitting of any distinction between the noble and the\ncommon; there is something of that softly animated world, of that\ncalm and tranquil ideal to which Ariosto's stanzas transport us. The\nchatter of the later mediaeval French and German imitators can give\nno idea of this charming manner of narration. The skilful Chretien\nde Troyes himself remains in this respect far below the Welsh story-\ntellers, and as for Wolfram of Eschenbach, it must be avowed that\nthe joy of the first discovery has carried German critics too far in\nthe exaggeration of his merits. He loses himself in interminable\ndescriptions, and almost completely ignores the art of his recital.\n\nWhat strikes one at a first glance in the imaginative compositions\nof the Celtic races, above all when they are contrasted with those\nof the Teutonic races, is the extreme mildness of manners pervading\nthem. There are none of those frightful vengeances which fill the\nEdda and the Niebelungen. Compare the Teutonic with the Gaelic\nhero,--Beowulf with Peredur, for example. What a difference there\nis! In the one all the horror of disgusting and blood-embrued\nbarbarism, the drunkenness of carnage, the disinterested taste, if I\nmay say so, for destruction and death; in the other a profound sense\nof justice, a great height of personal pride it is true, but also a\ngreat capacity for devotion, an exquisite loyalty. The tyrannical\nman, the monster, the Black Man, find a place here like the\nLestrigons and the Cyclops of Homer only to inspire horror by\ncontrast with softer manners; they are almost what the wicked man is\nin the naive imagination of a child brought up by a mother in the\nideas of a gentle and pious morality. The primitive man of Teutonism\nis revolting by his purposeless brutality, by a love of evil that\nonly gives him skill and strength in the service of hatred and\ninjury. The Cymric hero on the other hand, even in his wildest\nflights, seems possessed by habits of kindness and a warm sympathy\nwith the weakv. Sympathy indeed is one of the deepest feelings among\nthe Celtic peoples. Even Judas is not denied a share of their pity.\nSt. Brandan found him upon a rock in the midst of the Polar seas;\nonce a week he passes a day there to refresh himself from the fires\nof hell. A cloak that he had given to a beggar is hung before him,\nand tempers his sufferings.\n\nIf Wales has a right to be proud of her Mabinogion, she has not less\nto felicitate herself in having found a translator truly worthy of\ninterpreting them. For the proper understanding of these original\nbeauties there was needed a delicate appreciation of Welsh\nnarration, and an intelligence of the naive order, qualities of\nwhich an erudite translator would with difficulty have been capable.\nTo render these gracious imaginings of a people so eminently dowered\nwith feminine tact, the pen of a woman was necessary. Simple,\nanimated, without effort and without vulgarity, Lady Guest's\ntranslation is a faithful mirror of the original Cymric. Even\nsupposing that, as regards philology, the labours of this noble\nWelsh lady be destined to receive improvement, that does not prevent\nher book from for ever remaining a work of erudition and highly\ndistinguished taste. [Footnote: M. de la Villemarque published in\n1843 under the title of Cantes populaires des anciens Bretons, a\nFrench translation of the narratives that Guest had already\npresented in English at that time.]\n\nThe Mabinogion, or at least the writings which Lady Guest thought\nshe ought to include under this common name, divide themselves into\ntwo perfectly distinct classes--some connected exclusively with the\ntwo peninsulas of Wales and Cornwall, and relating to the heroic\npersonality of Arthur; the others alien to Arthur, having for their\nscene not only the parts of England that have remained Cymric, but\nthe whole of Great Britain, and leading us back by the persons and\ntraditions mentioned in them to the later years of the Roman\noccupation. The second class, of greater antiquity than the first,\nat least on the ground of subject, is also distinguished by a much\nmore mythological character, a bolder use of the miraculous, an\nenigmatical form, a style full of alliteration and plays upon words.\nOf this number are the tales of Pwyll, of Bramwen, of Manawyddan, of\nMath the son of Mathonwy, the Dream of the Emperor Maximus, the\nstory of Llud and Llewelys, and the legend of Taliessin. To the\nArthurian cycle belong the narratives of Owen, of Geraint, of\nPeredur, of Kilhwch and Olwen, and the Dream of Rhonabwy. It is also\nto be remarked that the two last-named narratives have a\nparticularly antique character. In them Arthur dwells in Cornwall,\nand not as in the others at Caerleon on the Usk. In them he appears\nwith an individual character, hunting and taking a personal part in\nwarfare, while in the more modern tales he is only an emperor all-\npowerful and impassive, a truly sluggard hero, around whom a pleiad\nof active heroes groups itself. The Mabinogi of Kilhwch and Olwen,\nby its entirely primitive aspect, by the part played in it by the\nwild-boar in conformity to the spirit of Celtic mythology, by the\nwholly supernatural and magical character of the narration, by\ninnumerable allusions the sense of which escapes us, forms a cycle\nby itself. It represents for us the Cymric conception in all its\npurity, before it had been modified by the introduction of any\nforeign element. Without attempting here to analyse this curious\npoem, I should like by some extracts to make its antique aspect and\nhigh originality apparent.\n\nKilhwch, the son of Kilydd, prince of Kelyddon, having heard some\none mention the name of Olwen, daughter of Yspaddaden Penkawr, falls\nviolently in love, without having ever seen her. He goes to find\nArthur, that he may ask for his aid in the difficult undertaking\nwhich he meditates; in point of fact, he does not know in what\ncountry the fair one of his affection dwells. Yspaddaden is besides\na frightful tyrant who suffers no man to go from his castle alive,\nand whose death is linked by destiny to the marriage of his\ndaughter. [Footnote: The idea of making the death of the father the\ncondition of possession of the daughter is to be found in several\nromances of the Breton cycle, in Lancelot for example.] Arthur\ngrants Kilhwch some of his most valiant comrades in arms to assist\nhim in this enterprise. After wonderful adventures the knights\narrive at the castle of Yspaddaden, and succeed in seeing the young\nmaiden of Kilhwch's dream. Only after three days of persistent\nstruggle do they manage to obtain a response from Olwen's father,\nwho attaches his daughter's hand to conditions apparently impossible\nof realisation. The performance of these trials makes a long chain\nof adventures, the framework of a veritable romantic epic which has\ncome to us in a very fragmentary form. Of the thirty-eight\nadventures imposed on Kilhwch the manuscript used by Lady Guest only\nrelates seven or eight. I choose at random one of these narratives,\nwhich appears to me fitted to give an idea of the whole composition.\nIt deals with the finding of Mabon the son of Modron, who was\ncarried away from his mother three days after his birth, and whose\ndeliverance is one of the labours exacted of Kilhwch.\n\n\"His followers said unto Arthur, 'Lord, go thou home; thou canst not\nproceed with thy host in quest of such small adventures as these.'\nThen said Arthur, 'It were well for thee, Gwrhyr Gwalstawd\nIeithoedd, to go upon this quest, for thou knowest all languages,\nand art familiar with those of the birds and the beasts. Thou,\nEidoel, oughtest likewise to go with my men in search of thy cousin.\nAnd as for you, Kai and Bedwyr, I have hope of whatever adventure ye\nare in quest of, that ye will achieve it. Achieve ye this adventure\nfor me.'\"\n\nThey went forward until they came to the Ousel of Cilgwri. And\nGwrhyr adjured her for the sake of Heaven, saying, \"Tell me if thou\nknowest aught of Mabon the son of Modron, who was taken when three\nnights old from between his mother and the wall.\" And the Ousel\nanswered, \"When I first came here there was a smith's anvil in this\nplace, and I was then a young bird; and from that time no work has\nbeen done upon it, save the pecking of my beak every evening, and\nnow there is not so much as the size of a nut remaining thereof; yet\nall the vengeance of Heaven be upon me, if during all that time I\nhave ever heard of the man for whom you enquire. Nevertheless I will\ndo that which is right, and that which it is fitting I should do for\nan embassy from Arthur. There is a race of animals who were formed\nbefore me, and I will be your guide to them.\"\n\nSo they proceeded to the place where was the Stag of Redynvre. \"Stag\nof Redynvre, behold we are come to thee, an embassy from Arthur, for\nwe have not heard of any animal older than thou. Say, knowest thou\naught of Mabon the son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when\nthree nights old?\" The Stag said, \"When first I came hither there\nwas a plain all around me, without any trees save one oak sapling,\nwhich grew up to be an oak with an hundred branches. And that oak\nhas since perished, so that now nothing remains of it but the\nwithered stump; and from that day to this I have been here, yet have\nI never heard of the man for whom you enquire. Nevertheless, being\nan embassy from Arthur, I will be your guide to the place where\nthere is an animal which was formed before I was.\"\n\nSo they proceeded to the place where was the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd.\n\"Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd, here is an embassy from Arthur; knowest thou\naught of Mabon the son of Modron, who was taken after three nights\nfrom his mother?\" \"If I knew I would tell you. When first I came\nhither, the wide valley you see was a wooded glen. And a race of men\ncame and rooted it up. And there grew there a second wood; and this\nwood is the third. My wings, are they not withered stumps? Yet all\nthis time, even until to-day, I have never heard of the man for whom\nyou enquire. Nevertheless I will be the guide of Arthur's embassy\nuntil you come to the place where is the oldest animal in the world,\nand the one that has travelled most, the Eagle of Gwern Abwy.\"\n\nGwrhyr said, \"Eagle of Gwern Abwy, we have come to thee an embassy\nfrom Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught of Mabon the son of\nModron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old.\"\nThe Eagle said, \"I have been here for a great space of time, and\nwhen I first came hither there was a rock here, from the top of\nwhich I pecked at the stars every evening; and now it is not so much\nas a span high. From that day to this I have been here, and I have\nnever heard of the man for whom you enquire, except once when I went\nin search of food as far as Llyn Llyw. And when I came there, I\nstruck my talons into a salmon, thinking he would serve me as food\nfor a long time. But he drew me into the deep, and I was scarcely\nable to escape from him. After that I went with my whole kindred to\nattack him, and to try to destroy him, but he sent messengers, and\nmade peace with me; and came and besought me to take fifty fish\nspears out of his back. Unless he know something of him whom you\nseek, I cannot tell who may. However, I will guide you to the place\nwhere he is.\"\n\nSo they went thither; and the Eagle said, \"Salmon of Llyn Llyw, I\nhave come to thee with an embassy from Arthur, to ask thee if thou\nknowest aught concerning Mabon the son of Modron, who was taken away\nat three nights old from his mother.\" \"As much as I know I will tell\nthee. With every tide I go along the river upwards, until I come\nnear to the walls of Gloucester, and there have I found such wrong\nas I never found elsewhere; and to the end that ye may give credence\nthereto, let one of you go thither upon each of my two shoulders.\"\nSo Kai and Gwrhyr Gwalstawd Ieithoedd went upon the shoulders of the\nsalmon, and they proceeded until they came unto the wall of the\nprison, and they heard a great wailing and lamenting from the\ndungeon. Said Gwrhyr, \"Who is it that laments in this house of\nstone?\" \"Alas there is reason enough for whoever is here to lament.\nIt is Mabon the son of Modron who is here imprisoned; and no\nimprisonment was ever so grievous as mine, neither that of Lludd\nLlaw Ereint, nor that of Greid the son of Eri.\" \"Hast thou hope of\nbeing released for gold or for silver, or for any gifts of wealth,\nor through battle and fighting?\" \"By fighting will whatever I may\ngain be obtained.\"\n\nWe shall not follow the Cymric hero through trials the result of\nwhich can be foreseen. What, above all else, is striking in these\nstrange legends is the part played by animals, transformed by the\nWelsh imagination into intelligent beings. No race conversed so\nintimately as did the Celtic race with the lower creation, and\naccorded it so large a share of moral life. [Footnote: See\nespecially the narratives of Nennius, and of Giraldus Cambrensis. In\nthem animals have at least as important a part as men.] The close\nassociation of man and animal, the fictions so dear to mediaeval\npoetry of the Knight of the Lion, the Knight of the Falcon, the\nKnight of the Swan, the vows consecrated by the presence of birds of\nnoble repute, are equally Breton imaginings. Ecclesiastical\nliterature itself presents analogous features; gentleness towards\nanimals informs all the legends of the saints of Brittany and\nIreland. One day St. Kevin fell asleep, while he was praying at his\nwindow with outstretched arms; and a swallow perceiving the open\nhand of the venerable monk, considered it an excellent place wherein\nto make her nest. The saint on awaking saw the mother sitting upon\nher eggs, and, loth to disturb her, waited for the little ones to be\nhatched before he arose from his knees.\n\nThis touching sympathy was derived from the singular vivacity with\nwhich the Celtic races have inspired their feeling for nature. Their\nmythology is nothing more than a transparent naturalism, not that\nanthropomorphic naturalism of Greece and India, in which the forces\nof the universe, viewed as living beings and endowed with\nconsciousness, tend more and more to detach themselves from physical\nphenomena, and to become moral beings; but in some measure a\nrealistic naturalism, the love of nature for herself, the vivid\nimpression of her magic, accompanied by the sorrowful feeling that\nman knows, when, face to face with her, he believes that he hears\nher commune with him concerning his origin and his destiny. The\nlegend of Merlin mirrors this feeling. Seduced by a fairy of the\nwoods, he flies with her and becomes a savage. Arthur's messengers\ncome upon him as he is singing by the side of a fountain; he is led\nback again to court; but the charm carries him away. He returns to\nhis forests, and this time for ever. Under a thicket of hawthorn\nVivien has built him a magical prison. There he prophesies the\nfuture of the Celtic races; he speaks of a maiden of the woods, now\nvisible and now unseen, who holds him captive by her spells. Several\nArthurian legends are impressed with the same character. Arthur\nhimself in popular belief became, as it were, a woodland spirit.\n\"The foresters on their nightly round by the light of the moon,\"\nsays Gervais of Tilbury, [Footnote: An English chronicler of the\ntwelfth century.] \"often hear a great sound as of horns, and meet\nbands of huntsmen; when they are asked whence they come, these\nhuntsmen make reply that they are of King Arthur's following.\"\n[Footnote: This manner of explaining all the unknown noises of the\nwood by Arthur's Hunting is still to be found in several districts.\nTo understand properly the cult of nature, and, if I may say so, of\nlandscape among the Celts, see Gildas and Nennius, pp. 131, 136,\n137, etc. (Edit. San Marte, Berlin. 1884);] Even the French\nimitators of the Breton romances keep an impression--although a\nrather insipid one--of the attraction exercised by nature on the\nCeltic imagination. Elaine, the heroine of Lancelot, the ideal of\nBreton perfection, passes her life with her companions in a garden,\nin the midst of flowers which she tends. Every flower culled by her\nhands is at the instant restored to life; and the worshippers of her\nmemory are under an obligation, when they cut a flower, to sow\nanother in its place.\n\nThe worship of forest, and fountain, and stone is to be explained by\nthis primitive naturalism, which all the Councils of the Church held\nin Brittany united to proscribe. The stone, in truth, seems the\nnatural symbol of the Celtic races. It is an immutable witness that\nhas no death. The animal, the plant, above all the human figure,\nonly express the divine life under a determinate form; the stone on\nthe contrary, adapted to receive all forms, has been the fetish of\npeoples in their childhood. Pausanias saw, still standing erect, the\nthirty square stones of Pharse, each bearing the name of a divinity.\nThe men-hir to be met with over the whole surface of the ancient\nworld, what is it but the monument of primitive humanity, a living\nwitness of its faith in Heaven? [Footnote: It is, however, doubtful\nwhether the monuments known in France at Celtic (men-hir. dot-men,\netc.) are the work of the Celts. With M. Worsaae and the Copenhagen\narchaeologists, I am inclined to think that these monuments belong\nto a more ancient humanity. Never, in fact, has any branch of the\nIndo-European race built in this fashion. (See two articles by M.\nMerimee in L'Athenaum franfais, Sept. 11th, 1852, and April 25th,\n1853.)]\n\nIt has frequently been observed that the majority of popular beliefs\nstill extant in our different provinces are of Celtic origin. A not\nless remarkable fact is the strong tinge of naturalism dominant in\nthese beliefs. Nay more, every time that the old Celtic spirit\nappears in our history, there is to be seen, re-born with it, faith\nin nature and her magic influences. One of the most characteristic\nof these manifestations seems to me to be that of Joan of Arc. That\nindomitable hope, that tenacity in the affirmation of the future,\nthat belief that the salvation of the kingdom will come from a\nwoman,--all those features, far removed as they are from the taste\nof antiquity, and from Teutonic taste, are in many respects Celtic.\nThe memory of the ancient cult perpetuated itself at Domremy, as in\nso many other places, under the form of popular superstition. The\ncottage of the family of Arc was shaded by a beech tree, famed in\nthe country and reputed to be the abode of fairies. In her childhood\nJoan used to go and hang upon its branches garlands of leaves and\nflowers, which, so it was said, disappeared during the night. The\nterms of her accusation speak with horror of this innocent custom,\nas of a crime against the faith; and indeed they were not altogether\ndeceived, those unpitying theologians who judged the holy maid.\nAlthough she knew it not, she was more Celtic than Christian. She\nhas been foretold by Merlin; she knows of neither Pope nor Church,--\nshe only believes the voice that speaks in her own heart. This voice\nshe hears in the fields, in the sough of the wind among the trees,\nwhen measured and distant sounds fair upon her ears. During her\ntrial, worn out with questions and scholastic subtleties, she is\nasked whether she still hears her voices. \"Take me to the woods.\"\nshe says, \"and I shall hear them clearly.\" Her legend is tinged with\nthe same colours; nature loved her, the wolves never touched the\nsheep of her flock. When she was a little girl, the birds used to\ncome and eat bread from her lap as though they were tame. [Footnote:\nSince the first publication of these views, on which I should not\nlike more emphasis to be put than what belongs to a passing\nimpression, similar considerations have been developed, in terms\nthat appear a little too positive, by M. H. Martin (History of\nFrance, vol. vi., 1856). The objections raised to it are, for the\nmost part, due to the fact that very few people are capable of\ndelicately appreciating questions of this kind, relative to the\ngenius of races. It frequently happens that the resurrection of an\nold national genius takes place under a very different form from\nthat which one would have expected, and by means of individuals who\nhave no idea of the ethnographical part which they play.]\n\nIII\n\nThe MABINOGION do not recommend themselves to our study, only as a\nmanifestation of the romantic genius of the Breton races. It was\nthrough them that the Welsh imagination exercised its influence upon\nthe Continent, that it transformed, in the twelfth century, the\npoetic art of Europe, and realised this miracle,--that the creations\nof a half-conquered race have become the universal feast of\nimagination for mankind.\n\nFew heroes owe less to reality than Arthur. Neither Gildas nor\nAneurin, his contemporaries, speak of him; Bede did not even know\nhis name; Taliessin and Liwarc'h Hen gave him only a secondary\nplace. In Nennius, on the other hand, who lived about 850, the\nlegend has fully unfolded. Arthur is already the exterminator of the\nSaxons; he has never experienced defeat; he is the suzerain of an\narmy of kings. Finally, in Geoffrey of Monmouth, the epic creation\nculminates. Arthur reigns over the whole earth; he conquers Ireland,\nNorway, Gascony, and France. At Caerleon he holds a tournament at\nwhich all the monarchs of the world are present; there he puts upon\nhis head thirty crowns, and exacts recognition as the sovereign lord\nof the universe. So incredible is it that a petty king of the sixth\ncentury, scarcely remarked by his contemporaries, should have taken\nin posterity such colossal proportions, that several critics have\nsupposed that the legendary Arthur and the obscure chieftain who\nbore that name have nothing in common, the one with the other, and\nthat the son of Uther Pendragon is a wholly ideal hero, a survivor\nof the old Cymric mythology. As a matter of fact, in the symbols of\nNeo-Druidism--that is to say, of that secret doctrine, the outcome\nof Druidism, which prolonged its existence even to the Middle Ages\nunder the form of Freemasonry--we again find Arthur transformed into\na divine personage, and playing a purely mythological part. It must\nat least be allowed that, if behind the fable some reality lies\nhidden, history offers us no means of attaining it. It cannot be\ndoubted that the discovery of Arthur's tomb in the Isle of Avalon in\n1189 was an invention of Norman policy, just as in 1283, the very\nyear in which Edward I. was engaged in crushing out the last\nvestiges of Welsh independence, Arthur's crown was very conveniently\nfound, and forthwith united to the other crown jewels of England.\n\nWe naturally expect Arthur, now become the representative of Welsh\nnationality, to sustain in the Mabinogion a character analogous to\nthis role, and therein, as in Nennius, to serve the hatred of the\nvanquished against the Saxons. But such is not the case. Arthur, in\nthe Mabinogion, exhibits no characteristics of patriotic resistance;\nhis part is limited to uniting heroes around him, to maintaining the\nretainers of his palace, and to enforcing the laws of his order of\nchivalry. He is too strong for any one to dream of attacking him. He\nis the Charlemagne of the Carlovingian romances, the Agamemnon of\nHomer,--one of those neutral personalities that serve but to give\nunity to the poem. The idea of warfare against the alien, hatred\ntowards the Saxon, does not appear in a single instance. The heroes\nof the Mabinogion have no fatherland; each fights to show his\npersonal excellence, and satisfy his taste for adventure, but not to\ndefend a national cause. Britain is the universe; no one suspects\nthat beyond the Cymry there may be other nations and other races.\n\nIt was by this ideal and representative character that the Arthurian\nlegend had such an astonishing prestige throughout the whole world.\nHad Arthur been only a provincial hero, the more or less happy\ndefender of a little country, all peoples would not have adopted\nhim, any more than they have adopted the Marco of the Serbs,\n[Footnote: A Servian ballad-hero.] or the Robin Hood of the Saxons.\nThe Arthur who has charmed the world is the head of an order of\nequality, in which all sit at the same table, in which a man's worth\ndepends upon his valour and his natural gifts. What mattered to the\nworld the fate of an unknown peninsula, and the strife waged on its\nbehalf? What enchanted it was the ideal court presided over by\nGwenhwyvar (Guinevere), where around the monarchical unity the\nflower of heroes was gathered together, where ladies, as chaste as\nthey were beautiful, loved according to the laws of chivalry, and\nwhere the time was passed in listening to stories, and learning\ncivility and beautiful manners.\n\nThis is the secret of the magic of that Round Table, about which the\nMiddle Ages grouped all their ideas of heroism, of beauty, of\nmodesty, and of love. We need not stop to inquire whether the ideal\nof a gentle and polished society in the midst of the barbarian world\nis, in all its features, a purely Breton creation, whether the\nspirit of the courts of the Continent has not in some measure\nfurnished the model, and whether the Mabinogion themselves have not\nfelt the reaction of the French imitations;[Footnote: The surviving\nversion of the Mdbinogian has a later date than these imitations,\nand the Red Book includes several tales borrowed from the French\ntrouveres. But it is out of the question to maintain that the really\nWelsh narratives have been borrowed in a like manner, since among\nthem are some unknown to the trouveres, which could only possess\ninterest for Breton countries] it suffices for us that the new order\nof sentiments which we have just indicated was, throughout the whole\nof the Middle Ages, persistently attached to the groundwork of the\nCymric romances. Such an association could not be fortuitous; if the\nimitations are all so glaring in colour, it is evidently because in\nthe original this same colour is to be found united to particularly\nstrong character. How otherwise shall we explain why a forgotten\ntribe on the very confines of the world should have imposed its\nheroes upon Europe, and, in the domain of imagination, accomplished\none of the most singular revolutions known to the historian of\nletters?\n\nIf, in fact, one compares European literature before the\nintroduction of the Cymric romances, with what it became when the\ntrouveres set themselves to draw from Breton sources, one recognises\nreadily that with the Breton narratives a new element entered into\nthe poetic conception of the Christian peoples, and modified it\nprofoundly. The Carlovingian poem, both by its structure and by the\nmeans which it employs, does not depart from classical ideas. The\nmotives of man's action are the same as in the Greek epic. The\nessentially romantic element, the life of forests and mysterious\nadventure, the feeling for nature, and that impulse of imagination\nwhich makes the Breton warrior unceasingly pursue the unknown;--\nnothing of all this is as yet to be observed. Roland differs from\nthe heroes of Homer only by his armour; in heart he is the brother\nof Ajax or Achilles. Perceval, on the contrary, belongs to another\nworld, separated by a great gulf from that in which the heroes of\nantiquity live and act.\n\nIt was above all by the creation of woman's character, by\nintroducing into mediaeval poetry, hitherto hard and austere, the\nnuances of love, that the Breton romances brought about this curious\nmetamorphosis. It was like an electric spark; in a few years\nEuropean taste was changed. Nearly all the types of womankind known\nto the Middle Ages, Guinevere, Iseult, Enid, are derived from\nArthur's court. In the Carlovingian poems woman is a nonentity\nwithout character or individuality; in them love is either brutal,\nas in the romance of \"Ferebras,\" or scarcely indicated, as in the\n\"Song of Roland.\" In the \"Mabinogion,\" on the other hand, the\nprincipal part always belongs to the women. Chivalrous gallantry,\nwhich makes the warrior's happiness to consist in serving a woman\nand meriting her esteem, the belief that the noblest use of strength\nis to succour and avenge weakness, results, I know, from a turn of\nimagination which possessed nearly all European peoples in the\ntwelfth century; but it cannot be doubted that this turn of\nimagination first found literary expression among the Breton\npeoples. One of the most surprising features in the Mabinogion is\nthe delicacy of the feminine feeling breathed in them; an\nimpropriety or a gross word is never to be met with. It would be\nnecessary to quote at length the two romances of Peredur and Geraint\nto demonstrate an innocence such as this; but the naive simplicity\nof these charming compositions forbids us to see in this innocence\nany underlying meaning. The zeal of the knight in the defence of\nladies' honour became a satirical euphemism only in the French\nimitators, who transformed the virginal modesty of the Breton\nromances into a shameless gallantry--so far indeed that these\ncompositions, chaste as they are in the original, became the scandal\nof the Middle Ages, provoked censures, and were the occasion of the\nideas of immorality which, for religious people, still cluster about\nthe name of romance.\n\nCertainly chivalry is too complex a fact for us to be permitted to\nassign it to any single origin. Let us say however that in the idea\nof envisaging the esteem of a woman as the highest object of human\nactivity, and setting up love as the supreme principle of morality,\nthere is nothing of the antique spirit, or indeed of the Teutonic.\nIs it in the \"Edda\" or in the \"Niebelungen\" that we shall find the\ngerm of this spirit of pure love, of exalted devotion, which forms\nthe very soul of chivalry? As to following the suggestion of some\ncritics and seeking among the Arabs for the beginnings of this\ninstitution, surely of all literary paradoxes ever mooted, this is\none of the most singular. The idea of conquering woman in a land\nwhere she is bought and sold, of seeking her esteem in a land where\nshe is scarcely considered capable of moral merit! I shall oppose\nthe partizans of this hypothesis with one single fact,--the surprise\nexperienced by the Arabs of Algeria when, by a somewhat unfortunate\nrecollection of mediaeval tournaments, the ladies were entrusted\nwith the presentation of prizes at the Beiram races. What to the\nknight appeared an unparalleled honour seemed to the Arabs a\nhumiliation and almost an insult.\n\nThe introduction of the Breton romances into the current of European\nliterature worked a not less profound revolution in the manner of\nconceiving and employing the marvellous. In the Carlovingian poems\nthe marvellous is timid, and conforms to the Christian faith; the\nsupernatural is produced directly by God or his envoys. Among the\nCymry, on the contrary, the principle of the marvel is in nature\nherself, in her hidden forces, in her inexhaustible fecundity. There\nis a mysterious swan, a prophetic bird, a suddenly appearing hand, a\ngiant, a black tyrant, a magic mist, a dragon, a cry that causes the\nhearer to die of terror, an object with extraordinary properties.\nThere is no trace of the monotheistic conception, in which the\nmarvellous is only a miracle, a derogation of eternal laws. Nor are\nthere any of those personifications of the life of nature which form\nthe essential part of the Greek and Indian mythologies. Here we have\nperfect naturalism, an unlimited faith in the possible, belief in\nthe existence of independent beings bearing within themselves the\nprinciple of their strength,--an idea quite opposed to Christianity,\nwhich in such beings necessarily sees either angels or fiends. And\nbesides, these strange beings are always presented as being outside\nthe pale of the Church; and when the knight of the Round Table has\nconquered them, he forces them to go and pay homage to Guinevere,\nand have themselves baptised.\n\nNow, if in poetry there is a marvellous element that we might\naccept, surely it is this. Classical mythology, taken in its first\nsimplicity, is too bold, taken as a mere figure of rhetoric, too\ninsipid, to give us satisfaction. As to the marvellous element in\nChristianity, Boileau is right: no fiction is compatible with such a\ndogmatism. There remains then the purely naturalistic marvellous,\nnature interesting herself in action and acting herself, the great\nmystery of fatality unveiling itself by the secret conspiring of all\nbeings, as in Shakespeare and Ariosto. It would be curious to\nascertain how much of the Celt there is in the former of these\npoets; as for Ariosto he is the Breton poet par excellence. All his\nmachinery, all his means of interest, all his fine shades of\nsentiment, all his types of women, all his adventures, are borrowed\nfrom the Breton romances.\n\nDo we now understand the intellectual role of that little race which\ngave to the world Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot, Perceval, Merlin, St.\nBrandan, St. Patrick, and almost all the poetical cycles of the\nMiddle Ages? What a striking destiny some nations have, in alone\npossessing the right to cause the acceptance of their heroes, as\nthough for that were necessary a quite peculiar degree of authority,\nseriousness, and faith! And it is a strange thing that it is to the\nNormans, of all peoples the one least sympathetically inclined\ntowards the Bretons, that we owe the renown of the Breton fables.\nBrilliant and imitative, the Norman everywhere became the pre-\neminent representative of the nation on which he had at first\nimposed himself by force. French in France, English in England,\nItalian in Italy, Russian at Novgorod, he forgot his own language to\nspeak that of the race which he had conquered, and to become the\ninterpreter of its genius. The deeply suggestive character of the\nWelsh romances could not fail to impress men so prompt to seize and\nassimilate the ideas of the foreigner. The first revelation of the\nBreton fables, the Latin Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth, appeared\nabout the year 1137, under the auspices of Robert of Gloucester,\nnatural son of Henry I. Henry II. acquired a taste for the same\nnarratives, and at his request Robert Wace, in 1155, wrote in French\nthe first history of Arthur, thus opening the path in which walked\nafter him a host of poets or imitators of all nationalities, French,\nProvencal, Italian, Spanish, English, Scandinavian, Greek, and\nGeorgian. We need not belittle the glory of the first trouveres who\nput into a language, then read and understood from one end of Europe\nto the other, fictions which, but for them, would have doubtless\nremained for ever unknown. It is however difficult to attribute to\nthem an inventive faculty, such as would permit them to merit the\ntitle of creators. The numerous passages in which one feels that\nthey do not fully understand the original which they imitate, and in\nwhich they attempt to give a natural significance to circumstances\nof which the mythological bearing escaped them, suffice to prove\nthat, as a rule, they were satisfied to make a fairly faithful copy\nof the work before their eyes.\n\nWhat part has Armorican Brittany played in the creation or\npropagation of the legends of the Round Table? It is impossible to\nsay with any degree of precision; and in truth such a question\nbecomes a matter of secondary import once we form a just idea of the\nclose bonds of fraternity, which did not cease until the twelfth\ncentury to unite the two branches of the Breton peoples. That the\nheroic traditions of Wales long continued to live in the branch of\nthe Cymric family which came and settled in Armorica cannot be\ndoubted when we find Geraint, Urien, and other heroes become saints\nin Lower Brittany; [Footnote: I shall only cite a single proof; it\nis a law of Edward the Confessor: \"Britones vero Armorici quum\nvenerint in regno isto, suscipi debent et in regno protegi sicut\nprobi cives de corpore regni hujus; exierunt quondam de sanguine\nBritonum regni hujus.\"--Wilkins, Leges Anglo-Saxonicae, p. 206.]and\nabove all when we see one of the most essential episodes of the\nArthurian cycle, that of the Forest of Broceliande, placed in the\nsame country. A large number of facts collected by M. de la\nVillemarrque [Footnote: \"Les Romans de la Table-Ronde et les contes\ndes anciens Bretons\" (Paris, 1859), pp. 20 et seq. In the \"Contes\npopulaires des anciens Bretons,\" of which the above may be\nconsidered as a new edition, the learned author had somewhat\nexaggerated the influence of French Brittany. In the present\narticle, when first published, I had, on the other hand, depreciated\nit too much.] prove, on the other hand, that these same traditions\nproduced a true poetic cycle in Brittany, and even that at certain\nepochs they must have recrossed the Channel, as though to give new\nlife to the mother country's memories. The fact that Gauthier\nCalenius, Archdeacon of Oxford, brought back from Brittany to\nEngland (about 1125) the very text of the legends which were\ntranslated into Latin ten years afterwards by Geoffrey of Monmouth\nis here decisive. I know that to readers of the Mabinogion such an\nopinion will appear surprising at a first glance, All is Welsh in\nthese fables, the places, the genealogies, the customs; in them\nArmorica is only represented by Hoel, an important personage no\ndoubt, but one who has not achieved the fame of the other heroes of\nArthur's court. Again, if Armorica saw the birth of the Arthurian\ncycle, how is it that we fail to find there any traces of that\nbrilliant nativity? [Footnote: M. de la Villemarque makes appeal to\nthe popular songs still extant in Brittany, in which Arthur's deeds\nare celebrated. In fact, in his Chants populaires de la Bretagne two\npoems are to be found in which that hero's name figures.]\n\nThese objections, I avow, long barred my way, but I no longer find\nthem insoluble. And first of all there is a class of Mabinogion,\nincluding those of Owen, Geraint, and Peredur, stories which possess\nno very precise geographical localisation. In the second place,\nnational written literature being less successfully defended in\nBrittany than in Wales against the invasion of foreign culture, it\nmay be conceived that the memory of the old epics should be there\nmore obliterated. The literary share of the two countries thus\nremains sufficiently distinct. The glory of French Brittany is in\nher popular songs; but it is only in Wales that the genius of the\nBreton people has succeeded in establishing itself in authentic\nbooks and achieved creations.\n\nIV.\n\nIn comparing the Breton cycle as the French trouveres knew it, and\nthe same cycle as it is to be found in the text of the Mabinogion,\none might be tempted to believe that the European imagination,\nenthralled by these brilliant fables, added to them some poetical\nthemes unknown to the Welsh. Two of the most celebrated heroes of\nthe continental Breton romances, Lancelot and Tristan, do not figure\nin the Mabinogion; on the other hand, the characteristics of the\nHoly Grail are presented in a totally different way from that which\nwe find in the French and German poets. A more attentive study shows\nthat these elements, apparently added by the French poets, are in\nreality of Cymric origin. And first of all, M. de la Villemarque has\ndemonstrated to perfection that the name of Lancelot is only a\ntranslation of that of the Welsh hero Mael, who in point of fact\nexhibits the fullest analogy with the Lancelot of the French\nromances. [Footnote: Ancelot is the diminutive of Ancel, and means\nservant, page, or esquire. To this day in the Cymric dialects Mael\nhas the same signification. The surname of Poursigant, which we find\nborne by some Welshmen in the French service in the early part of\nthe fourteenth century, is also no doubt a translation of Mael.] The\ncontext, the proper names, all the details of the romance of\nLancelot also present the most pronounced Breton aspect. As much\nmust be said of the romance of Tristan. It is even to be hoped that\nthis curious legend will be discovered complete in some Welsh\nmanuscript. Dr. Owen states that he has seen one of which he was\nunable to obtain a copy. As to the Holy Grail, it must be avowed\nthat the mystic cup, the object after which the French Parceval and\nthe German Parsifal go in search, has not nearly the same importance\namong the Welsh. In the romance of Peredur it only figures in an\nepisodical fashion, and without a well-defined religious intention.\n\n\"Then Peredur and his uncle discoursed together, and he beheld two\nyouths enter the hall, and proceed up to the chamber, bearing a\nspear of mighty size, with three streams of blood flowing from the\npoint to the ground. And when all the company saw this, they began\nwailing and lamenting. But for all that, the man did not break off\nhis discourse with Peredur. And as he did not tell Peredur the\nmeaning of what he saw, he forbore to ask him concerning it. And\nwhen the clamour had a little subsided, behold two maidens entered,\nwith a large salver between them, in which was a man's head,\nsurrounded by a profusion of blood. And thereupon the company of the\ncourt made so great an outcry, that it was irksome to be in the same\nhall with them. But at length they were silent.\" This strange and\nwondrous circumstance remains an enigma to the end of the narrative.\nThen a mysterious young man appears to Peredur, apprises him that\nthe lance from which the blood was dropping is that with which his\nuncle was wounded, that the vessel contains the blood and the head\nof one of his cousins, slain by the witches of Kerloiou, and that it\nis predestined that he, Peredur, should be their avenger. In point\nof fact, Peredur goes and convokes the Round Table; Arthur and his\nknights come and put the witches of Kerloiou to death.\n\nIf we now pass to the French romance of Parceval, we find that all\nthis phantasmagoria clothes a very different significance. The lance\nis that with which Longus pierced Christ's side, the Grail or basin\nis that in which Joseph of Arimathea caught the divine blood. This\nmiraculous vase procures all the good things of heaven and earth; it\nheals wounds, and is filled at the owner's pleasure with the most\nexquisite food. To approach it one must be in a state of grace; only\na priest can tell of its marvels. To find these sacred relics after\nthe passage of a thousand trials,--such is the object of Peredur's\nchivalry, at once worldly and mystical. In the end he becomes a\npriest; he takes the Grail and the lance into his hermitage; on the\nday of his death an angel bears them up to Heaven. Let us add that\nmany traits prove that in the mind of the French trouvere the Grail\nis confounded with the eucharist. In the miniatures which\noccasionally accompany the romance of Parceval, the Grail is in the\nform of a pyx, appearing at all the solemn moments of the poem as a\nmiraculous source of succour.\n\nIs this strange myth, differing as it does from the simple narrative\npresented in the Welsh legend of Peredur, really Cymric, or ought we\nrather to see in it an original creation of the trouveres, based\nupon a Breton foundation? With M. de la Villemarque we believe that\nthis curious fable is essentially Cymric. [Footnote: See the\nexcellent discussion of this interesting problem in the introduction\nto \"Contes populaires des anciens Bretons\" (pp. 181 et seq.).] In\nthe eighth century a Breton hermit had a vision of Joseph of\nArimathea bearing the chalice of the Last Supper, and wrote the\nhistory called the Gradal. The whole Celtic mythology is full of the\nmarvels of a magic caldron under which nine fairies blow silently, a\nmysterious vase which inspires poetic genius, gives wisdom, reveals\nthe future, and unveils the secrets of the world. One day as Bran\nthe Blessed was hunting in Ireland upon the shore of a lake, he saw\ncome forth from it a black man bearing upon his back an enormous\ncaldron, followed by a witch and a dwarf. This caldron was the\ninstrument of the supernatural power of a family of giants. It cured\nall ills, and gave back life to the dead, but without restoring to\nthem the use of speech--an allusion to the secret of the bardic\ninitiation. In the same way Perceval's wariness forms the whole plot\nof the quest of the Holy Grail. The Grail thus appears to us in its\nprimitive meaning as the pass-word of a kind of free-masonry which\nsurvived in Wales long after the preaching of the Gospel, and of\nwhich we find deep traces in the legend of Taliessin. Christianity\ngrafted its legend upon the mythological data, and a like\ntransformation was doubtless made by the Cymric race itself. If the\nWelsh narrative of Peredur does not offer the same developments as\nthe French romance of Parceval, it is because the Red Book of\nHergest gives us an earlier version than that which served as a\nmodel for Chretien de Troyes. It is also to be remarked that, even\nin Parceval, the mystical idea is not as yet completely developed,\nthat the trouvere seems to treat this strange theme as a narrative\nwhich he has found already complete, and the meaning of which he can\nscarcely guess. The motive that sets Parceval a-field in the French\nromance, as well as in the Welsh version, is a family motive; he\nseeks the Holy Grail as a talisman to cure his uncle the Fisherman-\nKing, in such a way that the religious idea is still subordinated to\nthe profane intention. In the German version, on the other hand,\nfull as it is of mysticism and theology, the Grail has a temple and\npriests. Parsifal, who has become a purely ecclesiastical hero,\nreaches the dignity of King of the Grail by his religious enthusiasm\nand his chastity. [Footnote: It is indeed remarkable that all the\nBreton heroes in their last transformation are at once gallant and\ndevout. One of the most celebrated ladies of Arthur's court, Luned,\nbecomes a saint and a martyr for her chastity, her festival being\ncelebrated on August 1st. She it is who figures in the French\nromances under the name of Lunette. See Lady Guest, vol. i., pp.\n113, 114.] Finally, the prose versions, more modern still, sharply\ndistinguish the two chivalries, the one earthly, the other mystical.\nIn them Parceval becomes the model of the devout knight. This was\nthe last of the metamorphoses which that all-powerful enchantress\ncalled the human imagination made him undergo; and it was only right\nthat, after having gone through so many dangers, he should don a\nmonkish frock, wherein to take his rest after his life of adventure.\n\nV.\n\nWhen we seek to determine the precise moment in the history of the\nCeltic races at which we ought to place ourselves in order to\nappreciate their genius in its entirety, we find ourselves led back\nto the sixth century of our era. Races have nearly always a\npredestined hour at which, passing from simplicity to reflection,\nthey bring forth to the light of day, for the first time, all the\ntreasures of their nature. For the Celtic races the poetic moment of\nawakening and primal activity was the sixth century. Christianity,\nstill young amongst them, has not completely stifled the national\ncult; the religion of the Druids defends itself in its schools and\nholy places; warfare against the foreigner, without which a people\nnever achieves a full consciousness of itself, attains its highest\ndegree of spirit. It is the epoch of all the heroes of enduring\nfame, of all the characteristic saints of the Breton Church;\nfinally, it is the great age of bardic literature, illustrious by\nthe names of Taliessin, of Aneurin, of Liwarc'h Hen.\n\nTo such as would view critically the historical use of these half-\nfabulous names and would hesitate to accept as authentic, poems that\nhave come down to us through so long a series of ages, we reply that\nthe objections raised to the antiquity of the bardic literature--\nobjections of which W. Schlegel made himself the interpreter in\nopposition to M. Fauriel--have completely disappeared under the\ninvestigations of an enlightened and impartial criticism. [Footnote:\nThis evidently does not apply to the language of the poems in\nquestion. It is well known that mediaeval scribes, alien as they\nwere to all ideas of archaeology, modernised the texts, in measure\nas they copied them; and that a manuscript in the vulgar tongue, as\na rule, only attests the language of him who transcribed it.] By a\nrare exception sceptical opinion has for once been found in the\nwrong. The sixth century is in fact for the Breton peoples a\nperfectly historical century. We touch this epoch of their history\nas closely and with as much certainty as Greek or Roman antiquity.\nIt is indeed known that, up to a somewhat late period, the bards\ncontinued to compose pieces under the names--which had become\npopular--of Aneurin, Taliessin, and Liwarc'h Hen; but no confusion\ncan be made between these insipid rhetorical exercises and the\nreally ancient fragments which bear the names of the poets cited--\nfragments full of personal traits, local circumstances, and\nindividual passions and feelings.\n\nSuch is the literature of which M. de la Villemarque has attempted\nto unite the most ancient and authentic monuments in his \"Breton\nBards of the Sixth Century.\" Wales has recognised the service that\nour learned compatriot has thus rendered to Celtic studies. We\nconfess, however, to much preferring to the \"Bards\" the \"Popular\nSongs of Brittany.\" It is in the latter that M. de la Villemarque\nhas best served Celtic studies, by revealing to us a delightful\nliterature, in which, more clearly than anywhere else, are apparent\nthese features of gentleness, fidelity, resignation, and timid\nreserve which form the character of the Breton peoples. [Footnote:\nThis interesting collection ought not, however, to be accepted\nunreservedly; and the absolute confidence with which it has been\nquoted is not without its inconveniences. We believe that when M. de\nla Villemarque comments on the fragments which, to his eternal\nhonour, he has been the first to bring to light, his criticism is\nfar from being proof against all reproach, and that several of the\nhistorical allusions which he considers that he finds in them are\nhypotheses more ingenious than solid. The past is too great, and has\ncome down to us in too fragmentary a manner, for such coincidences\nto be probable. Popular celebrities are rarely those of history, and\nwhen the rumours of distant centuries come to us by two channels,\none popular, the other historical, it is a rare thing for these two\nforms of tradition to be fully in accord with one another. M. de la\nVillemarque is also too ready to suppose that the people repeats for\ncenturies songs that it only half understands. When a song ceases to\nbe intelligible, it is nearly always altered by the people, with the\nend of approximating it to the sounds farmliar and significant to\ntheir ears. Is it not also to be feared that in this case the\neditor, in entire good faith, may lend some slight inflection to the\ntext, so as to find in it the sense that he desires, or has in his\nmind?]\n\nThe theme of the poetry of the bards of the sixth century is simple\nand exclusively heroic; it ever deals with the great motives of\npatriotism and glory. There is a total absence of all tender\nfeeling, no trace of love, no well-marked religious idea, but only a\nvague and naturalistic mysticism,--a survival of Druidic teaching,--\nand a moral philosophy wholly expressed in Triads, similar to that\ntaught in the half-bardic, half-Christian schools of St. Cadoc and\nSt. Iltud. The singularly artificial and highly wrought form of the\nstyle suggests the existence of a system of learned instruction\npossessing long traditions. A more pronounced shade, and there would\nbe a danger of falling into a pedantic and mannered rhetoric. The\nbardic literature, by its lengthened existence through the whole of\nthe Middle Ages, did not escape this danger. It ended by being no\nmore than a somewhat insipid collection of unoriginalities in style,\nand conventional metaphors. [Footnote: A Welsh scholar, Mr.\nStephens, in his History of Cymric Literature (Llandovery, 1849),\nhas demonstrated these successive transformations very well.]\n\nThe opposition between bardism and Christianity reveals itself in\nthe pieces translated by M. de la Villemarque by many features of\noriginal and pathetic interest. The strife which rent the soul of\nthe old poets, their antipathy to the grey men of the monastery,\ntheir sad and painful conversion, are to be found in their songs.\nThe sweetness and tenacity of the Breton character can alone explain\nhow a heterodoxy so openly avowed as this maintained its position in\nface of the dominant Christianity, and how holy men, Kolumkill for\nexample, took upon themselves the defence of the bards against the\nkings who desired to stamp them out. The strife was the longer in\nits duration, in that Christianity among the Celtic peoples never\nemployed force against rival religions, and, at the worst, left to\nthe vanquished the liberty of ill humour. Belief in prophets,\nindestructible among these peoples, created, in despite of faith the\nAnti-Christian type of Merlin, and caused his acceptance by the\nwhole of Europe. Gildas and the orthodox Bretons were ceaseless in\ntheir thunderings against the prophets, and opposed to them Elias\nand Samuel, two bards who only foretold good; even in the twelfth\ncentury Giraldus Cambrensis saw a prophet in the town of Caerleon.\n\nThanks to this toleration bardism lasted into the heart of the\nMiddle Ages, under the form of a secret doctrine, with a\nconventional language, and symbols almost wholly borrowed from the\nsolar divinity of Arthur. This may be termed Neo-Druidism, a kind of\nDruidism subtilised and reformed on the model of Christianity, which\nmay be seen growing more and more obscure and mysterious, until the\nmoment of its total disappearance. A curious fragment belonging to\nthis school, the dialogue between Arthur and Eliwlod, has\ntransmitted to us the latest sighs of this latest protestation of\nexpiring naturalism. Under the form of an eagle Eliwlod introduces\nthe divinity to the sentiment of resignation, of subjection, and of\nhumility, with which Christianity combated pagan pride. Hero-worship\nrecoils step by step before the great formula, which Christianity\nceases not to repeat to the Celtic races to sever them from their\nmemories: There is none greater than God. Arthur allows himself to\nbe persuaded to abdicate from his divinity, and ends by reciting the\nPater.\n\nI know of no more curious spectacle than this revolt of the manly\nsentiments of hero-worship against the feminine feeling which flowed\nso largely into the new faith. What, in fact, exasperates the old\nrepresentatives of Celtic society are the exclusive triumph of the\npacific spirit and the men, clad in linen and chanting psalms, whose\nvoice is sad, who preach asceticism, and know the heroes no more.\n[Footnote: The antipathy to Christianity attributed by the Armorican\npeople to the dwarfs and korigans belongs in like measure to\ntraditions of the opposition encountered by the Gospel in its\nbeginnings. The korigans in fact are, for the Breton peasant, great\nprincesses who would not accept Christianity when the apostles came\nto Brittany. They hate the clergy and the churches, the bells of\nwhich make them take to flight. The Virgin above all is their great\nenemy; she it is who has hounded them forth from their fountains,\nand on Saturday, the day consecrated to her, whosoever beholds them\ncombing their hair or counting their treasures is sure to perish.\n(Villemarque, Chants populaires, Introduction.)] We know the use\nthat Ireland has made of this theme, in the dialogues which she\nloves to imagine between the representatives of her profane and\nreligious life, Ossian and St. Patrick. [Footnote: See Miss Brooke's\nReliques of Irish Poetry, Dublin, 1789, pp. 37 et seq., PP. 75 et\nseq.] Ossian regrets the adventures, the chase, the blast of the\nhorn, and the kings of old time. \"If they were here,\" he says to St.\nPatrick, \"thou should'st not thus be scouring the country with the\npsalm-singing flock.\" Patrick seeks to calm him by soft words, and\nsometimes carries his condescension so far as to listen to his long\nhistories, which appear to interest the saint but slightly. \"Thou\nhast heard my story,\" says the old bard in conclusion; \"albeit my\nmemory groweth weak, and I am devoured with care, yet I desire to\ncontinue still to sing the deeds of yore, and to live upon ancient\nglories. Now am I stricken with years, my life is frozen within me,\nand all my joys are fleeting away. No more can my hand grasp the\nsword, nor mine arm hold the lance in rest. Among priests my last\nsad hour lengtheneth out, and psalms take now the place of songs of\nvictory.\" \"Let thy songs rest,\" says Patrick, \"and dare not to\ncompare thy Finn to the King of Kings, whose might knoweth no\nbounds: bend thy knees before Him, and know Him for thy Lord.\" It\nwas indeed necessary to surrender, and the legend relates how the\nold bard ended his days in the cloister, among the priests whom he\nhad so often used rudely, in the midst of these chants that he knew\nnot. Ossian was too good an Irishman for any one to make up his mind\nto damn him utterly. Merlin himself had to cede to the new spell. He\nwas, it is said, converted by St. Columba; and the popular voice in\nthe ballads repeats to him unceasingly this sweet and touching\nappeal: \"Merlin, Merlin, be converted; there is no divinity save\nthat of God.\"\n\nVI.\n\nWe should form an altogether inadequate idea of the physiognomy of\nthe Celtic races, were we not to study them under what is perhaps\nthe most singular aspect of their development--that is to say, their\necclesiastical antiquities and their saints. Leaving on one side the\ntemporary repulsion which Christian mildness had to conquer in the\nclasses of society which saw their influence diminished by the new\norder of things, it can be truly said, that the gentleness of\nmanners and the exquisite sensibility of the Celtic races, in\nconjunction with the absence of a formerly existing religion of\nstrong organisation, predestined them to Christianity. Christianity\nin fact, addressing itself by preference to the more humble feelings\nin human nature, met here with admirably prepared disciples; no race\nhas so delicately understood the charm of littleness, none has\nplaced the simple creature, the innocent, nearer God. The ease with\nwhich the new religion took possession of these peoples is also\nremarkable. Brittany and Ireland between them scarce count two or\nthree martyrs; they are reduced to venerating as such those of their\ncompatriots who were slain in the Anglo-Saxon and Danish invasions.\nHere comes to light the profound difference dividing the Celtic from\nthe Teutonic race. The Teutons only received Christianity tardily\nand in spite of themselves, by scheming or by force, after a\nsanguinary resistance, and with terrible throes, Christianity was in\nfact on several sides repugnant to their nature; and one understands\nthe regrets of pure Teutonists who, to this day, reproach the new\nfaith with having corrupted their sturdy ancestors.\n\nSuch was not the case with the Celtic peoples; that gentle little\nrace was naturally Christian. Far from changing them, and taking\naway some of their qualities, Christianity finished and perfected\nthem. Compare the legends relating to the introduction of\nChristianity into the two countries, the Kristni Saga for instance,\nand the delightful legends of Lucius and St. Patrick. What a\ndifference we find! In Iceland the first apostles are pirates,\nconverted by some chance, now saying mass, now massacring their\nenemies, now resuming their former profession of sea-rovers;\neverything is done in accord with expediency, and without any\nserious faith.\n\nIn Ireland and Brittany grace operates through women, by I know not\nwhat charm of purity and sweetness. The revolt of the Teutons was\nnever effectually stifled; never did they forget the forced\nbaptisms, and the sword-supported Carlovingian missionaries, until\nthe day when Teutonism took its revenge, and Luther through seven\ncenturies gave answer to Witikind. On the other hand, the Celts\nwere, even in the third century, perfect Christians. To the Teutons\nChristianity was for long nothing but a Roman institution, imposed\nfrom without. They entered the Church only to trouble it; and it was\nnot without very great difficulty that they succeeded in forming a\nnational clergy. To the Celts, on the contrary, Christianity did not\ncome from Rome; they had their native clergy, their own peculiar\nusages, their faith at first hand. It cannot, in fact, be doubted\nthat in apostolic times Christianity was preached in Brittany; and\nseveral historians, not without justification, have considered that\nit was borne there by Judaistic Christians, or by disciples of the\nschool of St. John. Everywhere else Christianity found, as a first\nsubstratum, Greek or Roman civilisation. Here it found a virgin soil\nof a nature analogous to its own, and naturally prepared to receive\nit.\n\nFew forms of Christianity have offered an ideal of Christian\nperfection so pure as the Celtic Church of the sixth, seventh, and\neighth centuries. Nowhere, perhaps, has God been better worshipped\nin spirit than in those great monastic communities of Hy, or of\nIona, of Bangor, of Clonard, or of Lindisfarne. One of the most\ndistinguished developments of Christianity--doubtless too\ndistinguished for the popular and practical mission which the Church\nhad to undertake--Pelagianism, arose from it. The true and refined\nmorality, the simplicity, and the wealth of invention which give\ndistinction to the legends of the Breton and Irish saints are indeed\nadmirable. No race adopted Christianity with so much originality,\nor, while subjecting itself to the common faith, kept its national\ncharacteristics more persistently. In religion, as in all else, the\nBretons sought isolation, and did not willingly fraternise with the\nrest of the world. Strong in their moral superiority, persuaded that\nthey possessed the veritable canon of faith and religion, having\nreceived their Christianity from an apostolic and wholly primitive\npreaching, they experienced no need of feeling themselves in\ncommunion with Christian societies less noble than their own. Thence\narose that long struggle of the Breton churches against Roman\npretensions, which is so admirably narrated by M. Augustin Thierry,\n[Footnote: In his History of the Conquest. The objections raised by\nM. Varin and some other scholars to M. Thierry's narrative only\naffect some secondary details, which were rectified in the edition\npublished after the illustrious historian's death.] thence those\ninflexible characters of Columba and the monks of Iona, defending\ntheir usages and institutions against the whole Church, thence\nfinally the false position of the Celtic peoples in Catholicism,\nwhen that mighty force, grown more and more aggressive, had drawn\nthem together from all quarters, and compelled their absorption in\nitself. Having no Catholic past, they found themselves unclassed on\ntheir entrance into the great family, and were never able to succeed\nin creating for themselves an Archbishopric. All their efforts and\nall their innocent deceits to attribute that title to the Churches\nof Dol and St. Davids were wrecked on the overwhelming divergence of\ntheir past; their bishops had to resign themselves to being obscure\nsuffragans of Tours and Canterbury.\n\nIt remains to be said that, even in our own days, the powerful\noriginality of Celtic Christianity is far from being effaced. The\nBretons of France, although they have felt the consequences of the\nrevolutions undergone by Catholicism on the Continent, are, at the\npresent hour, one of the populations in which religious feeling has\nretained most independence. The new devotions find no favour with\nit; the people are faithful to the old beliefs and the old saints;\nthe psalms of religion have for them an ineffable harmony. In the\nsame way, Ireland keeps, in her more remote districts, quite unique\nforms of worship from those of the rest of the world, to which\nnothing in other parts of Christendom can be compared. The influence\nof modern Catholicism, elsewhere so destructive of national usages,\nhas had here a wholly contrary effect, the clergy having found it\nincumbent on them to seek a vantage ground against Protestantism, in\nattachment to local practices and the customs of the past.\n\nIt is the picture of these Christian institutions, quite distinct\nfrom those of the remainder of the West, of this sometimes strange\nworship, of these legends of the saints marked with so distinct a\nseal of nationality, that lends an interest to the ecclesiastical\nantiquities of Ireland, of Wales, and of Armorican Brittany. No\nhagiology has remained more exclusively natural than that of the\nCeltic peoples; until the twelfth century those peoples admitted\nvery few alien saints into their martyrology. None, too, includes so\nmany naturalistic elements. Celtic Paganism offered so little\nresistance to the new religion, that the Church did not hold itself\nconstrained to put in force against it the rigour with which\nelsewhere it pursued the slightest traces of mythology. The\nconscientious essay by W. Rees on the \"Saints of Wales\", and that by\nthe Rev. John Williams, an extremely learned ecclesiastic of the\ndiocese of St. Asaph, on the \"Ecclesiastical Antiquities of the\nCymry\", suffice to make one understand the immense value which a\ncomplete and intelligent history of the Celtic Churches, before\ntheir absorption in the Roman Church, would possess. To these might\nbe added the learned work of Dom Lobineau on the Saints of Brittany,\nre-issued in our days by the Abbe Tresvaux, had not the half-\ncriticism of the Benedictine, much worse than a total absence of\ncriticism, altered those naive legends and cut away from them, under\nthe pretext of good sense and religious reverence, that which to us\ngives them interest and charm.\n\nIreland above all would offer a religious physiognomy quite peculiar\nto itself, which would appear singularly original, were history in a\nposition to reveal it in its entirety. When we consider the legions\nof Irish saints who in the sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries\ninundated the Continent and arrived from their isle bearing with\nthem their stubborn spirit, their attachment to their own usages,\ntheir subtle and realistic turn of mind, and see the Scots (such was\nthe name given to the Irish) doing duty, until the twelfth century,\nas instructors in grammar and literature to all the West, we cannot\ndoubt that Ireland, in the first half of the Middle Ages, was the\nscene of a singular religious movement. Studious philologists and\ndaring philosophers, the Hibernian monks were above all\nindefatigable copyists; and it was in part owing to them that the\nwork of the pen became a holy task. Columba, secretly warned that\nhis last hour is at hand, finishes the page of the psalter which he\nhas commenced, writes at the foot that he bequeaths the continuation\nto his successor, and then goes into the church to die. Nowhere was\nmonastic life to find such docile subjects. Credulous as a child,\ntimid, indolent, inclined to submit and obey, the Irishman alone was\ncapable of lending himself to that complete self-abdication in the\nhands of the abbot, which we find so deeply marked in the historical\nand legendary memorials of the Irish Church. One easily recognises\nthe land where, in our own days, the priest, without provoking the\nslightest scandal, can, on a Sunday before quitting the altar, give\nthe orders for his dinner in a very audible manner, and announce the\nfarm where he intends to go and dine, and where he will hear his\nflock in confession. In the presence of a people which lived by\nimagination and the senses alone, the Church did not consider itself\nunder the necessity of dealing severely with the caprices of\nreligious fantasy. It permitted the free action of the popular\ninstinct; and from this freedom emerged what is perhaps of all cults\nthe most mythological and most analogous to the mysteries of\nantiquity, presented in Christian annals, a cult attached to certain\nplaces, and almost exclusively consisting in certain acts held to be\nsacramental.\n\nWithout contradiction the legend of St. Brandan is the most singular\nproduct of this combination of Celtic naturalism with Christian\nspiritualism. The taste of the Hibernian monks for making maritime\npilgrimages through the archipelago of the Scottish and Irish seas,\neverywhere dotted with monasteries, [Footnote: The Irish saints\nliterally covered the Western seas. A very considerable number of\nthe saints of Brittany, St. Tenenan, St. Renan, etc., were emigrants\nfrom Ireland. The Breton legends of St. Malo, St. David, and of St.\nPol of Leon are replete with similar stories of voyages to the\ndistant isles of the West.] and the memory of yet more distant\nvoyages in Polar seas, furnished the framework of this curious\ncomposition, so rich in local impressions. From Pliny (IV. xxx. 3)\nwe learn that, even in his time, the Bretons loved to venture their\nlives upon the high seas, in search of unknown isles. M. Letronne\nhas proved that in 795, sixty-five years consequently before the\nDanes, Irish monks landed in Iceland and established themselves on\nthe coast. In this island the Danes found Irish books and bells; and\nthe names of certain localities still bear witness to the sojourn of\nthose monks, who were known by the name of Papae (fathers). In the\nFaroe Isles, in the Orkneys, and the Shetlands, indeed in all parts\nof the Northern seas, the Scandinavians found themselves preceded by\nthose Papas, whose habits contrasted so strangely with their own.\n[Footnote: On this point see the careful researches of Humboldt in\nhis History of the Geography of the New Continent, vol. ii.] Did\nthey not have a glimpse too of that great land, the vague memory of\nwhich seems to pursue them, and which Columbus was to discover,\nfollowing the traces of their dreams? It is only known that the\nexistence of an island, traversed by a great river and situated to\nthe west of Ireland, was, on the faith of the Irish, a dogma for\nmediaeval geographers.\n\nThe story went that, towards the middle of the sixth century, a monk\ncalled Barontus, on his return from voyaging upon the sea, came and\ncraved hospitality at the monastery of Clonfert. Brandan the abbot\nbesought him to give pleasure to the brothers by narrating the\nmarvels of God that he had seen on the high seas. Barontus revealed\nto them the existence of an island surrounded by fogs, where he had\nleft his disciple Mernoc; it is the Land of Promise that God keeps\nfor his saints. Brandan with seventeen of his monks desired to go in\nquest of this mysterious land. They set forth in a leather boat,\nbearing with them as their sole provision a utensil of butter,\nwherewith to grease the hides of their craft. For seven years they\nlived thus in their boat, abandoning to God sail and rudder, and\nonly stopping on their course to celebrate the feasts of Christmas\nand Easter on the back of the king of fishes, Jasconius. Every step\nof this monastic Odyssey is a miracle, on every isle is a monastery,\nwhere the wonders of a fantastical universe respond to the\nextravagances of a wholly ideal life. Here is the Isle of Sheep,\nwhere these animals govern themselves according to their own laws;\nelsewhere the Paradise of Birds, where the winged race lives after\nthe fashion of monks, singing matins and lauds at the canonical\nhours. Brandan and his companions celebrate mass here with the\nbirds, and remain with them for fifty days, nourishing themselves\nwith nothing but the singing of their hosts. Elsewhere there is the\nIsle of Delight, the ideal of monastic life in the midst of the\nseas. Here no material necessity makes itself felt; the lamps light\nof themselves for the offices of religion, and never burn out, for\nthey shine with a spiritual light. An absolute stillness reigns in\nthe island; every one knows precisely the hour of his death; one\nfeels neither cold, nor heat, nor sadness, nor sickness of body or\nsoul. All this has endured since the days of St. Patrick, who so\nordained it. The Land of Promise is more marvellous still; there an\neternal day reigns; all the plants have flowers, all the trees bear\nfruits. Some privileged men alone have visited it. On their return a\nperfume is perceived to come from them, which their garments keep\nfor forty days.\n\nIn the midst of these dreams there appears with a surprising\nfidelity to truth the feeling for the picturesque in Polar voyages,-\n-the transparency of the sea, the aspect of bergs and islands of ice\nmelting in the sun, the volcanic phenomena of Iceland, the sporting\nof whales, the characteristic appearance of the Norwegian fiords,\nthe sudden fogs, the sea calm as milk, the green isles crowned with\ngrass which grows down to the very verge of the waves. This\nfantastical nature created expressly for another humanity, this\nstrange topography at once glowing with fiction and speaking of\ntruth, make the poem of St. Brandan one of the most extraordinary\ncreations of the human mind, and perhaps the completest expression\nof the Celtic ideal. All is lovely, pure, and innocent; never has a\ngaze so benevolent and so gentle been cast upon the earth; there is\nnot a single cruel idea, not a trace of frailty or repentance. It is\nthe world seen through the crystal of a stainless conscience, one\nmight almost say a human nature, as Pelagius wished it, that has\nnever sinned. The very animals participate in this universal\nmildness. Evil appears under the form of monsters wandering on the\ndeep, or of Cyclops confined in volcanic islands; but God causes\nthem to destroy one another, and does not permit them to do hurt to\nthe good.\n\nWe have just seen how, around the legend of a monk the Irish\nimagination grouped a whole cycle of physical and maritime myths.\nThe Purgatory of St. Patrick became the framework of another series\nof fables, embodying the Celtic ideas concerning the other life and\nits different conditions. [Footnote: See Thomas Wright's excellent\ndissertation, Saint Patrick's Purgatory (London, 1844), and\nCalderon's The Well of Saint Patrick.] Perhaps the profoundest\ninstinct of the Celtic peoples is their desire to penetrate the\nunknown. With the sea before them, they wish to know what lies\nbeyond; they dream of a Promised Land. In the face of the unknown\nthat lies beyond the tomb, they dream of that great journey which\nthe pen of Dante has celebrated. The legend tells how, while St.\nPatrick was preaching about Paradise and Hell to the Irish, they\nconfessed that they would feel more assured of the reality of these\nplaces, if he would allow one of them to descend there, and then\ncome back with information St. Patrick consented. A pit was dug, by\nwhich an Irishman set out upon the subterranean journey. Others\nwished to attempt the journey after him. With the consent of the\nabbot of the neighbouring monastery, they descended into the shaft,\nthey passed through the torments of Hell and Purgatory, and then\neach told of what he had seen. Some did not emerge again; those who\ndid laughed no more, and were henceforth unable to join in any\ngaiety. Knight Owen made a descent in 1153, and gave a narrative of\nhis travels which had a prodigious success.\n\nOther legends related that when St. Patrick drove the goblins out of\nIreland, he was greatly tormented in this place for forty days by\nlegions of black birds. The Irish betook themselves to the spot, and\nexperienced the same assaults which gave them an immunity from\nPurgatory. According to the narrative of Giraldus Cambrensis, the\nisle which served as the theatre of this strange superstition was\ndivided into two parts. One belonged to the monks, the other was\noccupied by evil spirits, who celebrated religious rites in their\nown manner, with an infernal uproar. Some people, for the expiation\nof their sins, voluntarily exposed themselves to the fury of those\ndemons. There were nine ditches in which they lay for a night,\ntormented in a thousand different ways. To make the descent it was\nnecessary to obtain the permission of the bishop. His duty it was to\ndissuade the penitent from attempting the adventure, and to point\nout to him how many people had gone in who had never come out again.\nIf the devotee persisted, he was ceremoniously conducted to the\nshaft. He was lowered down by means of a rope, with a loaf and a\nvessel of water to strengthen him in the combat against the fiend\nwhich he proposed to wage. On the following morning the sacristan\noffered the rope anew to the sufferer. If he mounted to the surface\nagain, they brought him back to the church, bearing the cross and\nchanting psalms. If he were not to be found, the sacristan closed\nthe door and departed. In more modern times pilgrims to the sacred\nisles spent nine days there. They passed over to them in a boat\nhollowed out of the trunk of a tree. Once a day they drank of the\nwater of the lake; processions and stations were performed in the\nbeds or cells of the saints. Upon the ninth day the penitents\nentered into the shaft. Sermons were preached to them warning them\nof the danger they were about to run, and they were told of terrible\nexamples. They forgave their enemies and took farewell of one\nanother, as though they were at their last agony. According to\ncontemporary accounts, the shaft was a low and narrow kiln, into\nwhich nine entered at a time, and in which the penitents passed a\nday and a night, huddled and tightly pressed against one another.\nPopular belief imagined an abyss underneath, to swallow up the\nunworthy and the unbelieving. On emerging from the pit they went and\nbathed in the lake, and so their Purgatory was accomplished. It\nwould appear from the accounts of eye-witnesses that, to this day,\nthings happen very nearly after the same fashion.\n\nThe immense reputation of the Purgatory of St. Patrick filled the\nwhole of the Middle Ages. Preachers made appeal to the public\nnotoriety of this great fact, to controvert those who had their\ndoubts regarding Purgatory. In the year 1358 Edward III. gave to a\nHungarian of noble birth, who had come from Hungary expressly to\nvisit the sacred well, letters patent attesting that he had\nundergone his Purgatory. Narratives of those travels beyond the tomb\nbecame a very fashionable form of literature; and it is important\nfor us to remark the wholly mythological, and as wholly Celtic,\ncharacteristics dominant in them. It is in fact evident that we are\ndealing with a mystery or local cult, anterior to Christianity, and\nprobably based upon the physical appearance of the country. The idea\nof Purgatory, in its final and concrete form, fared specially well\namongst the Bretons and the Irish. Bede is one of the first to speak\nof it in a descriptive manner, and the learned Mr. Wright very\njustly observes that nearly all the descriptions of Purgatory come\nfrom Irishmen, or from Anglo-Saxons who have resided in Ireland,\nsuch as St. Fursey, Tundale, the Northumbrian Dryhthelm, and Knight\nOwen. It is likewise a remarkable thing that only the Irish were\nable to behold the marvels of their Purgatory. A canon from Hemstede\nin Holland, who descended in 1494, saw nothing at all. Evidently\nthis idea of travels in the other world and its infernal categories,\nas the Middle Ages accepted it, is Celtic. The belief in the three\ncircles of existence is again to be found in the Triads, [Footnote:\nA series of aphorisms under the form of triplets, which give us,\nwith numerous interpolations, the ancient teaching of the bards, and\nthat traditional wisdom which, according to the testimony of the\nancients, was transmitted by means of mnemonic verses in the schools\nof the Druids. under an aspect which does not permit one to see any\nChristian interpolation.]\n\nThe soul's peregrinations after death are also the favourite theme\nof the most ancient Armorican poetry. Among the features by which\nthe Celtic races most impressed the Romans were the precision of\ntheir ideas upon the future life, their inclination to suicide, and\nthe loans and contracts which they signed with the other world in\nview. The more frivolous peoples of the South saw with awe in this\nassurance the fact of a mysterious race, having an understanding of\nthe future and the secret of death. Through the whole of classical\nantiquity runs the tradition of an Isle of Shadows, situated on the\nconfines of Brittany, and of a folk devoted to the passage of souls,\nwhich lives upon the neighbouring coast. In the night they hear dead\nmen prowling about their cabin, and knocking at the door. Then they\nrise up; their craft is laden with invisible beings; on their return\nit is lighter. Several of these features reproduced by Plutarch,\nClaudian, Procopius, [Footnote: A Byzantine historian of the fifth\nand sixth centuries.] and Tzetzes [Footnote: A Greek poet and\ngrammarian of the twelfth century.] would incline one to believe\nthat the renown of the Irish myths made its way into classical\nantiquity about the first or second century. Plutarch, for example,\nrelates, concerning the Cronian Sea, fables identical with those\nwhich fill the legend of St. Malo. Procopius, describing the sacred\nIsland of Brittia, which consists of two parts separated by the sea,\none delightful, the other given over to evil spirits, seems to have\nread in advance the description of the Purgatory of St. Patrick,\nwhich Giraldus Cambrensis was to give seven centuries later. It\ncannot be doubted for a moment, after the able researches of Messrs.\nOzanam, Labitte, and Wright, that to the number of poetical themes\nwhich Europe owes to the genius of the Celts, is to be added the\nframework of the Divine Comedy.\n\nOne can understand how greatly this invincible attraction to fables\nmust have discredited the Celtic race in the eyes of nationalities\nthat believed themselves to be more serious. It is in truth a\nstrange thing, that the whole of the mediaeval epoch, whilst\nsubmitting to the influence of the Celtic imagination, and borrowing\nfrom Brittany and Ireland at least half of its poetical subjects,\nbelieved itself obliged, for the saving of its own honour, to slight\nand satirise the people to which it owed them. Even Chretien de\nTroyes, for example, who passed his life in exploiting the Breton\nromances for his own purposes, originated the saying--\n\n    \"Les Gallois sont tous par nature\n     Plus sots que betes de pature.\"\n\nSome English chronicler, I know not who, imagined he was making a\ncharming play upon words when he described those beautiful\ncreations, the whole world of which deserved to live, as \"the\nchildish nonsense with which those brutes of Bretons amuse\nthemselves.\" The Bollandists [Footnote: A group of Jesuits who\nissued a collection of \"Lives of the Saints\". The first five volumes\nwere edited by John Bolland.] found it incumbent to exclude from\ntheir collection, as apocryphal extravagances, those admirable\nreligious legends, with which no Church has anything to compare. The\ndecided leaning of the Celtic race towards the ideal, its sadness,\nits fidelity, its good faith, caused it to be regarded by its\nneighbours as dull, foolish, and superstitious. They could not\nunderstand its delicacy and refined manner of feeling. They mistook\nfor awkwardness the embarrassment experienced by sincere and open\nnatures in the presence of more artificial natures. The contrast\nbetween French frivolity and Breton stubbornness above all led,\nafter the fourteenth century, to most deplorable conflicts, whence\nthe Bretons ever emerged with a reputation for wrong-headedness.\n\nIt was still worse, when the nation that most prides itself on its\npractical good sense found confronting it the people that, to its\nown misfortune, is least provided with that gift. Poor Ireland, with\nher ancient mythology, with her Purgatory of St. Patrick, and her\nfantastic travels of St. Brandan, was not destined to find grace in\nthe eyes of English puritanism. One ought to observe the disdain of\nEnglish critics for these fables, and their superb pity for the\nChurch which dallies with Paganism, so far as to keep up usages\nwhich are notoriously derived from it. Assuredly we have here a\npraiseworthy zeal, arising from natural goodness; and yet, even if\nthese flights of imagination did no more than render a little more\nsupportable many sufferings which are said to have no remedy, that\nafter all would be something. Who shall dare to say where, here on\nearth, is the boundary between reason and dreaming? Which is worth\nmore, the imaginative instinct of man, or the narrow orthodoxy that\npretends to remain rational, when speaking of things divine? For my\nown part, I prefer the frank mythology, with all its vagaries, to a\ntheology so paltry, so vulgar, and so colourless, that it would be\nwronging God to believe that, after having made the visible world so\nbeautiful he should have made the invisible world so prosaically\nreasonable.\n\nIn presence of the ever-encroaching progress of a civilisation which\nis of no country, and can receive no name, other than that of modern\nor European, it would be puerile to hope that the Celtic race is in\nthe future to succeed in obtaining isolated expression of its\noriginality. And yet we are far from believing that this race has\nsaid its last word. After having put in practice all chivalries,\ndevout and worldly, gone with Peredur in quest of the Holy Grail and\nfair ladies, and dreamed with St. Brandan of mystical Atlantides,\nwho knows what it would produce in the domain of intellect, if it\nhardened itself to an entrance into the world, and subjected its\nrich and profound nature to the conditions of modern thought? It\nappears to me that there would result from this combination,\nproductions of high originality, a subtle and discreet manner of\ntaking life, a singular union of strength and weakness, of rude\nsimplicity and mildness. Few races have had so complete a poetic\nchildhood as the Celtic; mythology, lyric poetry, epic, romantic\nimagination, religious enthusiasm--none of these failed them; why\nshould reflection fail them? Germany, which commenced with science\nand criticism, has come to poetry; why should not the Celtic races,\nwhich began with poetry, finish with criticism? There is not so\ngreat a distance from one to the other as is supposed; the poetical\nraces are the philosophic races, and at bottom philosophy is only a\nmanner of poetry. When one considers how Germany, less than a\ncentury ago, had her genius revealed to her, how a multitude of\nnational individualities, to all appearance effaced, have suddenly\nrisen again in our own days, more instinct with life than ever, one\nfeels persuaded that it is a rash thing to lay down any law on the\nintermittence and awakening of nations; and that modern\ncivilisation, which appeared to be made to absorb them, may perhaps\nbe nothing more than their united fruition.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EDUCATION OF THE HUMAN RACE\n\nBY\n\nGOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSINO\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nF. W. ROBERTSON\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\n\nLessing's life has been sketched in the introduction to his \"Minna\nvon Barnhelm\" in the volume of Continental Dramas in The Harvard\nClassics.\n\n\"The Education of the Human Race\" is the culmination of a bitter\ntheological controversy which began with the publication by Lessing,\nin 1774-1778, of a series of fragments of a work on natural religion\nby the German deist, Reimarus. This action brought upon Lessing the\nwrath of the orthodox German Protestants, led by J. M. Goeze, and in\nthe battle that followed Lessing did his great work for the\nliberalising of religious thought in Germany. The present treatise\nis an extraordinarily condensed statement of the author's attitude\ntowards the fundamental questions of religion, and gives his view of\nthe signification of the previous religious history of mankind,\nalong with his faith And hope for the future.\n\nAs originally issued, the essay purported to be merely edited by\nLessing; but there is no longer any doubt as to his having been its\nauthor. It is an admirable and characteristic expression of the\nserious and elevated spirit in which he dealt with matters that had\nthen, as often, been degraded by the virulence of controversy.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EDUCATION OF THE HUMAN RACE\n\n1\n\nThat which Education is to the Individual, Revelation is to the\nRace.\n\n2\n\nEducation is Revelation coming to the Individual Man; and Revelation\nis Education which has come, and is yet coming, to the Human Race.\n\n3\n\nWhether it can be of any advantage to the science of instruction to\ncontemplate Education in this point of view, I will not here\ninquire; but in Theology it may unquestionably be of great\nadvantage, and may remove many difficulties, if Revelation be\nconceived of as the Educator of Humanity.\n\n4\n\nEducation gives to Man nothing which he might not educe out of\nhimself; it gives him that which he might educe out of himself, only\nquicker and more easily. In the same way too, Revelation gives\nnothing to the human species, which the human reason left to itself\nmight not attain; only it has given, and still gives to it, the most\nimportant of these things earlier.\n\n5\n\nAnd just as in Education, it is not a matter of indifference in what\norder the powers of a man are developed, as it cannot impart to a\nman all at once; so was God also necessitated to maintain a certain\norder, and a certain measure in His Revelation.\n\n6\n\nEven if the first man were furnished at once with a conception of\nthe One God; yet it was not possible that this conception, imparted,\nand not gained by thought, should subsist long in its clearness. As\nsoon as the Human Reason, left to itself, began to elaborate it, it\nbroke up the one Immeasurable into many Measurables, and gave a note\nor sign of mark to every one of these parts.\n\n7\n\nHence naturally arose polytheism and idolatry. And who can say how\nmany millions of years human reason would have been bewildered in\nthese errors, even though in all places and times there were\nindividual men who recognized them as errors, had it not pleased God\nto afford it a better direction by means of a new Impulse?\n\n8\n\nBut when He neither could nor would reveal Himself any more to each\nindividual man, He selected an individual People for His special\neducation; and that exactly the most rude and the most unruly, in\norder to begin with it from the very commencement.\n\n9\n\nThis was the Hebrew People, respecting whom we do not in the least\nknow what kind of Divine Worship they had in Egypt. For so despised\na race of slaves was not permitted to take part in the worship of\nthe Egyptians; and the God of their fathers was entirely unknown to\nthem.\n\n10\n\nIt is possible that the Egyptians had expressly prohibited the\nHebrews from having a God or Gods, perhaps they had forced upon them\nthe belief that their despised race had no God, no Gods, that to\nhave a God or Gods was the prerogative of the superior Egyptians\nonly, and this may have been so held in order to have the power of\ntyrannising over them with a greater show of fairness. Do Christians\neven now do much better with their slaves?\n\n11\n\nTo this rude people God caused Himself to be announced first, simply\nas \"the God of their fathers,\" in order to make them acquainted and\nfamiliar with the idea of a God belonging to them also, and to begin\nwith confidence in Him.\n\n12\n\nThrough the miracles with which He led them out of Egypt, and\nplanted them in Canaan, He testified of Himself to them as a God\nmightier than any other God.\n\n13\n\nAnd as He proceeded, demonstrating Himself to be the Mightiest of\nall, which only One can be, He gradually accustomed them thus to the\nidea of THE ONE.\n\n14\n\nBut how far was this conception of The One, below the true\ntranscendental conception of the One which Reason learnt to derive,\nso late with certainty, from the conception of the Infinite One?\n\n15\n\nAlthough the best of the people were already more or less\napproaching the true conception of the One only, the people as a\nwhole could not for a long time elevate themselves to it. And this\nwas the sole true reason why they so often abandoned their one God,\nand expected to find the One, i. e., as they meant, the Mightiest,\nin some God or other, belonging to another people.\n\n16\n\nBut of what kind of moral education was a people so raw, so\nincapable of abstract thoughts, and so entirely in their childhood\ncapable? Of none other but such as is adapted to the age of\nchildren, an education by rewards and punishments addressed to the\nsenses.\n\n17\n\nHere too Education and Revelation meet together. As yet God could\ngive to His people no other religion, no other law than one through\nobedience to which they might hope to be happy, or through\ndisobedience to which they must fear to be unhappy. For as yet their\nregards went no further than this earth. They knew of no immortality\nof the soul; they yearned after no life to come. But now to reveal\nthese things to one whose reason had as yet so little growth, what\nwould it have been but the same fault in the Divine Rule as is\ncommitted by the schoolmaster, who chooses to hurry his pupil too\nrapidly, and boast of his progress, rather than thoroughly to ground\nhim?\n\n18\n\nBut, it will be asked, to what purpose was this education of so rude\na people, a people with whom God had to begin so entirely from the\nbeginning? I reply, in order that in the process of time He might\nemploy particular members of this nation as the Teachers of other\npeople. He was bringing up in them the future Teachers of the human\nrace. It was the Jews who became their teachers, none but Jews; only\nmen out of a people so brought up, could be their teachers.\n\n19\n\nFor to proceed. When the Child by dint of blows and caresses had\ngrown and was now come to years of understanding, the Father sent it\nat once into foreign countries: and here it recognised at once the\nGood which in its Father's house it had possessed, and had not been\nconscious of.\n\n20.\n\nWhile God guided His chosen people through all the degrees of a\nchild-like education, the other nations of the earth had gone on by\nthe light of reason. The most part had remained far behind the\nchosen people. Only a few had got before them. And this too, takes\nplace with children, who are allowed to grow up left to themselves:\nmany remain quite raw, some educate themselves even to an\nastonishing degree.\n\n21\n\nBut as these more fortunate few prove nothing against the use and\nnecessity of Education, so the few heathen nations, who even appear\nto have made a start in the knowledge of God before the chosen\npeople, prove nothing against a Revelation. The Child of Education\nbegins with slow yet sure footsteps; it is late in overtaking many a\nmore happily organised child of nature; but it does overtake it; and\nthenceforth can never be distanced by it again.\n\n22\n\nSimilarly--Putting aside the doctrine of the Unity of God, which in\na way is found, and in a way is not found, in the books of the Old\nTestament--that the doctrine of immortality at least is not\ndiscoverable in it, is wholly foreign to it, that all doctrine\nconnected therewith of reward and punishment in a future life,\nproves just as little against the Divine origin of these books.\nNotwithstanding the absence of these doctrines, the account of\nmiracles and prophecies may be perfectly true. For let us suppose\nthat these doctrines were not only wanting therein, but even that\nthey were not at all true; let us suppose that for mankind all was\nover in this life; would the Being of God be for this reason less\ndemonstrated? Would God be for this less at liberty, would it less\nbecome Him to take immediate charge of the temporal fortunes of any\npeople out of this perishable race? The miracles which He performed\nfor the Jews, the prophecies which He caused to be recorded through\nthem, were surely not for the few mortal Jews, in whose time they\nhad happened and been recorded: He had His intentions therein in\nreference to the whole Jewish people, to the entire Human Race,\nwhich, perhaps, is destined to remain on earth forever, though every\nindividual Jew and every individual man die forever.\n\n23\n\nOnce more, The absence of those doctrines in the writings of the Old\nTestament proves nothing against their Divinity. Moses was sent from\nGod even though the sanction of his law only extended to this life.\nFor why should it extend further? He was surely sent only to the\nIsraelitish people of that time, and his commission was perfectly\nadapted to the knowledge, capacities, yearnings of the then existing\nIsraelitish people, as well as to the destination of that which\nbelonged to the future. And this is sufficient.\n\n24\n\nSo far ought Warburton to have gone, and no further. But that\nlearned man overdrew his bow. Not content that the absence of these\ndoctrines was no discredit to the Divine mission of Moses, it must\neven be a proof to him of the Divinity of the mission. And if he had\nonly sought this proof in the adaptation of such a law to such a\npeople!\n\nBut he betook himself to the hypothesis of a miraculous system\ncontinued in an unbroken line from Moses to Christ, according to\nwhich, God had made every individual Jew exactly happy or unhappy,\nin the proportion to his obedience or disobedience to the law\ndeserved. He would have it that this miraculous system had\ncompensated for the want of those doctrines (of eternal rewards and\npunishments, &c.), without which no state can subsist; and that such\na compensation even proved what that want at first sight appeared to\nnegative.\n\n25\n\nHow well it was that Warburton could by no argument prove or even\nmake likely this continuous miracle, in which he placed the\nexistence of Israelitish Theocracy! For could he have done so, in\ntruth, he could then, and not till then, have made the difficulty\nreally insuperable, to me at least. For that which was meant to\nprove the Divine character of the Mission of Moses, would have\nrendered the matter itself doubtful, which God, it is true, did not\nintend then to reveal; but which on the other hand, He certainly\nwould not render unattainable.\n\n26\n\nI explain myself by that which is a picture of Revelation. A Primer\nfor children may fairly pass over in silence this or that important\npiece of knowledge or art which it expounds, respecting which the\nTeacher judged, that it is not yet fitted for the capacities of the\nchildren for whom he was writing. But it must contain absolutely\nnothing which blocks up the way towards the knowledge which is held\nback, or misleads the children from it. Rather far, all the\napproaches towards it must be carefully left open; and to lead them\naway from even one of these approaches, or to cause them to enter it\nlater than they need, would alone be enough to change the mere\nimperfection of such a Primer into an actual fault.\n\n27\n\nIn the same way, in the writings of the Old Testament those primers\nfor the rude Israelitish people, unpractised in thought, the\ndoctrines of the immortality of the soul, and future recompenses,\nmight be fairly left out: but they were bound to contain nothing\nwhich could have even procrastinated the progress of the people, for\nwhom they were written, in their way to this grand truth. And to say\nbut a small thing, what could have more procrastinated it than the\npromise of such a miraculous recompense in this life? A promise made\nby Him who promises nothing that He does not perform.\n\n28\n\nFor although unequal distribution of the goods of this life, Virtue\nand Vice seem to be taken too little into consideration, although\nthis unequal distribution docs not exactly afford a strong proof of\nthe immortality of the soul and of a life to come, in which this\ndifficulty will be reserved hereafter, it is certain that without\nthis difficulty the human understanding would not for a long time,\nperhaps never, have arrived at better or firmer proofs. For what was\nto impel it to seek for these better proofs? Mere curiosity?\n\n29\n\nAn Israelite here and there, no doubt, might have extended to every\nindividual member of the entire commonwealth, those promises and\nthreatenings which belong to it as a whole, and be firmly persuaded\nthat whosoever should be pious must also be happy, and that whoever\nwas unhappy must be bearing the penalty of his wrong-doing, which\npenalty would forthwith change itself into blessing, as soon as he\nabandoned his sin. Such a one appears to have written Job, for the\nplan of it is entirely in this spirit.\n\n30\n\nBut daily experience could not possibly be permitted to confirm this\nbelief, or else it would have been all over, for ever, with people\nwho had this experience, so far as all recognition and reception was\nconcerned of the truth as yet unfamiliar to them. For if the pious\nwere absolutely happy, and it also of course was a necessary part of\nhis happiness that his satisfaction should be broken by no uneasy\nthoughts of death, and that he should die old, and satisfied with\nlife to the full: how could he yearn after another life? and how\ncould he reflect upon a thing after which he did not yearn? But if\nthe pious did not reflect thereupon, who then should reflect? The\ntransgressor? he who felt the punishments of his misdeeds, and if he\ncursed this life, must have so gladly renounced that other\nexistence?\n\n31\n\nMuch less would it signify if an Israelite here and there directly\nand expressly denied the immortality of the soul and future\nrecompense, on account of the law having no reference thereto. The\ndenial of an individual, had it even been a Solomon, did not arrest\nthe progress of the general reason, and was even in itself a proof\nthat the nation had now come a great step nearer the truth For\nindividuals only deny what the many are bringing into consideration;\nand to bring into consideration that, concerning which no one\ntroubled himself at all before, is half way to knowledge.\n\n32\n\nLet us also acknowledge that it is a heroic obedience to obey the\nlaws of God simply because they are God's laws, and not because He\nhas promised to reward the obedience to them here and there; to obey\nthem even though there be an entire despair of future recompense,\nand uncertainty respecting a temporal one.\n\n33\n\nMust not a people educated in this heroic obedience towards God have\nbeen destined, must they not have been capable beyond all others of\nexecuting Divine purpose? of quite a special character? Let the\nsoldier, who pays blind obedience to his leader, become also\nconvinced of his leader's wisdom, and then say what that leader may\nnot undertake to achieve with him.\n\n34\n\nAs yet the Jewish people had reverenced in their Jehovah rather the\nmightiest than the wisest of all Gods; as yet they had rather feared\nHim as a Jealous God than loved Him: a proof this too, that the\nconception which they had of their eternal One God was not exactly\nthe right conception which we should have of God. However, now the\ntime was come that these conceptions of theirs were to be expanded,\nennobled, rectified, to accomplish which God availed Himself of a\nquite natural means, a better and more correct measure, by which it\ngot the opportunity of appreciating Him.\n\n35\n\nInstead of, as hitherto, appreciating Him in contrast with the\nmiserable idols of the small neighboring peoples, with whom they\nlived in constant rivalry, they began, in captivity under the wise\nPersians, to measure Him against the \"Being of all Beings\" such as a\nmore disciplined reason recognized and reverenced.\n\n36\n\nRevelation had guided their reason, and now, all at once, reason\ngave clearness to their Revelation.\n\n37\n\nThis was the first reciprocal influence which these two (Reason and\nRevelation) exercised on one another; and so far is the mutual\ninfluence from being unbecoming to the Author of them both, that\nwithout it either of them would have been useless.\n\n38\n\nThe child, sent abroad, saw other children who knew more, who lived\nmore becomingly, and asked itself, in confusion, \"Why do I not know\nthat too? Why do I not live so too? Ought I not to have been taught\nand admonished of all this in my father's house?\" Thereupon it again\nsought out its Primer, which had long been thrown into a corner, in\norder to throw off a blame upon the Primer. But behold, it discovers\nthat the blame does not rest upon the books, that the shame is\nsolely its own, for not having long ago, known this very thing, and\nlived in this very way.\n\n39\n\nSince the Jews, by this time, through the medium of the pure Persian\ndoctrine, recognized in their Jehovah, not simply the greatest of\nall national deities, but GOD; and since they could, the more\nreadily find Him and indicate Him to others in their sacred\nwritings, inasmuch as He was really in them; and since they\nmanifested as great an aversion for sensuous representations, or at\nall events, were instructed in these Scriptures, to have an aversion\nto them as great as the Persians had always felt; what wonder that\nthey found favor in the eyes of Cyrus, with a Divine Worship which\nhe recognized as being, no doubt, far below pure Sabeism, but yet\nfar above the rude idolatries which in its stead had taken\npossession of the forsaken land of the Jews.\n\n40\n\nThus enlightened respecting the treasures which they had possessed,\nwithout knowing it, they returned, and became quite another people,\nwhose first care it was to give permanency to this illumination\namongst themselves. Soon an apostacy and idolatry among them was out\nof the question. For it is possible to be faithless to a national\ndeity, but never to God, after He has once been recognised.\n\nThe theologians have tried to explain this complete change in the\nJewish people in a different way; and one, who has well demonstrated\nthe insufficiency of these explanations, at last was for giving us,\nas a true account--\"the visible fulfilment of the prophecies which\nhad been spoken and written respecting the Babylonish captivity and\nthe restoration from it.\" But even this reason can be only so far\nthe true one, as it presupposes the, by this time, exalted ideas of\nGod. The Jews must by this time have recognised that to do miracles,\nand to predict the future, belonged only to God, both of which they\nhad ascribed formerly to false idols, by which it came to pass that\neven miracles and prophecies had hitherto made so weak an impression\nupon them.\n\n42\n\nDoubtless, the Jews were made more acquainted with the doctrine of\nimmortality among the Chaldeans and Persians. They became more\nfamiliar with it too in the schools of the Greek Philosophers in\nEgypt.\n\n43\n\nHowever, as this doctrine was not in the same condition in reference\nto their Scriptures that the doctrines of God's Unity and Attributes\nwere--since the former were entirely overlooked by that sensual\npeople, while the latter would be sought for:--and since too, for\nthe former, previous exercising was necessary, and as yet there had\nbeen only hints and allusions, the faith in the immortality of the\nsoul could naturally never be the faith of the entire people. It was\nand continued to be only the creed of a certain section of them.\n\n44\n\nAn example of what I mean by \"previous exercising\" for the doctrine\nof immortality, is the Divine threatenings of punishing the misdeeds\nof the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth\ngeneration. This accustomed the fathers to live in thought with\ntheir remotest posterity, and to feel, as it were, beforehand, the\nmisfortune which they had brought upon these guiltless ones.\n\n45\n\nBy an allusion I mean that which was intended only to excite\ncuriosity and to occasion questions. As, for instance, the oft-\nrecurring mode of expression, describing death by \"he was gathered\nto his fathers.\"\n\nBy a \"hint\" I mean that which already contains any germ, out of\nwhich the, as yet, held back truth allows itself to be developed. Of\nthis character was the inference of Christ from the naming of God\n\"the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.\" This hint appears to me to\nbe unquestionably capable of being worked out into a strong proof.\n\n47\n\nIn such previous exercitations, allusions, hints, consists the\npositive perfection of a Primer; just as the above-mentioned\npeculiarity of not throwing difficulties or hindrances in the way to\nthe suppressed truth constitutes the negative perfection of such a\nbook.\n\n48\n\nAdd to all this the clothing and style.\n\n1. The clothing of abstract truths, which were not entirely to be\npassed over, in allegories and instructive single circumstances,\nwhich were narrated as actual occurrences. Of this character are the\nCreation under the image of growing Day; the Origin of Evil in the\nstory of the Forbidden Tree; the source of the variety of languages\nin the history of the Tower of Babel, &c.\n\n49 2. The style--sometimes plain and simple, sometimes poetical,\nthroughout full of tautologies, but of such a kind as practised\nsagacity, since they sometimes appear to be saying something else,\nand yet the same thing; sometimes the same thing over again, and yet\nto signify or to be capable of signifying at the bottom, something\nelse:--\n\n50\n\nAnd then you have all the properties of excellence which belong to a\nPrimer for a childlike people, as well as for children.\n\n51\n\nBut every Primer is only for a certain age. To delay the child, that\nhas outgrown it, longer in it than it was intended for, is hurtful.\nFor to be able to do this is a way in any sort profitable, you must\ninsert into it more than there is really in it, and extract from it\nmore than it can contain. You must look for and make too much of\nallusions and hints; squeeze allegories too closely; interpret\nexamples too circumstantially; press too much upon words. This gives\nthe child a petty, crooked, hair splitting understanding: it makes\nhim full of mysteries, superstitions; full of contempt for all that\nis comprehensible and easy.\n\n52\n\nThe very way in which the Rabbins handled their sacred books! The\nvery character which they thereby imparted to the character of their\npeople!\n\n53\n\nA Better Instructor must come and tear the exhausted Primer from the\nchild's hands. CHRIST came!\n\n54\n\nThat portion of the human race which God had willed to comprehend in\none Educational plan, was ripe for the Second step of Education. He\nhad, however, only willed to comprehend on such a plan, one which by\nlanguage, mode of action, government, and other natural and\npolitical relationships, was already united in itself.\n\n55\n\nThat is, this portion of the human race was come so far in the\nexercise of its reason, as to need, and to be able to make use of\nnobler and worthier motives of moral action than temporal rewards\nand punishments, which had hitherto been its guides. The child had\nbecome a youth. Sweetmeats and toys have given place to the budding\ndesire to go as free, as honored, and as happy as its elder brother.\n\n56\n\nFor a long time, already, the best individuals of that portion of\nthe human race (called above the elder brother); had been accustomed\nto let themselves be ruled by the shadow of such nobler motives. The\nGreek and Roman did everything to live on after this life, even if\nit were only in the remembrance of their fellow-citizens.\n\n57\n\nIt was time that another true life to be expected after this should\ngain an influence over the youth's actions.\n\n58\n\nAnd so Christ was the first certain practical Teacher of the\nimmortality of the soul.\n\n59\n\nThe first certain Teacher. Certain, through the prophecies which\nwere fulfilled in Him; certain, through the miracles which He\nachieved; certain, through His own revival after a death through\nwhich He had sealed His doctrine. Whether we can still prove this\nrevival, these miracles, I put aside, as I leave on one side who the\nPerson of Christ was. All that may have been at that time of great\nweight for the reception of His doctrine, but it is now no longer of\nthe same importance for the recognition of the truth of His\ndoctrine.\n\n60\n\nThe first practical Teacher. For it is one thing to conjecture, to\nwish, and to believe the immortality of the soul, as a philosophic\nspeculation: quite another thing to direct the inner and outer acts\nby it.\n\n61\n\nAnd this at least Christ was the first to teach. For although,\nalready before Him, the belief had been introduced among many\nnations, that bad actions have yet to be punished in that life; yet\nthey were only such actions as were injurious to civil society, and\nconsequently, too, had already had their punishment in civil\nsociety. To enforce an inward purity of heart in reference to\nanother life, was reserved for Him alone.\n\n62\n\nHis disciples have faithfully propagated these doctrines: and if\nthey had even had no other merit, than that of having effected a\nmore general publication, among other nations, of a Truth which\nChrist had appeared to have destined only for the Jews, yet would\nthey have even on that account alone, to be reckoned among the\nBenefactors and Fosterers of the Human Race.\n\n63\n\nIf, however, they transplanted this one great Truth together with\nother doctrines, whose truth was less enlightening, whose usefulness\nwas of a less exalted character, how could it be otherwise. Let us\nnot blame them for this, but rather seriously examine whether these\nvery commingled doctrines have not become a new impulse of\ndirections for human reason.\n\n64\n\nAt least, it is already clear that the New Testament Scriptures, in\nwhich these doctrines after some time were found preserved, have\nafforded, and still afford, the second better Primer for the race of\nman.\n\n65\n\nFor seven hundred years past they have exercised human reason more\nthan all other books, and enlightened it more, were it even only\nthrough the light which the human reason itself threw into them.\n\n66\n\nIt would have been impossible for any other book to become so\ngenerally known among different nations: and indisputably, the fact\nthat modes of thought so diverse from each other have been occupied\non the same book, has helped on the human reason more than if every\nnation had had its own Primer specially for itself.\n\n67\n\nIt was also highly necessary that each people for a period should\nhold this Book as the ne plus ultra of their knowledge. For the\nyouth must consider his Primer as the first of all books, that the\nimpatience to finish this book, may not hurry him on to things for\nwhich he has, as yet, laid no basis.\n\n68\n\nAnd one thing is also of the greatest importance even now. Thou\nabler spirit, who art fretting and restless over the last page of\nthe Primer, beware! Beware of letting thy weaker fellow scholars\nmark what thou perceivest afar, or what thou art beginning to see!\n\nUntil these weaker fellow scholars are up with thee, rather return\nonce more into this Primer, and examine whether that which thou\ntakest only for duplicates of the method, for a blunder in the\nteaching, is not perhaps something more.\n\n70\n\nThou hast seen in the childhood of the human race, respecting the\ndoctrine of God's unity, that God makes immediate revelations of\nmere truths of reason, or has permitted and caused pure truths of\nreason to be taught, for some time, as truths of immediate\nrevelation, in order to promulgate them the more rapidly, and ground\nthem the more firmly.\n\n71\n\nThou experiencest in the boyhood of the Race the same thing in\nreference to the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. It is\npreached in the better Primer as a Revelation, instead of taught as\na result of human reason.\n\n72\n\nAs we by this time can dispense with the Old Testament, in reference\nto the doctrine of the unity of God, and as we are by degrees\nbeginning also to be less dependent on the New Testament, in\nreference to the immortality of the soul: might there not in this\nBook also be other truths of the same sort prefigured, mirrored, as\nit were, which we are to marvel at, as revelations, exactly so long\nas until the time shall come when reason shall have learned to educe\nthem, out of its other demonstrated truths and bind them up with\nthem?\n\n73\n\nFor instance, the doctrine of the Trinity. How if this doctrine\nshould at last, after endless errors, right and left, only bring men\non the road to recognise that God cannot possibly be One in the\nsense in which finite things are one, that even His unity must be a\ntranscendental unity, which does not exclude a sort of purality?\nMust not God at least have the most perfect conception of Himself,\ni. e., a conception in which is found everything which is in Him?\nBut would everything be found in it which is in Him, if a mere\nconception, a mere possibility, were found even of his necessary\nReality as well as of His other qualities? This possibility exhausts\nthe being of His other qualities. Does it that of His necessary\nReality? I think not. Consequently God can either have no perfect\nconception of himself at all, or this perfect conception is just as\nnecessarily real, i. e., actually existent, as He Himself is.\nCertainly the image of myself in the mirror is nothing but an empty\nrepresentation of me, because it only has that of me upon the\nsurface of which beams of light fall. But now if this image had\neverything, everything without exception, which I have myself, would\nit then still be a mere empty representation, or not rather a true\nreduplication of myself? When I believe that I recognise in God a\nfamiliar reduplication, I perhaps do not so much err, as that my\nlanguage is insufficient for my ideas: and so much at least for ever\nincontrovertible, that they who wish to make the idea thereof\npopular for comprehension, could scarcely have expressed themselves\nmore intelligibly and suitably than by giving the name of a Son\nbegotten from Eternity.\n\n74\n\nAnd the doctrine of Original Sin. How, if at last everything were to\nconvince us that man standing on the first and lowest step of his\nhumanity, is not so entirely master of his actions as to be able to\nobey moral laws?\n\n75\n\nAnd the doctrine of the Son's satisfaction. How, if at last, all\ncompelled us to assume that God, in spite of that original\nincapacity of man, chose rather to give him moral laws, and forgive\nhim all transgressions in consideration of His Son, i. e., in\nconsideration of the self-existent total of all His own perfections,\ncompared with which, and in which, all imperfections of the\nindividual disappear, than not to give him those laws, and then to\nexclude him from all moral blessedness, which cannot be conceived of\nwithout moral laws.\n\nLet it not be objected that speculations of this description upon\nthe mysteries of religion are forbidden. The word mystery signified,\nin the first ages of Christianity, something quite different from\nwhat it means now: and the cultivation of revealed truths into\ntruths of reason, is absolutely necessary, if the human race is to\nbe assisted by them. When they were revealed they were certainly no\ntruths of reason, but they were revealed in order to become such.\nThey were like the \"that makes\"--of the ciphering master, which he\nsays to the boys, beforehand, in order to direct them thereby in\ntheir reckoning. If the scholars were to be satisfied with the \"that\nmakes,\" they would never learn to calculate, and would frustrate the\nintention with which their good master gave them a guiding clue in\ntheir work.\n\n77\n\nAnd why should not we too, by the means of a religion whose\nhistorical truth, if you will, looks dubious, be conducted in a\nfamiliar way to closer and better conceptions of the Divine Being,\nour own nature, our relation to God, truths at which the human\nreason would never have arrived of itself?\n\n78\n\nIt is not true that speculations upon these things have ever done\nharm or become injurious to the body politic. You must reproach, not\nthe speculations, but the folly and the tyranny of checking them.\nYou must lay the blame on those who would not permit men having\ntheir own speculations to exercise them.\n\n79\n\nOn the contrary, speculations of this sort, whatever the result, are\nunquestionably the most fitting exercises of the human heart,\ngenerally, so long as the human heart, generally, is at best only\ncapable of loving virtue for the sake of its eternal blessed\nconsequences.\n\n80\n\nFor in this selfishness of the human heart, to will to practice the\nunderstanding too, only on that which concerns our corporal needs,\nwould be to blunt rather than to sharpen it. It absolutely will be\nexercised on spiritual objects, if it is to attain its perfect\nillumination, and bring out that purity of heart which makes us\ncapable of loving virtue for its own sake alone.\n\n81\n\nOr, is the human species never to arrive at this highest step of\nillumination and purity?--Never?\n\n82\n\nNever?--Let me not think this blasphemy, All Merciful! Education has\nits goal, in the Race, no less than in the Individual. That which is\neducated is educated for something.\n\n83\n\nThe flattering prospects which are open to the people, the Honor and\nWell-being which are painted to him, what are they more than the\nmeans of educating him to become a man, who, when these prospects of\nHonor and Well-being have vanished, shall be able to do his Duty?\n\n84\n\nThis is the aim of human education, and should not the Divine\neducation extend as far? Is that which is successful in the way of\nArt with the individual, not to be successful in the way of Nature\nwith the whole? Blasphemy! Blasphemy!!\n\n85\n\nNo! It will come! it will assuredly come! the time of the\nperfecting, when man, the more convinced his understanding feels\nitself of an ever better Future, will nevertheless not be\nnecessitated to borrow motives of action from this Future; for he\nwill do the Right because it is right, not because arbitrary rewards\nare annexed thereto, which formerly were intended simply to fix and\nstrengthen his unsteady gaze in recognising the inner, better,\nrewards of well-doing.\n\n86\n\nIt will assuredly come! the time of a new eternal Gospel, which is\npromised us in the Primer of the New Testament itself!\n\n87\n\nPerhaps even some enthusiasts of the thirteenth and fourteenth\ncenturies had caught a glimpse of a beam of this new eternal Gospel,\nand only erred in that they predicted its outburst at so near to\ntheir own time.\n\n88\n\nPerhaps their \"Three Ages of the World\" were not so empty a\nspeculation after all, and assuredly they had no contemptible views\nwhen they taught that the New Covenant must become as much\nantiquated as the old has been. There remained by them the\nsimilarity of the economy of the same God. Ever, to let them speak\nmy words, ever the self-same plan of the Education of the Race.\n\n89\n\nOnly they were premature. Only they believed that they could make\ntheir contemporaries, who had scarcely outgrown their childhood,\nwithout enlightenment, without preparation, men worthy of their\nThird Age.\n\n90\n\nAnd it was just this which made them enthusiasts. The enthusiast\noften casts true glances into the future, but for this future he\ncannot wait. He wishes this future accelerated, and accelerated\nthrough him. That for which nature takes thousands of years is to\nmature itself in the moment of his existence. For what possession\nhas he in it if that which he recognises as the Best does not become\nthe best in his lifetime? Does he come back? Does he expect to come\nback? Marvellous only that this enthusiastic expectation does not\nbecome more the fashion among enthusiasts. 91\n\nGo thine inscrutable way, Eternal Providence! Only let me not\ndespair in Thee, because of this inscrutableness. Let me not despair\nin Thee, even if Thy steps appear to me to be going back. It is not\ntrue that the shortest line is always straight.\n\n92\n\nThou hast on Thine Eternal Way so much to carry on together, so much\nto do! So many aside steps to take! And what if it were as good as\nproved that the vast flow wheel which brings mankind nearer to this\nperfection is only put in motion by smaller, swifter wheels, each of\nwhich contributes its own individual unit thereto?\n\n93\n\nIt is so! The very same Way by which the Race reaches its\nperfection, must every individual man--one sooner--another later--\nhave travelled over. Have travelled over in one and the same life?\nCan he have been, in one and the self-same life, a sensual Jew and a\nspiritual Christian? Can he in the self-same life have overtaken\nboth?\n\n94\n\nSurely not that! But why should not every individual man have\nexisted more than once upon this World?\n\n95\n\nIs this hypothesis so laughable merely because it is the oldest?\nBecause the human understanding, before the sophistries of the\nSchools had dissipated and debilitated it, lighted upon it at once?\n\nWhy may not even I have already performed those steps of my\nperfecting which bring to man only temporal punishments and rewards?\n\n97\n\nAnd once more, why not another time all those steps, to perform\nwhich the views of Eternal Rewards so powerfully assist us?\n\nWhy should I not come back as often as I am capable of acquiring\nfresh knowledge, fresh expertness? Do I bring away so much from\nonce, that there is nothing to repay the trouble of coming back?\n\n99\n\nIs this a reason against it? Or, because I forget that I have been\nhere already? Happy is it for me that I do forget. The recollection\nof my former condition would permit me to make only a bad use of the\npresent. And that which even I must forget now, is that necessarily\nforgotten for ever?\n\n100\n\nOr is it a reason against the hypothesis that so much time would\nhave been lost to me? Lost?--And how much then should I miss?--Is\nnot a whole Eternity mine?\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS UPON THE AESTHETIC EDUCATION OF MAN\n\nBY\n\nJ. C. FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\n\nAn outline of the life of Schiller will be found prefixed to the\ntranslation of \"Wilhelm Tell\" in the volume of Continental Dramas in\nThe Harvard Classics.\n\nSchiller's importance in the intellectual history of Germany is by\nno means confined to his poetry and dramas. He did notable work in\nhistory and philosophy, and in the department of esthetics\nespecially, he made significant contributions, modifying and\ndeveloping in important respects the doctrines of Kant. In the\nletters on \"Esthetic Education\" which are here printed, he gives the\nphilosophic basis for his doctrine of art, and indicates clearly and\npersuasively his view of the place of beauty in human life.\n\n\nLETTERS UPON THE AESTHETIC EDUCATION OF MAN\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nBy your permission I lay before you, in a series of letters, the\nresults of my researches upon beauty and art. I am keenly sensible\nof the importance as well as of the charm and dignity of this\nundertaking. I shall treat a subject which is closely connected with\nthe better portion of our happiness and not far removed from the\nmoral nobility of human nature. I shall plead this cause of the\nBeautiful before a heart by which her whole power is felt and\nexercised, and which will take upon itself the most difficult part\nof my task in an investigation where one is compelled to appeal as\nfrequently to feelings as to principles.\n\nThat which I would beg of you as a favour, you generously impose\nupon me as a duty; and, when I solely consult my inclination, you\nimpute to me a service. The liberty of action you prescribe is\nrather a necessity for me than a constraint little exercised in\nformal rules, I shall scarcely incur the risk of sinning against\ngood taste by any undue use of them; my ideas, drawn rather from\nwithin than from reading or from an intimate experience with the\nworld, will not disown their origin; they would rather incur any\nreproach than that of a sectarian bias, and would prefer to succumb\nby their innate feebleness than sustain themselves by borrowed\nauthority and foreign support.\n\nIn truth, I will not keep back from you that the assertions which\nfollow rest chiefly upon Kantian principles; but if in the course of\nthese researches you should be reminded of any special school of\nphilosophy, ascribe it to my incapacity, not to those principles.\nNo; your liberty of mind shall be sacred to me; and the facts upon\nwhich I build will be furnished by your own sentiments; your own\nunfettered thought will dictate the laws according to which we to\nproceed.\n\nWith regard to the ideas which predominate in the practical part of\nKant's system, philosophers only disagree, whilst mankind, I am\nconfident of proving, have never done so. If stripped of their\ntechnical shape, they will appear as the verdict of reason\npronounced from time immemorial by common consent, and as facts of\nthe moral instinct which nature, in her wisdom, has given to man in\norder to serve as guide and teacher until his enlightened\nintelligence gives him maturity. But this very technical shape which\nrenders truth visible to the understanding conceals it from the\nfeelings; for, unhappily, understanding begins by destroying the\nobject of the inner sense before it can appropriate the object. Like\nthe chemist, the philosopher finds synthesis only by analysis, or\nthe spontaneous work of nature only through the torture of art.\nThus, in order to detain the fleeting apparition, he must enchain it\nin the fetters of rule, dissect its fair proportions into abstract\nnotions, and preserve its living spirit in a fleshless skeleton of\nwords. Is it surprising that natural feeling should not recognise\nitself in such a copy, and if in the report of the analyst the truth\nappears as paradox?\n\nPermit me therefore to crave your indulgence if the following\nresearches should remove their object from the sphere of sense while\nendeavouring to draw it towards the understanding. That which I\nbefore said of moral experience can be applied with greater truth to\nthe manifestation of \"the beautiful.\" It is the mystery which\nenchants, and its being is extinguished with the extinction of the\nnecessary combination of its elements.\n\nLETTER II.\n\nBut I might perhaps make a better use of the opening you afford me\nif I were to direct your mind to a loftier theme than that of art.\nIt would appear to be unseasonable to go in search of a code for the\naesthetic world, when the moral world offers matter of so much\nhigher interest, and when the spirit of philosophical inquiry is so\nstringently challenged by the circumstances of our times to occupy\nitself with the most perfect of all works of art--the establishment\nand structure of a true political freedom.\n\nIt is unsatisfactory to live out of your own age and to work for\nother times. It is equally incumbent on us to be good members of our\nown age as of our own state or country. If it is conceived to be\nunseemly and even unlawful for a man to segregate himself from the\ncustoms and manners of the circle in which he lives, it would be\ninconsistent not to see that it is equally his duty to grant a\nproper share of influence to the voice of his own epoch, to its\ntaste and its requirements, in the operations in which he engages.\n\nBut the voice of our age seems by no means favorable to art, at all\nevents to that kind of art to which my inquiry is directed. The\ncourse of events has given a direction to the genius of the time\nthat threatens to remove it continually further from the ideal of\nart. For art has to leave reality, it has to raise itself bodily\nabove necessity and neediness for art is the daughter of freedom,\nand it requires its prescriptions and rules to be furnished by the\nnecessity of spirits and not by that of matter. But in our day it is\nnecessity, neediness, that prevails, and bends a degraded humanity\nunder its iron yoke. Utility is the great idol of the time, to which\nall powers do homage and all subjects are subservient. In this great\nbalance of utility, the spiritual service of art has no weight, and,\ndeprived of all encouragement, it vanishes from the noisy Vanity\nFair of our time. The very spirit of philosophical inquiry itself\nrobs the imagination of one promise after another, and the frontiers\nof art are narrowed, in proportion as the limits of science are\nenlarged.\n\nThe eyes of the philosopher as well as of the man of the world are\nanxiously turned to the theatre of political events, where it is\npresumed the great destiny of man is to be played out. It would\nalmost seem to betray e culpable indifference to the welfare of\nsociety if we did not share this general interest. For this great\ncommerce in social and moral principles is of necessity a matter of\nthe greatest concern to every human being, on the ground both of its\nsubject and of its results. It must accordingly be of deepest moment\nto every man to think for himself. It would seem that now at length\na question that formerly was only settled by the law of the stronger\nis to be determined by the calm judgment of the reason, and every\nman who is capable of placing himself in a central position, and\nraising his individuality into that of his species, can look upon\nhimself as in possession of this judicial faculty of reason; being\nmoreover, as man and member of the human family, a party in the case\nunder trial and involved more or less in its decisions. It would\nthus appear that this great political process is not only engaged\nwith his individual case, it has also to pronounce enactments, which\nhe as a rational spirit is capable of enunciating and entitled to\npronounce.\n\nIt is evident that it would have been most attractive to me to\ninquire into an object such as this, to decide such a question in\nconjunction with a thinker of powerful mind, a man of liberal\nsympathies, and a heart imbued with a noble enthusiasm for the weal\nof humanity. Though so widely separated by worldly position, it\nwould have been a delightful surprise to have found your\nunprejudiced mind arriving at the same result as my own in the field\nof ideas, Nevertheless, I think I can not only excuse, but even\njustify by solid grounds, my step in resisting this attractive\npurpose and in preferring beauty to freedom. I hope that I shall\nsucceed in convincing you that this matter of art is less foreign to\nthe needs than to the tastes of our age; nay, that, to arrive at a\nsolution even in the political problem, the road of aesthetics must\nbe pursued, because it is through beauty that we arrive at freedom.\nBut I cannot carry out this proof without my bringing to your\nremembrance the principles by which the reason is guided in\npolitical legislation.\n\nLETTER III.\n\nMan is not better treated by nature in his first start than her\nother works are; so long as he is unable to act for himself as an\nindependent intelligence, she acts for him. But the very fact that\nconstitutes him a man is, that he does not remain stationary, where\nnature has placed him, that he can pass with his reason, retracing\nthe steps nature had made him anticipate, that he can convert the\nwork of necessity into one of free solution, and elevate physical\nnecessity into a moral law.\n\nWhen man is raised from his slumber in the senses, he feels that he\nis a man, he surveys his surroundings, and finds that he is in a\nstate. He was introduced into this state, by the power of\ncircumstances, before he could freely select his own position. But\nas a moral being he cannot possibly rest satisfied with a political\ncondition  forced upon him by necessity, and only calculated for\nthat condition; and it would be unfortunate if this did satisfy him.\nIn many cases man shakes off this blind law of necessity, by his\nfree spontaneous action, of which among many others we have an\ninstance, in his ennobling by beauty and suppressing by moral\ninfluence the powerful impulse implanted in him by nature in the\npassion of love. Thus, when arrived at maturity, he recovers his\nchildhood by an artificial process, he founds a state of nature in\nhis ideas, not given him by any experience, but established by the\nnecessary laws and conditions of his reason, and he attributes to\nthis ideal condition an object, an aim, of which he was not\ncognisant in the actual reality of nature. He gives himself a choice\nof which he was not capable before, and sets to work just as if he\nwere beginning anew, and were exchanging his original state of\nbondage for one of complete independence, doing this with complete\ninsight and of his free decision. He is justified in regarding this\nwork of political thraldom as non-existing, though a wild and\narbitrary caprice may have founded its work very artfully; though it\nmay strive to maintain it with great arrogance and encompass it with\na halo of veneration. For the work of blind powers possesses no\nauthority, before which freedom need bow, and all must be made to\nadapt itself to the highest end which reason has set up in his\npersonality. It is in this wise that a people in a state of manhood\nis justified in exchanging a condition of thraldom for one of moral\nfreedom.\n\nNow the term natural condition can be applied to every political\nbody which owes its establishment originally to forces and not to\nlaws, and such a state contradicts the moral nature of man, because\nlawfulness can alone have authority over this. At the same time this\nnatural condition is quite sufficient for the physical man, who only\ngives himself laws in order to get rid of brute force. Moreover, the\nphysical man is a reality, and the moral man problematical.\nTherefore when the reason suppresses the natural condition, as she\nmust if she wishes to substitute her own, she weighs the real\nphysical man against the problematical moral man, she weighs the\nexistence of society against a possible, though morally necessary,\nideal of society. She takes from man something which he really\npossesses, and without which he possesses nothing, and refers him as\na substitute to something that he ought to possess and might\npossess; and if reason had relied too exclusively on him, she might,\nin order to secure him a state of humanity in which he is wanting\nand can want without injury to his life, have robbed him even of the\nmeans of animal existence which is the first necessary condition of\nhis being a man. Before he had opportunity to hold firm to the law\nwith his will, reason would have withdrawn from his feet the ladder\nof nature.\n\nThe great point is therefore to reconcile these two considerations:\nto prevent physical society from ceasing for a moment in time, while\nthe moral society is being formed in the idea; in other words, to\nprevent its existence from being placed in jeopardy, for the sake of\nthe moral dignity of man. When the mechanic has to mend a watch, he\nlets the wheels run out, but the living watchworks of the state have\nto be repaired while they act, and a wheel has to be exchanged for\nanother during its revolutions. Accordingly props must be sought for\nto support society and keep it going while it is made independent of\nthe natural condition from which it is sought to emancipate it.\n\nThis prop is not found in the natural character of man, who, being\nselfish and violent, directs his energies rather to the destruction\nthan to the preservation of society. Nor is it found in his moral\ncharacter, which has to be formed, which can never be worked upon or\ncalculated on by the lawgiver, because it is free and never appears.\nIt would seem therefore that another measure must be adopted. It\nwould seem that the physical character of the arbitrary must be\nseparated from moral freedom; that it is incumbent to make the\nformer harmonise with the laws and the latter dependent on\nimpressions; it would be expedient to remove the former still\nfarther from matter and to bring the latter somewhat more near to\nit; in short to produce a third character related to both the\nothers--the physical and the moral--paving the way to a transition\nfrom the sway of mere force to that of law, without preventing the\nproper development of the moral character, but serving rather as a\npledge in the sensuous sphere of a morality in the unseen.\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nThus much is certain. It is only when a third character, as\npreviously suggested, has preponderance that a revolution in a state\naccording to moral principles can be free from injurious\nconsequences; nor can anything else secure its endurance. In\nproposing or setting up a moral state, the moral law is relied upon\nas a real power, and free will is drawn into the realm of causes,\nwhere all hangs together, mutually with stringent necessity and\nrigidity. But we know that the condition of the human will always\nremains contingent, and that only in the Absolute Being physical\ncoexists with moral necessity. Accordingly if it is wished to depend\non the moral conduct of man as on natural results, this conduct must\nbecome nature, and he must be led by natural impulse to such a\ncourse of action as can only and invariably have moral results. But\nthe will of man is perfectly free between inclination and duty, and\nno physical necessity ought to enter as a sharer in this magisterial\npersonality. If therefore he is to retain this power of solution,\nand yet become a reliable link in the causal concatenation of\nforces, this can only be effected when the operations of both these\nimpulses are presented quite equally in the world of appearances. It\nis only possible when, with every difference of form, the matter of\nman's volition remains the same, when all his impulses agreeing with\nhis reason are sufficient to have the value of a universal\nlegislation.\n\nIt may be urged that every individual man carries, within himself,\nat least in his adaptation and destination, a purely ideal man. The\ngreat problem of his existence is to bring all the incessant changes\nof his outer life into conformity with the unchanging unity of this\nideal. This pure ideal man, which makes itself known more or less\nclearly in every subject, is represented by the state, which is the\nobjective and, so to speak, canonical form in which the manifold\ndifferences of the subjects strive to unite. Now two ways present\nthemselves to the thought, in which the man of time can agree with\nthe man of idea, and there are also two ways in which the state can\nmaintain itself in individuals. One of these ways is when the pure\nideal man subdues the empirical man, and the state suppresses the\nindividual, or again when the individual BECOMES the state, and the\nman of time is ENNOBLED to the man of idea.\n\nI admit that in a one-sided estimate from the point of view of\nmorality this difference vanishes, for the reason is satisfied if\nher law prevails unconditionally. But when the survey taken is\ncomplete and embraces the whole man (anthropology), where the form\nis considered together with the substance, and a living feeling has\na voice, the difference will become far more evident. No doubt the\nreason demands unity, and nature variety, and both legislations take\nman in hand. The law of the former is stamped upon him by an\nincorruptible consciousness, that of the latter by an ineradicable\nfeeling. Consequently education will always appear deficient when\nthe moral feeling can only be maintained with the sacrifice of what\nis natural; and a political administration will always be very\nimperfect when it is only able to bring about unity by suppressing\nvariety. The state ought not only to respect the objective and\ngeneric but also the subjective and specific in individuals; and\nwhile diffusing the unseen world of morals, it must not depopulate\nthe kingdom of appearance, the external world of matter.\n\nWhen the mechanical artist places his hand on the formless block, to\ngive it a form according to his intention, he has not any scruples\nin doing violence to it. For the nature on which he works does not\ndeserve any respect in itself, and he does not value the whole for\nits parts, but the parts on account of the whole. When the child of\nthe fine arts sets his hand to the same block, he has no scruples\neither in doing violence to it, he only avoids showing this\nviolence. He does not respect the matter in which he works, any more\nthan the mechanical artist; but he seeks by an apparent\nconsideration for it to deceive the eye which takes this matter\nunder its protection. The political and educating artist follows a\nvery different course, while making man at once his material and his\nend. In this case the aim or end meets in the material, and it is\nonly because the whole serves the parts that the parts adapt\nthemselves to the end. The political artist has to treat his\nmaterial--man--with a very different kind of respect from that shown\nby the artist of fine art to his work. He must spare man's\npeculiarity and personality, not to produce a deceptive effect on\nthe senses, but objectively and out of consideration for his inner\nbeing.\n\nBut the state is an organisation which fashions itself through\nitself and for itself, and for this reason it can only be realised\nwhen the parts have been accorded to the idea of the whole. The\nstate serves the purpose of a representative, both to pure ideal and\nto objective humanity, in the breast of its citizens, accordingly it\nwill have to observe the same relation to its citizens in which they\nare placed to it, and it will only respect their subjective humanity\nin the same degree that it is ennobled to an objective existence. If\nthe internal man is one with himself, he will be able to rescue his\npeculiarity, even in the greatest generalisation of his conduct, and\nthe state will only become the exponent of his fine instinct, the\nclearer formula of his internal legislation. But if the subjective\nman is in conflict with the objective and contradicts him in the\ncharacter of the people, so that only the oppression of the former\ncan give the victory to the latter, then the state will take up the\nsevere aspect of the law against the citizen, and in order not to\nfall a sacrifice, it will have to crush under foot such a hostile\nindividuality, without any compromise.\n\nNow man can be opposed to himself in a twofold manner: either as a\nsavage, when his feelings rule over his principles; or as a\nbarbarian, when his principles destroy his feelings. The savage\ndespises art, and acknowledges nature as his despotic ruler; the\nbarbarian laughs at nature, and dishonours it, but he often proceeds\nin a more contemptible way than the savage, to be the slave of his\nsenses. The cultivated man makes of nature his friend, and honours\nits friendship, while only bridling its caprice.\n\nConsequently, when reason brings her moral unity into physical\nsociety, she must not injure the manifold in nature. When nature\nstrives to maintain her manifold character in the moral structure of\nsociety, this must not create any breach in moral unity; the\nvictorious form is equally remote from uniformity and confusion.\nTherefore, TOTALITY of character must be found in the people which\nis capable and worthy to exchange the state of necessity for that of\nfreedom.\n\nLETTER V.\n\nDoes the present age, do passing events, present this character? I\ndirect my attention at once to the most prominent object in this\nvast structure.\n\nIt is true that the consideration of opinion is fallen, caprice is\nunnerved, and, although still armed with power, receives no longer\nany respect. Man has awaked from his long lethargy and self-\ndeception, and he demands with impressive unanimity to be restored\nto his imperishable rights. But he does not only demand them; he\nrises on all sides to seize by force what, in his opinion, has been\nunjustly wrested from him. The edifice of the natural state is\ntottering, its foundations shake, and a physical possibility seems\nat length granted to place law on the throne, to honour man at\nlength as an end, and to make true freedom the basis of political\nunion. Vain hope! The moral possibility is wanting, and the generous\noccasion finds an unsusceptible rule.\n\nMan paints himself in his actions, and what is the form depicted in\nthe drama of the present time? On the one hand, he is seen running\nwild, on the other in a state of lethargy; the two extremest stages\nof human degeneracy, and both seen in one and the same period.\n\nIn the lower larger masses, coarse, lawless impulses come to view,\nbreaking loose when the bonds of civil order are burst asunder, and\nhastening with unbridled fury to satisfy their savage instinct.\nObjective humanity may have had cause to complain of the state; yet\nsubjective man must honour its institutions. Ought he to be blamed\nbecause he lost sight of the dignity of human nature, so long as he\nwas concerned in preserving his existence? Can we blame him that he\nproceeded to separate by the force of gravity, to fasten by the\nforce of cohesion, at a time when there could be no thought of\nbuilding or raising up? The extinction of the state contains its\njustification. Society set free, instead of hastening upward into\norganic life, collapses into its elements.\n\nOn the other hand, the civilized classes give us the still more\nrepulsive sight of lethargy, and of a depravity of character which\nis the more revolting because it roots in culture. I forget who of\nthe older or more recent philosophers makes the remark, that what is\nmore noble is the more revolting in its destruction. The remark\napplies with truth to the world of morals. The child of nature, when\nhe breaks loose, becomes a madman; but the art scholar, when he\nbreaks loose, becomes a debased character. The enlightenment of the\nunderstanding, on which the more refined classes pride themselves\nwith some ground, shows on the whole so little of an ennobling\ninfluence on the mind that it seems rather to confirm corruption by\nits maxims. We deny nature in her legitimate field and feel her\ntyranny in the moral sphere, and while resisting her impressions, we\nreceive our principles from her. While the affected decency of our\nmanners does not even grant to nature a pardonable influence in the\ninitial stage, our materialistic system of morals allows her the\ncasting vote in the last and essential stage. Egotism has founded\nits system in the very bosom of a refined society, and without\ndeveloping even a sociable character, we feel all the contagions and\nmiseries of society. We subject our free judgment to its despotic\nopinions, our feelings to its bizarre customs, and our will to its\nseductions. We only maintain our caprice against her holy rights.\nThe man of the world has his heart contracted by a proud self-\ncomplacency, while that of the man of nature often beats in\nsympathy; and every man seeks for nothing more than to save his\nwretched property from the general destruction, as it were from some\ngreat conflagration. It is conceived that the only way to find a\nshelter against the aberrations of sentiment is by completely\nforegoing its indulgence, and mockery, which is often a useful\nchastener of mysticism, slanders in the same breath the noblest\naspirations. Culture, far from giving us freedom, only develops, as\nit advances, new necessities; the fetters of the physical close more\ntightly around us, so that the fear of loss quenches even the ardent\nimpulse toward improvement, and the maxims of passive obedience are\nheld to be the highest wisdom of life. Thus the spirit of the time\nis seen to waver between perversions and savagism, between what is\nunnatural and mere nature, between superstition and moral unbelief,\nand it is often nothing but the equilibrium of evils that sets\nbounds to it.\n\nLETTER VI.\n\nHave I gone too far in this portraiture of our times? I do not\nanticipate this stricture, but rather another--that I have proved\ntoo much by it. You will tell me that the picture I have presented\nresembles the humanity of our day, but it also bodies forth all\nnations engaged in the same degree of culture, because all, without\nexception, have fallen off from nature by the abuse of reason,\nbefore they can return to it through reason.\n\nBut if we bestow some serious attention to the character of our\ntimes, we shall be astonished at the contrast between the present\nand the previous form of humanity, especially that of Greece. We are\njustified in claiming the reputation of culture and refinement, when\ncontrasted with a purely natural state of society, but not so\ncomparing ourselves with the Grecian nature. For the latter was\ncombined with all the charms of art and with all the dignity of\nwisdom, without, however, as with us, becoming a victim to these\ninfluences. The Greeks put us to shame not only by their simplicity,\nwhich is foreign to our age; they are at the same time our rivals,\nnay, frequently our models, in those very points of superiority from\nwhich we seek comfort when regretting the unnatural character of our\nmanners. We see that remarkable people uniting at once fulness of\nform and fulness of substance, both philosophising and creating,\nboth tender and energetic, uniting a youthful fancy; to the virility\nof reason in a glorious humanity.\n\nAt the period of Greek culture, which was an awakening of the powers\nof the mind, the senses and the spirit had no distinctly separated\nproperty; no division had yet torn them asunder, leading them to\npartition in a hostile attitude, and to mark off their limits with\nprecision. Poetry had not yet become the adversary of wit, nor had\nspeculation abused itself by passing into quibbling. In cases of\nnecessity both poetry and wit could exchange parts, because they\nboth honoured truth only in their special way. However high might be\nthe flight of reason, it drew matter in a loving spirit after it,\nand, while sharply and stiffly defining it, never mutilated what it\ntouched. It is true the Greek mind displaced humanity, and recast it\non a magnified scale in the glorious circle of its gods; but it did\nthis not by dissecting human nature, but by giving it fresh\ncombinations, for the whole of human nature was represented in each\nof the gods. How different is the course followed by us moderns! We\nalso displace and magnify individuals to form the image of the\nspecks, but we do this in a fragmentary way, not by altered\ncombinations, so that it is necessary to gather up from different\nindividuals the elements that form the species in its totality. It\nwould almost appear is if the powers of mind express themselves with\nus in real life or empirically as separately as the psychologist\ndistinguishes them in the representation. For we see not only\nindividual subjects, but whole classes of men, uphold their\ncapacities only in part, while the rest of their faculties scarcely\nshow a germ of activity, as in the case of the stunted growth of\nplants.\n\nI do not overlook the advantages to which the present race, regarded\nas a unity and in the balance of the understanding, may lay claim\nover what is best in the ancient world; but it is obliged to engage\nin the contest as a compact mass, and measure itself as a whole\nagainst a whole. Who among the moderns could step forth, man against\nman, and strive with an Athenian for the prize of higher humanity?\n\nWhence comes this disadvantageous relation of individuals coupled\nwith great advantages of the race? Why could the individual Greek be\nqualified as the type of his time? and why can no modern dare to\noffer himself as such? Because all-uniting nature imparted its forms\nto the Greek, and an all-dividing understanding gives our forms to\nus.\n\nIt was culture itself that gave these wounds to modern humanity. The\ninner union of human nature was broken, and a destructive contest\ndivided its harmonious forces directly; on the one hand, an enlarged\nexperience and a more distinct thinking necessitated a sharper\nseparation of the sciences, while on the other hand, the more\ncomplicated machinery of states necessitated a stricter sundering of\nranks and occupations. Intuitive and speculative understanding took\nup a hostile attitude in opposite fields, whose borders were guarded\nwith jealousy and distrust; and by limiting its operation to a\nnarrow sphere, men have made unto themselves a master who is wont\nnot unfrequently to end by subduing and oppressing all the other\nfaculties. Whilst on the one hand a luxuriant imagination creates\nravages in the plantations that have cost the intelligence so much\nlabour, on the other hand a spirit of abstraction suffocates the\nfire that might have warmed the heart and inflamed the imagination.\n\nThis subversion, commenced by art and learning in the inner man, was\ncarried out to fulness and finished by the spirit of innovation in\ngovernment. It was, no doubt, reasonable to expect that the simple\norganisation of the primitive republics should survive the\nquaintness of primitive manners and of the relations of antiquity.\nBut, instead of rising to a higher and nobler degree of animal life,\nthis organisation degenerated into a common and coarse mechanism.\nThe zoophyte condition of the Grecian states, where each individual\nenjoyed an independent life, and could, in cases of necessity,\nbecome a separate whole and unit in himself, gave way to an\ningenious mechanism, when, from the splitting up into numberless\nparts, there results a mechanical life in the combination. Then\nthere was a rupture between the state and the church, between laws\nand customs; enjoyment was separated from labour, the means from the\nend, the effort from the reward. Man himself eternally chained down\nto a little fragment of the whole, only forms a kind of fragment;\nhaving nothing in his ears but the monotonous sound of the\nperpetually revolving wheel, he never develops the harmony of his\nbeing; and instead of imprinting the seal of humanity on his being,\nhe ends by being nothing more than the living impress of the craft\nto which he devotes himself, of the science that he cultivates. This\nvery partial and paltry relation, linking the isolated members to\nthe whole, does not depend on forms that are given spontaneously;\nfor how could a complicated machine, which shuns the light, confide\nitself to the free will of man? This relation is rather dictated,\nwith a rigorous strictness, by a formulary in which the free\nintelligence of man is chained down. The dead letter takes the place\nof a living meaning, and a practised memory becomes a safer guide\nthan genius and feeling.\n\nIf the community or state measures man by his function, only asking\nof its citizens memory, or the intelligence of a craftsman, or\nmechanical skill, we cannot be surprised that the other faculties of\nthe mind are neglected, for the exclusive culture of the one that\nbrings in honour and profit. Such is the necessary result of an\norganisation that is indifferent about character, only looking to\nacquirements, whilst in other cases it tolerates the thickest\ndarkness, to favour a spirit of law and order; it must result if it\nwishes that individuals in the exercise of special aptitudes 'should\ngain in depth what they are permitted to lose in extension. We are\naware, no doubt, that a powerful genius does not shut up its\nactivity within the limits of its functions; but mediocre talents\nconsume in the craft fallen to their lot the whole of their feeble\nenergy; and if some of their energy is reserved for matters of\npreference, without prejudice to its functions, such a state of\nthings at once bespeaks a spirit soaring above the vulgar. Moreover,\nit is rarely a recommendation in the eye of a state to have a\ncapacity superior to your employment, or one of those noble\nintellectual cravings of a man of talent which contend in rivalry\nwith the duties of office. The state is so jealous of the exclusive\npossession of its servants that it would prefer--nor can it be\nblamed in this--for functionaries to show their powers with the\nVenus of Cytherea rather than the Uranian Venus.\n\nIt is thus that concrete individual life is extinguished, in order\nthat the abstract whole may continue its miserable life, and the\nstate remains for ever a stranger to its citizens, because feeling\ndoes not discover it anywhere. The governing authorities find\nthemselves compelled to classify, and thereby simplify, the\nmultiplicity of citizens, and only to know humanity in a\nrepresentative form and at second hand. Accordingly they end by\nentirely losing sight of humanity, and by confounding it with a\nsimple artificial creation of the understanding, whilst on their\npart the subject classes cannot help receiving coldly laws that\naddress themselves so little to their personality. At length\nsociety, weary of having a burden that the state takes so little\ntrouble to lighten, falls to pieces and is broken up--a destiny that\nhas long since attended most European states. They are dissolved in\nwhat may be called a state of moral nature, in which public\nauthority is only one function more, hated and deceived by those who\nthink it necessary, respected only by those who can do without it.\n\nThus compressed between two forces, within and without, could\nhumanity follow any other course than that which it has taken? The\nspeculative mind, pursuing imprescriptible goods and rights in the\nsphere of ideas, must needs have become a stranger to the world of\nsense, and lose sight of matter for the sake of form. On its part,\nthe world of public affairs, shut up in a monotonous circle of\nobjects, and even there restricted by formulas, was led to lose\nsight of the life and liberty of the whole, while becoming\nimpoverished at the same time in its own sphere. Just as the\nspeculative mind was tempted to model the real after the\nintelligible, and to raise the subjective of its imagination into\nlaws constituting the existence of things, so the state spirit\nrushed into the opposite extreme, wished to make a particular and\nfragmentary experience the measure of all observation, and to apply\nwithout exception to all affairs the rules of its own particular\ncraft. The speculative mind had necessarily to become the prey of a\nvain subtlety, the state spirit of a narrow pedantry; for the former\nwas placed too high to see the individual, and the latter too low to\nsurvey the whole. But the disadvantage of this direction of mind was\nnot confined to knowledge and mental production; it extended to\naction and feeling. We know that the sensibility of the mind\ndepends, as to degree, on the liveliness, and for extent on the\nrichness of the imagination. Now the predominance of the faculty of\nanalysis must necessarily deprive the imagination of its warmth and\nenergy, and a restricted sphere of objects must diminish its wealth.\nIt is for this reason that the abstract thinker has very often a\ncold heart, because he analyses impressions, which only move the\nmind by their combination or totality; on the other hand, the man of\nbusiness, the statesman, has very often a narrow heart, because shut\nup in the narrow circle of his employment his imagination can\nneither expand nor adapt itself to another manner of viewing things.\n\nMy subject has led me naturally to place in relief the distressing\ntendency of the character of our own times to show the sources of\nthe evil, without its being my province to point out the\ncompensations offered by nature. I will readily admit to you that,\nalthough this splitting up of their being was unfavourable for\nindividuals, it was the only road open for the progress of the race.\nThe point at which we see humanity arrived among the Greeks was\nundoubtedly a maximum; it could neither stop there nor rise higher.\nIt could not stop there, for the sum of notions acquired forced\ninfallibly the intelligence to break with feeling and intuition, and\nto lead to clearness of knowledge. Nor could it rise any higher; for\nit is only in a determinate measure that clearness can be reconciled\nwith a certain degree of abundance and of warmth. The Greeks had\nattained this measure, and to continue their progress in culture,\nthey, as we, were obliged to renounce the totality of their being,\nand to follow different and separate roads in order to seek after\ntruth.\n\nThere was no other way to develop the manifold aptitudes of man than\nto bring them in opposition with one another. This antagonism of\nforces is the great instrument of culture, but it is only an\ninstrument; for as long as this antagonism lasts, man is only on the\nroad to culture. It is only because these special forces are\nisolated in man, and because they take on themselves to impose an\nexclusive legislation, that they enter into strife with the truth of\nthings, and oblige common sense, which generally adheres\nimperturbably to external phaenomena, to dive into the essence of\nthings. While pure understanding usurps authority in the world of\nsense, and empiricism attempts to subject this intellect to the\nconditions of experience, these two rival directions arrive at the\nhighest possible development, and exhaust the whole extent of their\nsphere. While on the one hand imagination, by its tyranny, ventures\nto destroy the order of the world, it forces reason, on the other\nside, to rise up to the supreme sources of knowledge, and to invoke\nagainst this predominance of fancy the help of the law of necessity.\n\nBy an exclusive spirit in the case of his faculties, the individual\nis fatally led to error; but the species is led to truth. It is only\nby gathering up all the energy of our mind in a single focus, and\nconcentrating a single force in our being, that we give in some sort\nwings to this isolated force, and that we draw it on artificially\nfar beyond the limits that nature seems to have imposed upon it. If\nit be certain that all human individuals taken together would never\nhave arrived, with the visual power given them by nature, to see a\nsatellite of Jupiter, discovered by the telescope of the astronomer,\nit is just as well established that never would the human\nunderstanding have produced the analysis of the infinite, or the\ncritique of pure reason, if in particular branches, destined for\nthis mission, reason had not applied itself to special researches,\nand if, after having, as it were, freed itself from all matter, it\nhad not by the most powerful abstraction given to the spiritual eye\nof man the force necessary, in order to look into the absolute. But\nthe question is, if a spirit thus absorbed in pure reason and\nintuition will be able to emancipate itself from the rigorous\nfetters of logic, to take the free action of poetry, and seize the\nindividuality of things with a faithful and chaste sense? Here\nnature imposes even on the most universal genius a limit it cannot\npass, and truth will make martyrs as long as philosophy will be\nreduced to make its principal occupation the search for arms against\nerrors.\n\nBut whatever may be the final profit for the totality of the world,\nof this distinct and special perfecting of the human faculties, it\ncannot be denied that this final aim of the universe, which devotes\nthem to this kind of culture, is a cause of suffering, and a kind of\nmalediction for individuals. I admit that the exercises of the\ngymnasium form athletic bodies; but beauty is only developed by the\nfree and equal play of the limbs. In the same way the tension of the\nisolated spiritual forces may make extraordinary men; but it is only\nthe well-tempered equilibrium of these forces that can produce happy\nand accomplished men. And in what relation should we be placed with\npast and future ages if the perfecting of human nature made sach a\nsacrifice indispensable? In that case we should have been the slaves\nof humanity, we should have consumed our forces in servile work for\nit during some thousands of years, and we should have stamped on our\nhumiliated, mutilated nature the shameful brand of this slavery--all\nthis in order that future generations, in a happy leisure, might\nconsecrate themselves to the cure of their moral health, and develop\nthe whole of human nature by their free culture.\n\nBut can it be true that man has to neglect himself for any end\nwhatever? Can nature snatch from us; for any end whatever, the\nperfection which is prescribed to us by the aim of reason? It must\nbe false that the perfecting of particular faculties renders the\nsacrifice of their totality necessary; and even if the law of nature\nhad imperiously this tendency, we must have the power to reform by a\nsuperior art this totality of our being, which art has destroyed.\n\nLETTER VII.\n\nCan this effect of harmony be attained by the state? That is not\npossible, for the state, as at present constituted, has given\noccasion to evil, and the state as conceived in the idea, instead of\nbeing able to establish this more perfect humanity, ought to be\nbased upon it. Thus the researches in which I have indulged would\nhave brought me back to the same point from which they had called me\noff for a time. The present age, far from offering us this form of\nhumanity, which we have acknowledged as a necessary condition of an\nimprovement of the state, shows us rather the diametrically opposite\nform. If therefore the principles I have laid down are correct, and\nif experience confirms the picture I have traced of the present\ntime, it would be necessary to qualify as unseasonable every attempt\nto effect a similar change in the state, and all hope as chimerical\nthat would be based on such an attempt, until the division of the\ninner man ceases, and nature has been sufficiently developed to\nbecome herself the instrument of this great change and secure the\nreality of the political creation of reason.\n\nIn the physical creation, nature shows us the road that we have to\nfollow in the moral creation. Only when the Struggle of elementary\nforces has ceased in inferior organisations, nature rises to the\nnoble form of the physical man. In like manner, the conflict of the\nelements of the moral man and that of blind instincts must have\nceased, and a coarse antagonism in himself, beiore the attempt can\nbe hazarded. On the other hand, the independence of man's character\nmust be secured, and his submission to despotic forms must have\ngiven place to a suitable liberty, before the variety in his\nconstitution can be made subordinate to the unity of the ideal. When\nthe man of nature still makes such an anarchical abuse of his will,\nhis liberty ought hardly to be disclosed to him. And when the man\nfashioned by culture makes so little use of his freedom, his free\nwill ought not to be taken from him. The concession of liberal\nprinciples becomes a treason to social order when it is associated\nwith a force still in fermentation, and increases the already\nexuberant energy of its nature. Again, the law of conformity under\none level becomes tyranny to the individual when it is allied to a\nweakness already holding sway and to natural obstacles, and when it\ncomes to extinguish the last spark of spontaneity and of\noriginality.\n\nThe tone of the age must therefore rise from its profound moral\ndegradation; on the one hand it must emancipate itself from the\nblind service of nature, and on the other it must revert to its\nsimplicity, its truth, and its fruitful sap; a sufficient task for\nmore than a century. However, I admit readily, more than one special\neffort may meet with success, but no improvement of the whole will\nresult from it, and contradictions in action will be a continual\nprotest against the unity of maxims. It will be quite possible,\nthen, that in remote corners of the world humanity may be honoured\nin the person of the negro, while in Europe it may be degraded in\nthe person of the thinker. The old principles will remain, but they\nwill adopt the dress of the age, and philosophy will lend its name\nto an oppression that was formerly authorised by the Church. In one\nplace, alarmed at the liberty which in its opening efforts always\nshows itself an enemy, it will cast itself into the arms of a\nconvenient servitude. In another place, reduced to despair by a\npedantic tutelage, it will be driven into the savage license of the\nstate of nature. Usurpation will invoke the weakness of human\nnature, and insurrection will invoke its dignity, till at length the\ngreat sovereign of all human things, blind force, shall come in and\ndecide, like a vulgar pugilist, this pretended contest of\nprinciples.\n\nLETTER VIII.\n\nMust philosophy therefore retire from this field, disappointed in\nits hopes? Whilst in all other directions the dominion of forms is\nextended, must this the most precious of all gifts be abandoned to a\nformless chance? Must the contest of blind forces last eternally in\nthe political world, and is social law never to triumph over a\nhating egotism?\n\nNot in the least. It is true that reason herself will never attempt\ndirectly a struggle with this brutal force which resists her arms,\nand she will be as far as the son of Saturn in the 'Iliad' from\ndescending into the dismal field of battle, to fight them in person.\nBut she chooses the most deserving among the combatants, clothes him\nwith divine arms as Jupiter gave them to his son-in-law, and by her\ntriumphing force she finally decides the victory.\n\nReason has done all that she could in finding the law and\npromulgating it; it is for the energy of the will and the ardour of\nfeeling to carry it out. To issue victoriously from her contest with\nforce, truth herself must first become a force, and turn one of the\ninstincts of man into her champion in the empire of phenomena. For\ninstincts are the only motive forces in the material world. If\nhitherto truth has so little manifested her victorious power, this\nhas not depended on the understanding, which could not have unveiled\nit, but on the heart which remained closed to it, and on instinct\nwhich did not act with it.\n\nWhence, in fact, proceeds this general sway of prejudices, this\nmight of the understanding in the midst of the light disseminated by\nphilosophy and experience? The age is enlightened, that is to say,\nthat knowledge, obtained and vulgarised, suffices to set right at\nleast our practical principles. The spirit of free inquiry has\ndissipated the erroneous opinions which long barred the access to\ntruth, and has undermined the ground on which fanaticism and\ndeception had erected their throne. Reason has purified itself from\nthe il lusions of the senses and from a mendacious sophistry, and\nphilosophy herself raises her voice and exhorts us to return to the\nbosom of nature, to which she had first made us unfaithful. Whence\nthen is it that we remain still barbarians?\n\nThere must be something in the spirit of man--as it is not in the\nobjects themselves--which prevents us from receiving the truth,\nnotwithstanding the brilliant light she diffuses, and from accepting\nher, whatever may be her strength for producing conviction. This\nsomething was perceived and expressed by an ancient sage in this\nvery significant maxim: sapere aude [Footnote: Dare to be wise].\n\nDare to be wise! A spirited courage is required to triumph over the\nimpediments that the indolence of nature as well as the cowardice of\nthe heart oppose to our in struction. It was not without reason that\nthe ancient Mythos made Minerva issue fully armed from the head of\nJupiter, for it is with warfare that this instruction com mences.\nFrom its very outset it has to sustain a hard fight against the\nsenses, which do not like to be roused from their easy slumber. The\ngreater part of men are much too exhausted and enervated by their\nstruggle with want to be able to engage in a new and severe contest\nwith error. Satisfied if they themselves can escape from the hard\nlabour of thought, they willingly abandon to others the guardianship\nof their thoughts. And if it happens that nobler necessities agitate\ntheir soul, they cling with a greedy faith to the formulas that the\nstate and the church hold in reserve for such cases. If these\nunhappy men deserve our compassion, those others deserve our just\ncontempt, who, though set free from those necessities by more\nfortunate circumstances, yet willingly bend to their yoke. These\nlatter persons prefer this twilight of obscure ideas; where the\nfeelings have more intensity, and the imagination can at will create\nconvenient chimeras, to the rays of truth which put to flight the\npleasant illusions of their dreams. They have founded the whole\nstructure of their happiness on these very illusions, which ought to\nbe combated and dissipated by the light of knowledge, and they would\nthink they were paying too dearly for a truth which begins by\nrobbing them of all that has value in their sight. It would be\nnecessary that they should be already sages to love wisdom: a truth\nthat was felt at once by him to whom philosophy owes its name.\n[Footnote: The Greek word means, as is known, love of wisdom.]\n\nIt is therefore not going far enough to say that the light of the\nunderstanding only deserves respect when it reacts on the character;\nto a certain extent it is from the character that this light\nproceeds; for the road that terminates in the head must pass through\nthe heart. Accordingly, the most pressing need of the present time\nis to educate the sensibility, because it is the means, not only to\nrender efficacious in practice the improvement of ideas, but to call\nthis improvement into existence.\n\nLETTER IX.\n\nBut perhaps there is a vicious circle in our previous reasoning?\nTheoretical culture must it seems bring along with it practical\nculture, and yet the latter must be the condition of the former. All\nimprovement in the political sphere must proceed from the ennobling\nof the character. But, subject to the influence of a social\nconstitution still barbarous, how can character become ennobled? It\nwould then be necessary to seek for this end an instrument that the\nstate does not furnish, and to open sources that would have\npreserved themselves pure in the midst of political corruption.\n\nI have now reached the point to which all the considerations tended\nthat have engaged me up to the present time. This instrument is the\nart of the beautiful; these sources are open to us in its immortal\nmodels.\n\nArt, like science, is emancipated from all that is positive, and all\nthat is humanly conventional; both are completely independent of the\narbitrary will of men. The political legislator may place their\nempire under an interdict, but he cannot reign there. He can\nproscribe the friend of truth, but truth subsists; he can degrade\nthe artist, but he cannot change art. No doubt, nothing is more\ncommon than to see science and art bend before the spirit of the\nage, and creative taste receive its law from critical taste. When\nthe character becomes stiff and hardens itself, we see science\nseverely keeping her limits, and art subject to the harsh restraint\nof rules; when the character is relaxed and softened, science\nendeavours to please and art to rejoice. For whole ages philosophers\nas well as artists show themselves occupied in letting down truth\nand beauty to the depths of vulgar humanity. They themselves are\nswallowed up in it; but, thanks to their essential vigour and\nindestructible life, the true and the beautiful make a victorious\nfight, and issue triumphant from the abyss.\n\nNo doubt the artist is the child of his time, but unhappy for him if\nhe is its disciple or even its favourite. Let a beneficent deity\ncarry off in good time the suckling from the breast of its mother,\nlet it nourish him on the milk of a better age, and suffer him to\ngrow up and arrive at virility under the distant sky of Greece. When\nhe has attained manhood, let him come back, presenting a face\nstrange to his own age; let him come, not to delight it with his\napparition, but rather to purify it, terrible as the son of\nAgamemnon. He will, indeed, receive his matter from the present\ntime, but he will borrow the form from a nobler time and even beyond\nall time, from the essential, absolute, immutable unity. There,\nissuing from the pure ether of its heavenly nature, flows the source\nof all beauty, which was never tainted by the corruption of\ngenerations or of ages, which roll along far beneath it in dark\neddies. Its matter may be dishonoured as well as ennobled by fancy,\nbut the ever chaste form escapes from the caprices of imagination.\nThe Roman had already bent his knee for long years to the divinity\nof the emperors, and yet the statues of the gods stood erect; the\ntemples retained their sanctity for the eye long after the gods had\nbecome a theme for mockery, and the noble architecture of the\npalaces that shielded the infamies of Nero and of Commodus were a\nprotest against them. Humanity has lost its dignity, but art has\nsaved it, and preserves it in marbles full of meaning; truth\ncontinues to live in illusion, and the copy will serve to re-\nestablish the model. If the nobility of art has survived the\nnobility of nature, it also goes before it like an inspiring genius,\nforming and awakening minds. Before truth causes her triumphant\nlight to penetrate into the depth of the heart, poetry intercepts\nher rays, and the summits of humanity shine in a bright light, while\na dark and humid night still hangs over the valleys.\n\nBut how will the artist avoid the corruption of his time which\nencloses him on all hands? Let him raise his eyes to his own\ndignity, and to law; let him not lower them to necessity and\nfortune. Equally exempt from a vain activity which would imprint its\ntrace on the fugitive moment, and from the dreams of an impatient\nenthusiasm which applies the measure of the absolute to the paltry\nproductions of time, let the artist abandon the real to the\nunderstanding, for that is its proper field. But let the artist\nendeavour to give birth to the ideal by the union of the possible\nand of the necessary. Let him stamp illusion and truth with the\neffigy of this ideal; let him apply it to the play of his\nimagination and his most serious actions, in short, to all sensuous\nand spiritual forms; then let him quietly launch his work into\ninfinite time.\n\nBut the minds set on fire by this ideal have not all received an\nequal share of calm from the creative genius--that great and patient\ntemper which is required to impress the ideal on the dumb marble, or\nto spread it over a page of cold, sober letters, and then entrust it\nto the faithful hands of time. This divine instinct, and creative\nforce, much too ardent to follow this peaceful walk, often throws\nitself immediately on the present, on active life, and strives to\ntransform the shapeless matter of the moral world. The misfortune of\nhis brothers, of the whole species, appeals loudly to the heart of\nthe man of feeling; their abasement appeals still louder; enthusiasm\nis inflamed, and in souls endowed with energy the burning desire\naspires impatiently to action and facts. But has this innovator\nexamined himself to see if these disorders of the moral world wound\nhis reason, or if they do not rather wound his self-love? If he does\nnot determine this point at once, he will find it from the\nimpulsiveness with which he pursues a prompt and definite end. A\npure, moral motive has for its end the absolute; time does not exist\nfor it, and the future becomes the present to it directly, by a\nnecessary development, it has to issue from the present. To a reason\nhaving no limits the direction towards an end becomes confounded\nwith the accomplishment of this end, and to enter on a course is to\nhave finished it.\n\nIf, then, a young friend of the true and of the beautiful were to\nask me how, notwithstanding the resistance of the times, he can\nsatisfy the noble longing of his heart, I should reply: Direct the\nworld on which you act towards that which is good, and the measured\nand peaceful course of time will bring about the results. You have\ngiven it this direction if by your teaching you raise its thoughts\ntowards the necessary and the eternal; if, by your acts or your\ncreations, you make the necessary and the eternal the object of your\nleanings. The structure of error and of all that is arbitrary, must\nfall, and it has already fallen, as soon as you are sure that it is\ntottering. But it is important that it should not only totter in the\nexternal but also in the internal man. Cherish triumphant truth in\nthe modest sanctuary of your heart; give it an incarnate form\nthrough beauty, that it may not only be the understanding that does\nhomage to it, but that feeling may lovingly grasp its appearance.\nAnd that you may not by any chance take from external reality the\nmodel which you yourself ought to furnish, do not venture into its\ndangerous society before you are assured in your own heart that you\nhave a good escort furnished by ideal nature. Live with your age,\nbut be not its creation; labour for your contemporaries, but do for\nthem what they need, and not what they praise. Without having shared\ntheir faults, share their punishment with a noble resignation, and\nbend under the yoke which they find is as painful to dispense with\nas to bear. By the constancy with which you will despise their good\nfortune, you will prove to them that it is not through cowardice\nthat you submit to their sufferings. See them in thought such as\nthey ought to be when you must act upon them; but see them as they\nare when you are tempted to act for them. Seek to owe their suffrage\nto their dignity; but to make them happy keep an account of their\nunworthiness; thus, on the one hand, the nobleness of your heart\nwill kindle theirs, and, on the other, your end will not be reduced\nto nothingness by their unworthiness. The gravity of your principles\nwill keep them off from you, but in play they will still endure\nthem. Their taste is purer than their heart, and it is by their\ntaste you must lay hold of this suspicious fugitive. In vain will\nyou combat their maxims, in vain will you condemn their actions; but\nyou can try your moulding hand on their leisure. Drive away caprice,\nfrivolity, and coarseness, from their pleasures, and you will banish\nthem imperceptibly from their acts, and at length from their\nfeelings. Everywhere that you meet them, surround them with great,\nnoble, and ingenious forms; multiply around them the symbols of\nperfection, till appearance triumphs over reality, and art over\nnature.\n\nLETTER X.\n\nConvinced by my preceding letters, you agree with me on this point,\nthat man can depart from his destination by two opposite roads, that\nour epoch is actually moving on these two false roads, and that it\nhas become the prey, in one case, of coarseness, and elsewhere of\nexhaustion and de pravity. It is the beautiful that must bring it\nback from this twofold departure. But how can the cultivation of the\nfine arts remedy, at the same time, these opposite defects, and\nunite in itself two contradictory qualities? Can it bind nature in\nthe savage, and set it free in the barbarian? Can it at once tighten\na spring and loose it, and if it cannot produce this double effect,\nhow will it be reasonable to expect from it so important a result as\nthe education of man?\n\nIt may be urged that it is almost a proverbial adage that the\nfeeling developed by the beautiful refines manners, and any new\nproof offered on the subject would appear superfluous. Men base this\nmaxim on daily experience, which shows us almost always clearness of\nintellect, deli cacy of feeling, liberality and even dignity of\nconduct, associated with a cultivated taste, while an uncultivated\ntaste is almost always accompanied by the opposite qualities. With\nconsiderable assurance, the most civilised nation of antiquity is\ncited as an evidence of this, the Greeks, among whom the perception\nof the beautiful attained its highest development, and, as a\ncontrast, it is usual to point to nations in a partial savage state,\nand partly barbarous, who expiate their insensibility to the\nbeautiful by a coarse or, at all events, a hard austere character.\nNevertheless, some thinkers are tempted occasionally to deny either\nthe fact itself or to dispute the legitimacy of the consequences\nthat are derived from it. They do not entertain so unfavourable an\nopinion of that savage coarseness which is made a reproach in the\ncase of certain nations; nor do they form so advantageous an opinion\nof the refinement so highly lauded in the case of cultivated\nnations. Even as far back as in antiquity there were men who by no\nmeans regarded the culture of the liberal arts as a benefit, and who\nwere consequently led to forbid the entrance of their republic to\nimagination.\n\nI do not speak of those who calumniate art, because they have never\nbeen favoured by it. These persons only appreciate a possession by\nthe trouble it takes to acquire it, and by the profit it brings; and\nhow could they properly appreciate the silent labour of taste in the\nexterior and in terior man? How evident it is that the accidental\ndisadvantages attending liberal culture would make them lose sight\nof its essential advantages! The man deficient in form despises the\ngrace of diction as a means of corruption, courtesy in the social\nrelations as dissimulation, delicacy and generosity in conduct as an\naffected exaggeration. He cannot forgive the favourite of the Graces\nfor having enlivened all assemblies as a man of the world, of having\ndirected all men to his views like a statesman, and of giving his\nimpress to the whole century as a writer; while he, the victim of\nlabour, can only obtain, with all his learning, the least attention\nor overcome the least difficulty. As he cannot learn from his\nfortunate rival the secret of pleasing, the only course open to him\nis to deplore the corruption of human nature, which adores rather\nthe appearance than the reality.\n\nBut there are also opinions deserving respect, that pronounce\nthemselves adverse to the effects of the beautiful, and find\nformidable arms in experience, with which to wage war against it.\n\"We are free to admit\"--such is their language--\"that the charms of\nthe beautiful can further honourable ends in pure hands; but it is\nnot repugnant to its nature to produce, in impure hands, a directly\ncontrary effect, and to employ in the service of injustice and error\nthe power that throws the soul of man into chains. It is exactly\nbecause taste only attends to the form and never to the substance;\nit ends by placing the soul on the dangerous incline, leading it to\nneglect all reality and to sacrifice truth and morality to an\nattractive envelope. All the real difference of things vanishes, and\nit is only the appearance that determines their value! How many men\nof talent\"--thus these arguers proceed--\"have been turned aside from\nall effort by the seductive power of the beautiful, or have been led\naway from all serious exercise of their activity, or have been\ninduced to use it very feebly? How many weak minds have been\nimpelled to quarrel with the organisation of society, simply because\nit has pleased the imagination of poets to present the image of a\nworld constituted differently, where no propriety chains down\nopinion and no artifice helds nature in thraldom? What a dangerous\nlogic of the passions they have learned since the poets have painted\nthem in their pictures in the most brilliant colours and since, in\nthe contest with law and duty, they have commonly re mained masters\nof the battlefield. What has society gained by the relations of\nsociety, formerly under the sway of truth, being now subject to the\nlaws of the beautiful, or by the external impression deciding the\nestimation in which merit is to be held? We admit that all virtues\nwhose appearance produces an agreeable effect are now seen to\nflourish, and those which, in society, give a value to the man who\npossesses them. But, as a compensation, all kinds of excesses are\nseen to prevail, and all vices are in vogue that can be reconciled\nwith a graceful exterior.\" It is certainly a matter entitled to\nreflection that, at almost all the periods of history when art\nflourished and taste held sway, humanity is found in a state of\ndecline; nor can a single instance be cited of the union of a large\ndiffusion of aesthetic culture with political liberty and social\nvirtue, of fine manners associated with good morals, and of\npoliteness fraternising with truth and loyalty of character and\nlife.\n\nAs long as Athens and Sparta preserved their independence, and as\nlong as their institutions were based on respect for the laws, taste\ndid not reach its maturity, art remained in its infancy, and beauty\nwas far from exer cising her empire over minds. No doubt, poetry had\nalready taken a sublime flight, but it was on the wings of genius,\nand we know that genius borders very closely on savage coarseness,\nthat it is a light which shines readily in the midst of darkness,\nand which therefore often argues against rather than in favour of\nthe taste of the time. When the golden age of art appears under\nPericles and Alexander, and the sway of taste becomes more general,\nstrength and liberty have abandoned Greece; eloquence corrupts the\ntruth, wisdom offends it on the lips of Socrates, and virtue in the\nlife of Phocion. It is well known that the Romans had to exhaust\ntheir energies in civil wars, and, corrupted by Oriental luxury, to\nbow their heads under the yoke of a fortunate despot, before Grecian\nart triumphed over the stiffness of their character. The same was\nthe case with the Arabs: civilisation only dawned upon them when the\nvigour of their military spirit became softened under the sceptre of\nthe Abbassides. Art did not appear in modern Italy till the glorious\nLombard League was dissolved, Florence submitting to the Medici, and\nall those brave cities gave up the spirit of independ ence for an\ninglorious resignation. It is almost super fluous to call to mind\nthe example of modern nations, with whom refinement has increased in\ndirect proportion to the decline of their liberties. Wherever we\ndirect our eyes in past times, we see taste and freedom mutually\navoiding each other. Everywhere we see that the beautiful only\nfounds its sway on the ruins of heroic virtues.\n\nAnd yet this strength of character, which is commonly sacrificed to\nestablish aesthetic culture, is the most power ful spring of all\nthat is great and excellent in man, and no other advantage, however\ngreat, can make up for it. Accordingly, if we only keep to the\nexperiments hitherto made, as to the influence of the beautiful, we\ncannot certainly be much encouraged in developing feelings so\ndangerous to the real culture of man. At the risk of being hard and\ncoarse, it will seem preferable to dispense with this dissolving\nforce of the beautiful, rather than see human nature a prey to its\nenervating influence, notwithstanding all its refining advantages.\nHowever, experience is perhaps not the proper tribunal at which to\ndecide such a question; before giving so much weight to its\ntestimony, it would be well to inquire if the beauty we have been\ndiscussing is the power that is condemned by the previous examples.\nAnd the beauty we are discussing seems to assume an idea of the\nbeautiful derived from a source different from experience, for it is\nthis higher notion of the beautiful which has to decide if what is\ncalled beauty by experience is entitled to the name.\n\nThis pure and rational idea of the beautiful--supposing it can be\nplaced in evidence--cannot be taken from any real and special case,\nand must, on the contrary, direct and give sanction to our judgment\nin each special case. It must therefore be sought for by a process\nof abstraction, and it ought to be deduced from the simple\npossibility of a nature both sensuous and rational; in short, beauty\nought to present itself as a necessary condition of humanity. It is\ntherefore essential that we should rise to the pure idea of\nhumanity, and as experience shows us nothing but individuals, in\nparticular cases, and never humanity at large, we must endeavour to\nfind in their individual and variable mode of being the absolute and\nthe permanent, and to grasp the necessary conditions of their\nexistence, suppressing all accidental limits. No doubt this\ntranscendental procedure will remove us for some time from the\nfamiliar circle of phaenomena and the living presence of objects, to\nkeep us on the unproductive ground of abstract ideas; but we are\nengaged in the search after a principle of knowledge solid enough\nnot to be shaken by anything, and the man who does not dare to rise\nabove reality will never conquer this truth.\n\nLETTER XI.\n\nIf abstraction rises to as great an eievation as possible, it\narrives at two primary ideas, before which it is obliged to stop and\nto recognise its limits. It distinguishes in man something that\ncontinues, and something that changes in cessantly. That which\ncontinues it names his person; that which changes his position, his\ncondition.\n\nThe person and the condition, I and my determinations, which\nwe represent as one and the same thing in the neces sary being,\nare eternally distinct in the finite being. Not withstanding\nall continuance in the person, the condition changes; in spite of\nall change of condition, the person remains. We pass from rest to\nactivity, from emotion to indifference, from assent to contradiction,\nbut we are always we ourselves, and what immediately springs from\nourselves remains. It is only in the absolute subject that all his\ndeterminations continue with his personality. All that Divinity is,\nit is because it is so; consequently it is eternally what\nit is, because it is eternal.\n\nAs the person and the condition are distinct in man, be cause he is\na finite being, the condition cannot be founded on the person, nor\nthe person on the condition. Admitting the second case, the person\nwould have to change; and in the former case, the condition would\nhave to continue. Thus in either supposition either the personality\nor the quality of a finite being would necessarily cease. It is not\nbecause we think, feel, and will, that we are; it is not because we\nare that we think, feel, and will. We are because we are. We feel,\nthink, and will, because there is out of us something that is not\nourselves.\n\nConsequently the person must have its principle of exist ence in\nitself because the permanent cannot be derived from the changeable,\nand thus we should be at once in possession of the idea of the\nabsolute being, founded on itself; that is to say, of the idea of\nfreedom. The condition must have a foundation, and as it is not\nthrough the person, and is not therefore absolute, it must be a\nsequence and a result; and thus, in the second place, we should have\narrived at the condition of every dependent being, of everything in\nthe process of becoming something else: that is, of the idea of\ntime. \"Time is the necessary condition of all processes, of becoming\n(werden);\" this is an indentical proposition, for it says nothing\nbut this: \"That something may follow, there must be a succession.\"\n\nThe person which manifests itself in the eternally continuing Ego,\nor I myself, and only in him, cannot become something or begin in\ntime, because it is much rather time that must begin with him,\nbecause the permanent must serve as basis to the changeable. That\nchange may take place, something must change; this something cannot\ntherefore be the change itself. When we say the flower opens and\nfades, we make of this flower a permanent being in the midst of this\ntransformation; we lend it, in some sort, a personality, in which\nthese two conditions are manifested. It cannot be objected that man\nis born, and becomes something; for man is not only a person simply,\nbut he is a person finding himself in a determinate condition. Now\nour determinate state of condition springs up in time, and it is\nthus that man, as a phenomenon or appearance, must have a beginning,\nthough in him pure intelligence is eternal. Without time, that is,\nwithout a becoming, he would not be a determinate being; his\npersonality would exist virtually, no doubt, but not in action. It\nis not by the succession of its perceptions that the immutable Ego\nor person manifests himself to himself.\n\nThus, therefore, the matter of activity, or reality, that the\nsupreme intelligence draws from its own being, must be received by\nman; and he does, in fact, receive it, through the medium of\nperception, as something which is outside him in space, and which\nchanges in him in time. This matter which changes in him is always\naccompanied by the Ego, the personality, that never changes; and the\nrule prescribed for man by his rational nature is to remain\nimmutably himself in the midst of change, to refer all perceptions\nto experience, that is, to the unity of knowledge, and to make of\neach of its manifestations of its modes in time the law of all time.\nThe matter only exists in as far as it changes; he, his personality,\nonly exists in as far as he does not change. Consequently,\nrepresented in his perfection, man would be the permanent unity,\nwhich remains always the same, among the waves of change.\n\nNow, although an infinite being, a divinity could not become (or be\nsubject to time), still a tendency ought to be named divine which\nhas for its infinite end the most characteristic attribute of the\ndivinity; the absolute manifestation of power--the reality of all\nthe possible--and the absolute unity of the manifestation (the\nnecessity of all reality). It cannot be disputed that man bears\nwithin himself, in his personality, a predisposition for divinity.\nThe way to divinity--if the word \"way\" can be applied to what never\nleads to its end-is open to him in every direction.\n\nConsidered in itself and independently of all sensuous matter, his\npersonality is nothing but the pure virtuality of a possible\ninfinite manifestation, and so long as there is neither intuition\nnor feeling, it is nothing more than a form, an empty power.\nConsidered in itself, and independently of all spontaneous activity\nof the mind, sensuousness can only make a material man; without it,\nit is a pure form; but it cannot in any way establish a union\nbetween matter and it. So long as he only feels, wishes, and acts\nunder the influence of desire, he is nothing more than the world, if\nby this word we point out only the formless contents of time.\nWithout doubt, it is only his sensuousness that makes his strength\npass into efficacious acts, but it is his personality alone that\nmakes this activity his own. Thus, that he may not only be a world,\nhe must give form to matter, and in order not to be a mere form, he\nmust give reality to the virtuality that he bears in him. He gives\nmatter to form by creating time, and by opposing the immutable to\nchange, the diversity of the world to the eternal unity of the Ego.\nHe gives a form to matter by again suppressing time, by maintaining\npermanence in change, and by placing the diversity of the world\nunder the unity of the Ego.\n\nNow from this source issue for man two opposite exigencies, the two\nfundamental laws of sensuous-rational nature. The first has for its\nobject absolute reality; it must make a world of what is only form,\nmanifest all that in it is only a force. The second law has for its\nobject absolute formality; it must destroy in him all that is only\nworld, and carry out harmony in all changes. In other terms, he must\nmanifest all that is internal, and give form to all that is\nexternal. Considered in its most lofty accomplishment, this twofold\nlabour brings us back to the idea of humanity which was my starting-\npoint.\n\nLETTER XII.\n\nThis twofold labour or task, which consists in making the necessary\npass into reality in us and in making out of us reality subject to\nthe law of necessity, is urged upon us as a duty by two opposing\nforces, which are justly styled impulsions or instincts, because\nthey impel us to realise their object. The first of these\nimpulsions, which I shall call the sensuous instinct, issues from\nthe physical existence of roan, or from sensuous nature; and it is\nthis instinct which tends to enclose him in the limits of time and\nto make of him a material being; I do not say to give him matter,\nfor to do that a certain free activity of the personality would be\nnecessary, which, receiving matter, distinguishes it from the Ego,\nor what is permanent. By matter I only understand in this place the\nchange or reality that fills time. Consequently the instinct\nrequires that there should be change, and that time should contain\nsomething. This simply filled state of time is named sensation, and\nit is only in this state that physical existence manifests itself.\n\nAs all that is in time is successive, it follows by that fact alone\nthat something is: all the remainder is excluded. When one note on\nan instrument is touched, among all those that it virtually offers,\nthis note alone is real. When man is actually modified, the infinite\npossibility of all his modifications is limited to this single mode\nof existence. Thus, then, the exclusive action of sensuous impulsion\nhas for its necessary consequence the narrowest limitation. In this\nstate man is only a unity of magnitude, a complete moment in time;\nor, to speak more correctly, he is not, for his personality is\nsuppressed as long as sensation holds sway over him and carries time\nalong with it.\n\nThis instinct extends its domains over the entire sphere of the\nfinite in man, and as form is only revealed in matter, and the\nabsolute by means of its limits, the total manifestation of human\nnature is connected on a close analysis with the sensuous instinct.\nBut though it is only this instinct that awakens and develops what\nexists virtually in man, it is nevertheless this very instinct which\nrenders his perfection impossible. It binds down to the world of\nsense by indestructible ties the spirit that tends higher and it\ncalls back to the limits of the present, abstraction Which had its\nfree development in the sphere of the infinite. No doubt, thought\ncan escape it for a moment, and a firm will victoriously resists its\nexigencies; but soon compressed nature resumes her rights to give an\nimperious reality to our existence, to give it contents, substance,\nknowledge, and an aim for our activity.\n\nThe second impulsion, which may be named the formal instinct, issues\nfrom the absolute existence of man, or from his rational nature, and\ntends to set free, and bring harmony into the diversity of its\nmanifestations, and to maintain personality notwithstanding all the\nchanges of state. As this personality, being an absolute and\nindivisible unity, can never be in contradiction with itself, as we\nare ourselves for ever, this impulsion, which tends to maintain\npersonality, can never exact in one time anything but what it exacts\nand requires for ever. It therefore decides for always what it\ndecides now, and orders now what it orders for ever. Hence it\nembraces the whole series of times, or what comes to the same thing,\nit suppresses time and change. It wishes the real to be necessary\nand eternal, and it wishes the eternal and the necessary to be real;\nin other terms, it tends to truth and justice.\n\nIf the sensuous instinct only produces ACCIDENTS, the formal\ninstinct gives laws, laws for every judgment when it is a question\nof knowledge, laws for every will when it is a question of action.\nWhether, therefore, we recognise an object or conceive an objective\nvalue to a state of the subject, whether we act in virtue of\nknowledge or make of the objective the determining principle of our\nstate; in both cases we withdraw this state from the jurisdiction of\ntime, and we attribute to it reality for all men and for all time,\nthat is, universality and necessity. Feeling can only say: \"That is\ntrue FOR THIS SUBJECT AND AT THIS MOMENT,\" and there may come\nanother moment, another subject, which withdraws the affirmation\nfrom the actual feeling. But when once thought pronounces and says:\n\"THAT IS\" it decides for ever and ever, and the validity of its\ndecision is guaranteed by the personality itself, which defies all\nchange. Inclination can only say: \"That is good FOR YOUR\nINDIVIDUALITY and PRESENT NECESSITY?\" but the changing current of\naffairs will sweep them away, and what you ardently desire to-day\nwill form the object of your aversion to-morrow. But when the moral\nfeeling says: \"That ought to be,\" it decides for ever. If you\nconfess the truth because it is the truth, and if you practice\njustice because it is justice, you have made of a particular case\nthe law of all possible cases, and treated one moment of your life\nas eternity.\n\nAccordingly, when the formal impulse holds sway and the pure object\nacts in us, the being attains its highest expansion, all barriers\ndisappear, and from the unity of magnitude in which man was enclosed\nby a narrow sensuousness, he rises to the UNITY OF IDEA, which\nembraces and keeps subject the entire sphere of phenomena. During\nthis operation we are no longer in time, but time is in us with its\ninfinite succession. We are no longer individuals but a species; the\njudgment of all spirits is expressed by our own, and the choice of\nall hearts is represented by our own act.\n\nLETTER XIII.\n\nOn a first survey, nothing appears more opposed than these two\nimpulsions; one having for its object change, the other\nimmutability, and yet it is these two notions that exhaust the\nnotion of humanity, and a third FUNDAMENTAL IMPULSION, holding a\nmedium between them, is quite inconceivable. How then shall we re-\nestablish the unity of human nature, a unity that appears completely\ndestroyed by this primitive and radical opposition?\n\nI admit these two tendencies are contradictory, but it should be\nnoticed that they are not so in the SAME OBJECTS. But things that do\nnot meet cannot come into collision. No doubt the sensuous impulsion\ndesires change; but it does not wish that it should extend to\npersonality and its field, nor that there should be a change of\nprinciples. The formal impulsion seeks unity and permanence, but it\ndoes not wish the condition to remain fixed with the person, that\nthere should be identity of feeling. Therefore these two impulsions\nare not divided by nature, and if, nevertheless, they appear so, it\nis because they have become divided by transgressing nature freely,\nby ignoring themselves, and by confounding their spheres. The office\nof culture is to watch over them and to secure to each one its\nproper LIMITS; therefore culture has to give equal justice to both,\nand to defend not only the rational impulsion against the sensuous,\nbut also the latter against the former. Hence she has to act a\ntwofold part: first, to protect sense against the attacks of\nfreedom; secondly, to secure personality against the power of\nsensations. One of these ends is attained by the cultivation of the\nsensuous, the other by that of the reason.\n\nSince the world is developed in time, or change, the perfection of\nthe faculty that places men in relation with the world will\nnecessarily be the greatest possible mutability and extensiveness.\nSince personality is permanence in change, the perfection of this\nfaculty, which must be opposed to change, will be the greatest\npossible freedom of action (autonomy) and intensity. The more the\nreceptivity is developed under manifold aspects, the more it is\nmovable and offers surfaces to phaenomena, the larger is the part of\nthe world seized upon by man, and the more virtualities he develops\nin himself. Again, in proportion as man gains strength and depth,\nand depth and reason gain in freedom, in that proportion man TAKES\nIN a larger share of the world, and throws out forms outside\nhimself. Therefore his culture will consist, first, in placing his\nreceptivity on contact with the world in the greatest number of\npoints possible, and is raising passivity to the highest exponent on\nthe side of feeling; secondly, in procuring for the determining\nfaculty the greatest possible amount of independence, in relation to\nthe receptive power, and in raising activity to the highest degree\non the side of reason. By the union of these two qualities man will\nassociate the highest degree of self-spontaneity (autonomy) and of\nfreedom with the fullest plenitude of existence, and instead of\nabandoning himself to the world so as to get lost in it, he will\nrather absorb it in himself, with all the infinitude of its\nphenomena, and subject it to the unity of his reason.\n\nBut man can invert this relation, and thus fail in attaining his\ndestination in two ways. He can hand over to the passive force the\nintensity demanded by the active force; he can encroach by material\nimpulsion on the formal impulsion, and convert the receptive into\nthe determining power. He can attribute to the active force the\nextensiveness belonging to the passive force, he can encroach by the\nformal impulsion on the material impulsion, and substitute the\ndetermining for the receptive power. In the former case, he will\nnever be an Ego, a personality; in the second case, he will never be\na Non-Ego, and hence in both cases he will be NEITHER ONE NOR THE\nOTHER, consequently he will nothing.\n\nIn fact, if the sensuous impulsion becomes determining, if the\nsenses become law-givers, and if the world stifles personality, he\nloses as object what he gains in force. It may be said of man that\nwhen he is only the contents of time, he is not and consequently HE\nHAS no other contents. His condition is destroyed at the same time\nas his personality, because these are two correlative ideas, because\nchange presupposes permanence, and a limited reality implies an\ninfinite reality. If the formal impulsion becomes receptive, that\nis, if thought anticipates sensation, and the person substitutes\nitself in the place of the world, it loses as a subject and\nautonomous force what it gains as object, because immutability\nimplies change, and that to manifest itself also absolute reality\nrequires limits. As soon as man is only form, he has no form, and\nthe personality vanishes with the condition. In a word, it is only\ninasmuch as he is spontaneous, autonomous, that there is reality out\nof him, that he is also receptive; and it is only inasmuch as he is\nreceptive that there is reality in him, that he is a thinking force.\n\nConsequently these two impulsions require limits, and looked upon as\nforces, they need tempering; the former that it may not encroach on\nthe field of legislation, the latter that it may not invade the\nground of feeling. But this tempering and moderating the sensuous\nimpulsion ought not to be the effect of physical impotence or of a\nblunting of sensations, which is always a matter for contempt. It\nmust be a free act, an activity of the person, which by its moral\nintensity moderates the sensuous intensity, and by the sway of\nimpressions takes from them in depth what it gives them in surface\nor breadth. The character must place limits to temperament, for the\nsenses have only the right to lose elements if it be to the\nadvantage of the mind. In its turn, the tempering of the formal\nimpulsion must not result from moral impotence, from a relaxation of\nthought and will, which would degrade humanity. It is necessary that\nthe glorious source of this second tempering should be the fulness\nof sensations; it is necessary that sensuousness itself should\ndefend its field with a victorious arm and resist the violence that\nthe invading activity of the mind would do to it. In a word, it is\nnecessary that the material impulsion should be contained in the\nlimits of propriety by personality, and the formal impulsion by\nreceptivity or nature.\n\nLETTER XIV.\n\nWe have been brought to the idea of such a correlation between the\ntwo impulsions that the action of the one establishes and limits at\nthe same time the action of the other, and that each of them, taken\nin isolation, does arrive at its highest manifestation just because\nthe other is active.\n\nNo doubt this correlation of the two impulsions is simply a problem\nadvanced by reason, and which man will only be able to solve in the\nperfection of his being. It is in the strictest signification of the\nterm: the idea of his humanity; accordingly, it is an infinite to\nwhich he can approach nearer and nearer in the course of time, but\nwithout ever reaching it. \"He ought not to aim at form to the injury\nof reality, nor to reality to the detriment of the form. He must\nrather seek the absolute being by means of a determinate being, and\nthe determinate being by means of an infinite being. He must set the\nworld before him because he is a person, and he must be a person\nbecause he has the world before him. He must feel because he has a\nconsciousness of himself, and he must have a consciousness of\nhimself because he feels.\" It is only in conformity with this idea\nthat he is a man in the full sense of the word; but he cannot be\nconvinced of this so long as he gives himself up exclusively to one\nof these two impulsions, or only satisfies them one after the other.\nFor as long as he only feels, his absolute personality and existence\nremain a mystery to him, and as long as he only thinks, his\ncondition or existence in time escapes him. But if there were cases\nin which he could have at once this twofold experience in which he\nwould have the consciousness of his freedom and the feeling of his\nexistence together, in which he would simultaneously feel as matter\nand know himself as spirit, in such cases, and in such only, would\nhe have a complete intuition of his humanity, and the object that\nwould procure him this intuition would be a symbol of his\naccomplished destiny, and consequently serve to express the infinite\nto him--since this destination can only be fulfilled in the fulness\nof time.\n\nPresuming that cases of this kind could present themselves in\nexperience, they would awake in him a new impulsion, which,\nprecisely because the two other impulsions would co-operate in it,\nwould be opposed to each of them taken in isolation, and might, with\ngood grounds, be taken for a new impulsion. The sensuous impulsion\nrequires that there should be change, that time should have\ncontents; the formal impulsion requires that time should be\nsuppressed, that there should be no change. Consequently, the\nimpulsion in which both of the others act in concert--allow me to\ncall it the instinct of play, till I explain the term--the instinct\nof play would have as its object to suppress time in time to\nconciliate the state of transition or becoming with the absolute\nbeing, change with identity.\n\nThe sensuous instinct wishes to be determined, it wishes to receive\nan object; the formal instinct wishes to determine itself, it wishes\nto produce an object. Therefore the instinct of play will endeavor\nto receive as it would itself have produced, and to produce as it\naspires to receive.\n\nThe sensuous impulsion excludes from its subject all autonomy and\nfreedom; the formal impulsion excludes all dependence and passivity.\nBut the exclusion of freedom is physical necessity; the exclusion of\npassivity is moral necessity. Thus the two impulsions subdue the\nmind: the former to the laws of nature, the latter to the laws of\nreason. It results from this that the instinct of play, which unites\nthe double action of the two other instincts, will content the mind\nat once morally and physically. Hence, as it suppresses all that is\ncontingent, it will also suppress all coercion, and will set man\nfree physically and morally. When we welcome with effusion some one\nwho deserves our contempt, we feel painfully that nature is\nconstrained. When we have a hostile feeling against a person who\ncommands our esteem, we feel painfully the constraint of reason. But\nif this person inspires us with interest, and also wins our esteem,\nthe constraint of feeling vanishes together with the constraint of\nreason, and we begin to love him, that is to say, to play, to take\nrecreation, at once with our inclination and our esteem.\n\nMoreover, as the sensuous impulsion controls us physically, and the\nformal impulsion morally, the former makes our formal constitution\ncontingent, and the latter makes our material constitution\ncontingent, that is to say, there is contingence in the agreement of\nour happiness with our perfection, and reciprocally. The instinct of\nplay, in which both act in concert, will render both our formal and\nour material constitution contingent; accordingly, our perfection\nand our happiness in like manner. And on the other hand, exactly\nbecause it makes both of them contingent, and because the contingent\ndisappears with necessity, it will suppress this contingence in\nboth, and will thus give form to matter and reality to form. In\nproportion that it will lessen the dynamic influence of feeling and\npassion, it will place them in harmony with rational ideas, and by\ntaking from the laws of reason their moral constraint, it will\nreconcile them with the interest of the senses.\n\nLETTER XV.\n\nI approach continually nearer to the end to which I lead you, by a\npath offering few attractions. Be pleased to follow me a few steps\nfurther, and a large horizon will open up to you and a delightful\nprospect will reward you for the labour of the way.\n\nThe object of the sensuous instinct, expressed in a universal\nconception, is named Life in the widest acceptation: a conception\nthat expresses all material existence and all that is immediately\npresent in the senses. The object of the formal instinct, expressed\nin a universal conception, is called shape or form, as well in an\nexact as in an inexact acceptation; a conception that embraces all\nformal qualities of things and all relations of the same to the\nthinking powers. The object of the play instinct, represented in a\ngeneral statement, may therefore bear the name of living form; a\nterm that serves to describe all aesthetic qualities of phaenomena,\nand what people style, in the widest sense, beauty.\n\nBeauty is neither extended to the whole field of all living things\nnor merely enclosed in this field. A marble block, though it is and\nremains lifeless, can nevertheless become a living form by the\narchitect and sculptor; a man, though he lives and has a form, is\nfar from being a living form on that account. For this to be the\ncase, it is necessary that his form should be life, and that his\nlife should be a form. As long as we only think of his form, it is\nlifeless, a mere abstraction; as long as we only feel his life, it\nis without form, a mere impression. It is only when his form lives\nin our feeling, and his life in our understanding, he is the living\nform, and this will everywhere be the case where we judge him to be\nbeautiful.\n\nBut the genesis of beauty is by no means declared because we know\nhow to point out the component parts, which in their combination\nproduce beauty. For to this end it would be necessary to comprehend\nthat combination itself, which continues to defy our exploration, as\nwell as all mutual operation between the finite and the infinite.\nThe reason, on transcendental grounds, makes the following demand:\nThere shall be a communion between the formal impulse and the\nmaterial impulse-that is, there shall be a play instinct--because it\nis only the unity of reality with the form, of the accidental with\nthe necessary, of the passive state with freedom, that the\nconception of humanity is completed. Reason is obliged to make this\ndemand, because her nature impels her to completeness and to the\nremoval of all bounds; while every exclusive activity of one or the\nother impulse leaves human nature incomplete and places a limit in\nit. Accordingly, as soon as reason issues the mandate, \"a humanity\nshall exist,\" it proclaims at the same time the law, \"there shall be\na beauty.\" Experience can answer us if there is a beauty, and we\nshall know it as soon as she has taught us if a humanity can exist.\nBut neither reason nor experience can tell us how beauty can be, and\nhow a humanity is possible.\n\nWe know that man is neither exclusively matter nor exclusively\nspirit. Accordingly, beauty, as the consummation of humanity, can\nneither be exclusively mere life, as has been asserted by sharp-\nsighted observers, who kept too close to the testimony of\nexperience, and to which the taste of the time would gladly degrade\nit; Nor can beauty be merely form, as has been judged by speculative\nsophists, who departed too far from experience, and by philosophic\nartists, who were led too much by the necessity of art in explaining\nbeauty; it is rather the common object of both impulses, that is, of\nthe play instinct. The use of language completely justifies this\nname, as it is wont to qualify with the word play what is neither\nsubjectively nor objectively accidental, and yet does not impose\nnecessity either externally or internally. As the mind in the\nintuition of the beautiful finds itself in a happy medium between\nlaw and necessity, it is, because it divides itself between both,\nemancipated from the pressure of both. The formal impulse and the\nmaterial impulse are equally earnest in their demands, because one\nrelates in its cognition to things in their reality and the other to\ntheir necessity; because in action the first is directed to the\npreservation of life, the second to the preservation of dignity, and\ntherefore both to truth and perfection. But life becomes more\nindifferent when dignity is mixed up with it, and duty no longer\ncoerces when inclination attracts. In like manner the mind takes in\nthe reality of things, material truth, more freely and tranquilly as\nsoon as it encounters formal truth, the law of necessity; nor does\nthe mind find itself strung by abstraction as soon as immediate\nintuition can accompany it. In one word, when the mind comes into\ncommunion with ideas, all reality loses its serious value because it\nbecomes small; and as it comes in contact with feeling, necessity\nparts also with its serious value because it is easy.\n\nBut perhaps the objection has for some time occurred to you, Is not\nthe beautiful degraded by this, that it is made a mere play? and is\nit not reduced to the level of frivolous objects which have for ages\npassed under that name? Does it not contradict the conception of the\nreason and the dignity of beauty, which is nevertheless regarded as\nan instrument of culture, to confine it to the work of being a mere\nplay? and does it not contradict the empirical conception of play,\nwhich can coexist with the exclusion of all taste, to confine it\nmerely to beauty?\n\nBut what is meant by a MERE PLAY, when we know that in all\nconditions of humanity that very thing is play, and only that is\nplay which makes man complete and develops simultaneously his\ntwofold nature? What you style LIMITATION, according to your\nrepresentation of the matter, according to my views, which I have\njustified by proofs, I name ENLARGEMENT. Consequently, I should have\nsaid exactly the reverse: man is serious ONLY with the agreeable,\nwith the good, and with the perfect, but he PLAYS with beauty. In\nsaying this we must not indeed think of the plays that are in vogue\nin real life, and which commonly refer only to his material state.\nBut in real life we should also seek in vain for the beauty of which\nwe are here speaking. The actually present beauty is worthy of the\nreally, of the actually, present play-impulse; but by the ideal of\nbeauty, which is set up by the reason, an ideal of the play-instinct\nis also presented, which man ought to have before his eyes in all\nhis plays.\n\nTherefore, no error will ever be incurred if we seek the ideal of\nbeauty on the same road on which we satisfy our play-impulse. We can\nimmediately understand why the ideal form of a Venus, of a Juno, and\nof an Apollo, is to be sought not at Rome, but in Greece, if we\ncontrast the Greek population, delighting in the bloodless athletic\ncontests of boxing, racing, and intellectual rivalry at Olympia,\nwith the Roman people gloating over the agony of a gladiator. Now\nthe reason pronounces that the beautiful must not only be life and\nform, but a living form, that is, beauty, inasmuch as it dictates to\nman the twofold law of absolute formality and absolute reality.\nReason also utters the decision that man shall only PLAY with\nbeauty, and he SHALL ONLY PLAY with BEAUTY.\n\nFor, to speak out once for all, man only plays when in the full\nmeaning of the word he is a man, and HE IS ONLY COMPLETELY A MAN\nWHEN HE PLAYS. This proposition, which at this moment perhaps\nappears paradoxical, will receive a great and deep meaning if we\nhave advanced far enough to apply it to the twofold seriousness of\nduty and of destiny. I promise you that the whole edifice of\naesthetic art and the still more difficult art of life will be\nsupported by this principle. But this proposition is only unexpected\nin science; long ago it lived and worked in art and in the feeling\nof the Greeks, her most accomplished masters; only they removed to\nOlympus what ought to have been preserved on earth. Influenced by\nthe truth of this principle, they effaced from the brow of their\ngods the earnestness and labour which furrow the cheeks of mortals,\nand also the hollow lust that smoothes the empty face. They set free\nthe ever serene from the chains of every purpose, of every duty, of\nevery care, and they made INDOLENCE and INDIFFERENCE the envied\ncondition of the godlike race; merely human appellations for the\nfreest and highest mind. As well the material pressure of natural\nlaws as the spiritual pressure of moral laws lost itself in its\nhigher idea of necessity, which embraced at the same time both\nworlds, and out of the union of these two necessities issued true\nfreedom. Inspired by this spirit, the Greeks also effaced from the\nfeatures of their ideal, together with DESIRE or INCLINATION, all\ntraces of VOLITION, or, better still, they made both unrecognisable,\nbecause they knew how to wed them both in the closest alliance. It\nis neither charm nor is it dignity which speaks from the glorious\nface of the Juno Ludovici; it is neither of these, for it is both at\nonce. While the female god challenges our veneration, the godlike\nwoman at the same time kindles our love. But while in ecstacy we\ngive ourselves up to the heavenly beauty, the heavenly self-repose\nawes us back. The whole form rests and dwells in itself--a fully\ncomplete creation in itself--and as if she were out of space,\nwithout advance or resistance; it shows no force contending with\nforce, no opening through which time could break in. Irresistibly\ncarried away and attracted by her womanly charm, kept off at a\ndistance by her godly dignity, we also find ourselves at length in\nthe state of the greatest repose, an4 the result is a wonderful\nimpression, for which the understanding has no idea and language no\nname.\n\nLETTER XVI.\n\nFrom the antagonism of the two impulsions, and from the association\nof two opposite principles, we have seen beauty to result, of which\nthe highest ideal must therefore be sought in the most perfect union\nand equilibrium possible of the reality and of the form. But this\nequilibrium remains always an idea that reality can never completely\nreach. In reality, there will always remain a preponderance of one\nof these elements over the other, and the highest point to which\nexperience can reach will consist in an oscillation between two\nprinciples, when sometimes reality and at others form will have the\nadvantage. Ideal beauty is therefore eternally one and indivisible,\nbecause there can only be one single equilibrium; on the contrary,\nexperimental beauty will be eternally double, because in the\noscillation the equilibrium may be destroyed in two ways--this side\nand that.\n\nI have called attention in the foregoing letters to a fact that can\nalso be rigorously deduced from the considerations that have engaged\nour attention to the present point; this fact is that an exciting\nand also a moderating action may be expected from the beautiful. The\nTEMPERING action is directed to keep within proper limits the\nsensuous and the formal impulsions; the EXCITING, to maintain both\nof them in their full force. But these two modes of action of beauty\nought to be completely identified in the idea. The beautiful ought\nto temper while uniformly exciting the two natures, and it ought\nalso to excite while uniformly moderating them. This result flows at\nonce from the idea of a correlation, in virtue of which the two\nterms mutually imply each other, and are the reciprocal condition\none of the other, a correlation of which the purest product is\nbeauty. But experience does not offer an example of so perfect a\ncorrelation. In the field of experience it will always happen more\nor less that excess on the one side will give rise to deficiency on\nthe other, and deficiency will give birth to excess. It results from\nthis that what in the beau-ideal is only distinct in the idea, is\ndifferent in reality in empirical beauty, The beau-ideal, though\nsimple and indivisible, discloses, when viewed in two different\naspects, on the one hand a property of gentleness and grace, and on\nthe other an energetic property; in experience there is a gentle and\ngraceful beauty, and there is an energetic beauty. It is so, and it\nwill be always so, so long as the absolute is enclosed in the limits\nof time, and the ideas of reason have to be realised in humanity.\nFor example, the intellectual man has the idea of virtue, of truth,\nand of happiness; but the active man will only practise VIRTUES,\nwill only grasp TRUTHS, and enjoy HAPPY DAYS. The business of\nphysical and moral education is to bring back this multiplicity to\nunity, to put morality in the place of manners, science in the place\nof knowledge; the business of aesthetic education is to make out of\nbeauties the beautiful.\n\nEnergetic beauty can no more preserve a man from a certain residue\nof savage violence and harshness than graceful beauty can secure him\nagainst a certain degree of effeminacy and weakness. As it is the\neffect of the energetic beauty to elevate the mind in a physical and\nmoral point of view and to augment its momentum, it only too often\nhappens that the resistance of the temperament and of the character\ndiminishes the aptitude to receive impressions, that the delicate\npart of humanity suffers an oppression which ought only to affect\nits grosser part, and that this course nature participates in an\nincrease of force that ought only to tun? to the account of free\npersonality. It is for this reason that at the periods when we find\nmuch strength and abundant sap in humanity, true greatness of\nthought is seen associated with what is gigantic and extravagant,\nand the sublimest feeling is found coupled with the most horrible\nexcess of passion. It is also the reason why, in the periods\ndistinguished for regularity and form, nature is as often oppressed\nas it is governed, as often outraged as it isi surpassed. And as the\naction of gentle and graceful beauty is to relax the mind in the\nmoral sphere as well as the physical, it happens quite as easily\nthat the energy of feelings is extinguished with the violence of\ndesires, and that character shares in the loss of strength which\nought only to affect the passions. This is the reason why, in ages\nassumed to be refined, it is not a rare thing to see gentleness\ndegenerate into effeminacy, politeness into platitude, correctness\ninto empty sterility, liberal ways into arbitrary caprice, ease into\nfrivolity, calm into apathy, and, lastly, a most miserable\ncaricature treads on the heels of the noblest, the most beautiful\ntype of humanity. Gentle and graceful beauty is therefore a want to\nthe man who suffers the constraint of matter and of forms, for he is\nmoved by grandeur and strength long before he becomes sensible to\nharmony and grace. Energetic beauty is a necessity to the man who is\nunder the indulgent sway of taste, for in his state of refinement he\nis only too much disposed to make light of the strength that he\nretained in his state of rude savagism.\n\nI think I have now answered and also cleared up the contradiction\ncommonly met in the judgments of men respecting the influence of the\nbeautiful, and the appreciation of aesthetic culture. This\ncontradiction is explained directly we remember that there are two\nsorts of experimental beauty, and that on both hands an affirmation\nis extended to the entire race, when it can only be proved of one of\nthe species. This contradiction disappears the moment we distinguish\na twofold want in humanity to which two kinds of beauty correspond.\nIt is therefore probable that both sides would make good their\nclaims if they come to an understanding respecting the kind of\nbeauty and the form of humanity that they have in view.\n\nConsequently in the sequel of my researches I shall adopt the course\nthat nature herself follows with man considered from the point of\nview of sesthetics, and setting out from the two kinds of beauty, I\nshall rise to the idea of the genus. I shall examine the effects\nproduced on man by the gentle and graceful beauty when its springs\nof action are in full play, and also those produced by energetic\nbeauty when they are relaxed. I shall do this to confound these two\nsorts of beauty in the unity of the beau-ideal, in the same way that\nthe two opposite forms and modes of being of humanity are absorbed\nin the unity of the ideal man.\n\nLETTER XVII.\n\nWhile we were only engaged in deducing the universal idea of beauty\nfrom the conception of human nature in general, we had only to\nconsider in the latter the limits established essentially in itself,\nand inseparable from the notion of the finite. Without attending to\nthe contingent restrictions that human nature may undergo in the\nreal world of phenomena, we have drawn the conception of this nature\ndirectly from reason, as a source of every necessity, and the ideal\nof beauty has been given us at the same time with the ideal of\nhumanity.\n\nBut now we are coming down from the region of ideas to the scene of\nreality, to find man in a DETERMINATE STATE, and consequently in\nlimits which are not derived from the pure conception of humanity,\nbut from external circumstances and from an accidental use of his\nfreedom. But although the limitation of the idea of humanity may be\nvery manifold in the individual, the contents of this idea suffice\nto teach us that we can only depart from it by TWO opposite roads.\nFor if the perfection of man consist in the harmonious energy of his\nsensuous and spiritual forces, he can only lack this perfection\nthrough the want of harmony and the want of energy. Thus then,\nbefore having received on this point the testimony of experience,\nreason suffices to assure us that we shall find the real and\nconsequently limited man in a state of tension or relaxation,\naccording as the exclusive activity of isolated forces troubles the\nharmony of his being, or as the unity of his nature is based on the\nuniform relaxation of his physical and spiritual forces. These\nopposite limits are, as we have now to prove, suppressed by the\nbeautiful, which re-establishes harmony in man when excited, and\nenergy in man when relaxed; and which, in this way, in conformity\nwith the nature of the beautiful, restores the state of limitation\nto an absolute state, and makes of man a whole, complete in himself.\n\nThus the beautiful by no means belies in reality the idea which we\nhave made of it in speculation; only its action is much less free in\nit than in the field of theory, where we were able to apply it to\nthe pure conception of humanity. In man, as experience shows him to\nus, the beautiful finds a matter, already damaged and resisting,\nwhich robs him in IDEAL perfection of what it communicates to him of\nits individual mode of being. Accordingly in reality the beautiful\nwill always appear a peculiar and limited species, and not as the\npure genus; in excited minds in the state of tension, it will lose\nits freedom and variety; in relaxed minds, it will lose its\nvivifying force; but we, who have become familiar with the true\ncharacter of this contradictory phenomenon, cannot be led astray by\nit. We shall not follow the great crowd of critics, in determining\ntheir conception by separate experiences, and to make them\nanswerable for the deficiencies which man shows under their\ninfluence. We know rather that it is man who transfers the\nimperfections of his individuality over to them, who stands\nperpetually in the way of their perfection by his subjective\nlimitation, and lowers their absolute ideal to two limited forms of\nphenomena.\n\nIt was advanced that soft beauty is for an unstrung mind, and the\nenergetic beauty for the tightly strung mind. But I apply the term\nunstrung to a man when he is rather under the pressure of feelings\nthan under the pressure of conceptions. Every exclusive sway of one\nof his two fundamental impulses is for man a state of compulsion and\nviolence, and freedom only exists in the co-operation of his two\nnatures. Accordingly, the man governed preponderately by feelings,\nor sensuously unstrung, is emancipated and set free by matter. The\nsoft and graceful beauty, to satisfy this twofold problem, must\ntherefore show herself under two aspects--in two distinct forms.\nFirst as a form in repose, she will tone down savage life, and pave\nthe way from feeling to thought. She will, secondly, as a living\nimage equip the abstract form with sensuous power, and lead back the\nconception to intuition and law to feeling. The former service she\ndoes to the man of nature, the second to the man of art. But because\nshe does not in both cases hold complete sway over her matter, but\ndepends on that which is furnished either by formless nature or\nunnatural art, she will in both cases bear traces of her origin, and\nlose herself in one place in material life and in another in mere\nabstract form.\n\nTo be able to arrive at a conception how beauty can become a means\nto remove this twofold relaxation, we must explore its source in the\nhuman mind. Accordingly, make up your mind to dwell a little longer\nin the region of speculation, in order then to leave it for ever,\nand to advance with securer footing on the ground of experience.\n\nLETTER XVIII.\n\nBy beauty the sensuous man is led to form and to thought; by beauty\nthe spiritual man is brought back to matter and restored to the\nworld of sense. From this statement it would appear to follow that\nbetween matter and form, between passivity and activity, there must\nbe a middle state, and that beauty plants us in this state. It\nactually happens that the greater part of mankind really form this\nconception of beauty as soon as they begin to reflect on its\noperations, and all experience I seems to point to this conclusion.\nBut, on the other hand, nothing is more unwarrantable and\ncontradictory than such a conception, because the aversion of matter\nand form, the passive and the active, feeling and thought, is\neternal and I cannot be mediated in any way. How can we remove this\ncontradiction? Beauty weds the two opposed conditions of feeling and\nthinking, and yet there is absolutely no medium between them. The\nformer is immediately certain through experience, the other through\nthe reason.\n\nThis is the point to which the whole question of beauty leads, and\nif we succeed in settling this point in a satisfactory way, we have\nat length found the clue that will conduct us through the whole\nlabyrinth of aesthetics.\n\nBut this requires two very different operations, which must\nnecessarily support each other in this inquiry. Beauty it is said,\nweds two conditions with one another which are opposite to each\nother, and can never be one. We must start from this opposition; we\nmust grasp and recognise them in their entire purity and strictness,\nso that both conditions are separated in the most definite matter;\notherwise we mix, but we do not unite them. Secondly, it is usual to\nsay, beauty unites those two opposed conditions, and therefore\nremoves the opposition. But because both conditions remain eternally\nopposed to one another, they cannot be united in any other way than\nby being suppressed. Our second business is therefore to make this\nconnection perfect, to carry them out with such purity and\nperfection that both conditions disappear entirely in a third one,\nand no trace of separation remains in the whole; otherwise we\nsegregate, but do not unite. All the disputes that have ever\nprevailed and still prevail in the philosophical world respecting\nthe conception of beauty have no other origin than their commencing\nwithout a sufficiently strict distinction, or that it is not carried\nout fully to a pure union. Those philosophers who blindly follow\ntheir feeling in reflecting on this topic can obtain no other\nconception of beauty, because they distinguish nothing separate in\nthe totality of the sensuous impression. Other philosophers, who\ntake the understanding as their exclusive guide, can never obtain a\nconception of beauty, because they never see anything else in the\nwhole than the parts, and spirit and matter remain eternally\nseparate, even in their most perfect unity. The first fear to\nsuppress beauty dynamically, that is, as a working power, if they\nmust separate what is united in the feeling. The others fear to\nsuppress beauty logically, that is, as a conception, when they have\nto hold together what in the understanding is separate. The former\nwish to think of beauty as it works; the latter wish it to work as\nit is thought. Both therefore must miss the truth; the former\nbecause they try to follow infinite nature with their limited\nthinking power; the others, because they wish to limit unlimited\nnature according to their laws of thought The first fear to rob\nbeauty of its freedom by a too strict dissection, the others fear to\ndestroy the distinctness of the conception by a too violent union.\nBut the former do not reflect that the freedom in which they very\nproperly place the essence of beauty is not lawlessness, but harmony\nof laws; not caprice, but the highest internal necessity. The others\ndo not remember that distinctness, which they with equal right\ndemand from beauty, does not consist in the exclusion of certain\nrealities, but the absolute including of all; that is not therefore\nlimitation, but infinitude. We shall avoid the quicksands on which\nboth have made shipwreck if we begin from the two elements in which\nbeauty divides itself before the understanding, but then afterwards\nrise to a pure aesthetic unity by which it works on feeling, and in\nwhich both those conditions completely disappear.\n\nLETTER XIX\n\nTwo principal and different states of passive and active capacity of\nbeing determined [Footnote: Bestimmbarkeit] can be distinguished in\nman; in like manner two states of passive and active determination.\n[Footnote: Bestimmung.] The explanation of this proposition leads us\nmost readily to our end.\n\nThe condition of the state of man before destination or direction is\ngiven him by the impressions of the senses is an unlimited capacity\nof being determined. The infinite of time and space is given to his\nimagination for its free use; and, because nothing is settled in\nthis kingdom of the possible, and therefore nothing is excluded from\nit, this state of absence of determination can be named an empty\ninfiniteness, which must not by any means be confounded with an\ninfinite void.\n\nNow it is necessary that his sensuous nature should be modified, and\nthat in the indefinite series of possible determinations one alone\nshould become real. One perception must spring up in it. That which,\nin the previous state of determinableness, was only an empty potency\nbecomes now an active force, and receives contents; but at the same\ntime, as an active force it receives a limit, after having been, as\na simple power, unlimited. Reality exists now, but the infinite has\ndisappeared. To describe a figure in space, we are obliged to limit\ninfinite space; to represent to ourselves a change in time, we are\nobliged to divide the totality of time. Thus we only arrive at\nreality by limitation, at the positive, at a real position, by\nnegation or exclusion; to determination, by the suppression of our\nfree determinableness.\n\nBut mere exclusion would never beget a reality, nor would a mere\nsensuous impression ever give birth to a perception, if there were\nnot something from which it was excluded, if by an absolute act of\nthe mind the negation were not referred to something positive, and\nif opposition did not issue out of non-position. This act of the\nmind is styled judging or thinking, and the result is named thought.\n\nBefore we determine a place in space, there is no space for us; but\nwithout absolute space we could never determine a place. The same is\nthe case with time. Before we have an instant, there is no time to\nus; but without infinite time--eternity--we should never have a\nrepresentation of the instant. Thus, therefore, we can only arrive\nat the whole by the part, to the unlimited through limitation; but\nreciprocally we only arrive at the part through the whole, at\nlimitation through the unlimited.\n\nIt follows from this, that when it is affirmed of beauty that it\nmediates for man, the transition from feeling to thought, this must\nnot be understood to mean that beauty can fill up the gap that\nseparates feeling from thought, the passive from the active. This\ngap is infinite; and, without the interposition of a new and\nindependent faculty, it is impossible for the general to issue from\nthe individual, the necessary from the contingent. Thought is the\nimmediate act of this absolute power, which, I admit, can only be\nmanifested in connection with sensuous impressions, but which in\nthis manifestation depends so little on the sensuous that it reveals\nitself specially in an opposition to it. The spontaneity or autonomy\nwith which it acts excludes every foreign influence; and it is not\nin as far as it helps thought--which comprehends a manifest\ncontradiction--but only in as far as it procures for the\nintellectual faculties the freedom to manifest themselves in\nconformity with their proper laws. It does it only because the\nbeautiful can become a means of leading man from matter to form,\nfrom feeling to laws, from a limited existence to an absolute\nexistence.\n\nBut this assumes that the freedom of the intellectual faculties can\nbe balked, which appears contradictory to the conception of an\nautonomous power. For a power which only receives the matter of its\nactivity from without can only be hindered in its action by the\nprivation of this matter, and consequently by way of negation; it is\ntherefore a misconception of the nature of the mind, to attribute to\nthe sensuous passions the power of oppressing positively the freedom\nof the mind. Experience does indeed present numerous examples where\nthe rational forces appear compressed in proportion to the violence\nof the sensuous forces. But instead of deducing this spiritual\nweakness from the energy of passion, this passionate energy must\nrather be explained by the weakness of the human mind. For the sense\ncan only have a sway such as this over man when the mind has\nspontaneously neglected to assert its power.\n\nYet in trying by these explanations to move one objection, I appear\nto have exposed myself to another, and I have only saved the\nautonomy of the mind at the cost of its unity. For how can the mind\nderive at the same time from itself the principles of inactivity and\nof activity, if it is not itself divided, and if it is not in\nopposition with itself?\n\nHere we must remember that we have before us, not the infinite mind,\nbut the finite. The finite mind is that which only becomes active\nthrough the passive, only arrives at the absolute through\nlimitation, and only acts and fashions in as far as it receives\nmatter. Accordingly, a mind of this nature must associate with the\nimpulse towards form or the absolute, an impulse towards matter or\nlimitation, conditions without which it could not have the former\nimpulse nor satisfy it. How can two such opposite tendencies exist\ntogether in the same being? This is a problem that can no doubt\nembarrass the metaphysician, but not the transcendental philosopher.\nThe latter does not presume to explain the possibility of things,\nbut he is satisfied with giving a solid basis to the knowledge that\nmakes us understand the possibility of experience. And as experience\nwould be equally impossible without this autonomy in the mind, and\nwithout the absolute unity of the mind, it lays down these two\nconceptions as two conditions of experience equally necessary\nwithout troubling itself any more to reconcile them. Moreover, this\nimmanence of two fundamental impulses does not in any degree\ncontradict the absolute unity of the mind, as soon as the mind\nitself, its selfhood, is distinguished from these two motors. No\ndoubt, these two impulses exist and act in it, but itself is neither\nmatter nor form, nor the sensuous nor reason, and this is a point\nthat does not seem always to have occurred to those who only look\nupon the mind as itself acting when its acts are in harmony with\nreason, and who declare it passive when its acts contradict reason.\n\nArrived at its development, each of these two fundamental impulsions\ntends of necessity and by its nature to satisfy itself; but\nprecisely because each of them has a necessary tendency, and both\nnevertheless have an opposite tendency, this twofold constraint\nmutually destroys itself, and the will preserves an entire freedom\nbetween them both. It is therefore the will that conducts itself\nlike a power--as the basis of reality--with respect to both these\nimpulses; but neither of them can by itself act as a power with\nrespect to the other. A violent man, by his positive tendency to\njustice, which never fails in him, is turned away from injustice;\nnor can a temptation of pleasure, however strong, make a strong\ncharacter violate its principles. There is in man no other power\nthan his will; and death alone, which destroys man, or some\nprivation of self-consciousness, is the only thing that can rob man\nof his internal freedom.\n\nAn external necessity determines our condition, our existence in\ntime, by means of the sensuous. The latter is quite involuntary,\nand directly it is produced in us, we are necessarily passive. In\nthe same manner an internal necessity awakens our personality in\nconnection with sensations, and by its antagonism with them; for\nconsciousness cannot depend on the will, which presupposes it. This\nprimitive manifestation of personality is no more a merit to us\nthan its privation is a defect in us. Reason can only be required\nin a being who is self-conscious, for reason is an absolute\nconsecutiveness and universality of consciousness; before this is\nthe case, he is not a man, nor can any act of humanity be expected\nfrom him. The metaphysician can no more explain the limitation\nimposed by sensation on a free and autonomous mind than the natural\nphilosopher can understand the infinite, which is revealed in\nconsciousness in connection with these limits. Neither abstraction\nnor experience can bring us back to the source whence issue our\nideas of necessity and of universality; this source is concealed in\nits origin in time from the observer, and its super-sensuous origin\nfrom the researches of the metaphysician. But, to sum up in a few\nwords, consciousness is there, and, together with its immutable\nunity, the law of all that is for man is established, as well as of\nall that is to be by man, for his understanding and his activity.\nThe ideas of truth and of right present themselves inevitable,\nincorruptible, immeasurable, even in the age of sensuousness; and\nwithout our being able to say why or how, we see eternity in time,\nthe necessary following the contingent. It is thus that, without any\nshare on the part of the subject, the sensation and self-consciousness\narise, and the origin of both is beyond our volition, as it is out\nof the sphere of our knowledge.\n\nBut as soon as these two faculties have passed into action, and man\nhas verified by experience, through the medium of sensation, a\ndeterminate existence, and through the medium of consciousness, its\nabsolute existence, the two fundamental impulses exert their\ninfluence directly their object is given. The sensuous impulse is\nawakened with the experience of life--with the beginning of the\nindividual; the rational impulsion with the experience of law--with\nthe beginning of his personality; and it is only when these two\ninclinations have come into existence that the human type is\nrealised. Up to that time, everything takes place in man according\nto the law of necessity; but now the hand of nature lets him go, and\nit is for him to keep upright humanity which nature places as a germ\nin his heart. And thus we see that directly the two opposite and\nfundamental impulses exercise their influence in him, both lose\ntheir constraint, and the autonomy of two necessities gives birth to\nfreedom. LETTER XX.\n\nThat freedom Is an active and not a passive principle results from\nits very conception; but that liberty itself should be an effect of\nnature (taking this word in its widest sense), and not the work of\nman, and therefore that it can be favoured or thwarted by natural\nmeans, is the necessary consequence of that which precedes. It\nbegins only when man is complete, and when these two fundamental\nimpulsions have been developed. It will then be wanting whilst he is\nincomplete, and while one of these impulsions is excluded, and it\nwill be re-established by all that gives back to man his integrity.\n\nThus it is possible, both with regard to the entire species as to\nthe individual, to remark the moment when man is yet incomplete, and\nwhen one of the two exclusions acts solely in him. We know that man\ncommences by life simply, to end by form; that he is more of an\nindividual than a person, and that he starts from the limited or\nfinite to approach the infinite. The sensuous impulsion comes into\nplay therefore before the rational impulsion, because sensation\nprecedes consciousness; and in this priority of sensuous impulsion\nwe find the key of the history of the whole of human liberty.\n\nThere is a moment, in fact, when the instinct of life, not yet\nopposed to the instinct of form, acts as nature and as necessity;\nwhen the sensuous is a power because man has not begun; for even in\nman there can be no other power than his will. But when man shall\nhave attained to the power of thought, reason, on the contrary, will\nbe a power, and moral or logical necessity will take the place of\nphysical necessity. Sensuous power must then be annihilated before\nthe law which must govern it can be established. It is not enough\nthat something shall begin which as yet was not; previously\nsomething must end which had begun. Man cannot pass immediately from\nsensuousness to thought. He must step backwards, for it is only when\none determination is suppressed that the contrary determination can\ntake place. Consequently, in order to exchange passive against\nactive liberty, a passive determination against an active, he must\nbe momentarily free from all determination, and must traverse a\nstate of pure determinability. He has then to return in some degree\nto that state of pure negative indetermination in which he was\nbefore his senses were affected by anything. But this state was\nabsolutely empty of all contents, and now the question is to\nreconcile an equal determination and a determinability equally\nwithout limit, with the greatest possible fulness, because from this\nsituation something positive must immediately follow. The\ndetermination which man received by sensation must be preserved,\nbecause he should not lose the reality; but at the same time, in so\nfar as finite, it should be suppressed, because a determinability\nwithout limit would take place. The problem consists then in\nannihilating the determination of the mode of existence, and yet at\nthe same time in preserving it, which is only possible in one way:\nin opposing to it another. The two sides of a balance are in\nequilibrium when empty; they are also in equilibrium when their\ncontents are of equal weight.\n\nThus, to pass from sensation to thought, the soul traverses a medium\nposition, in which sensibility and reason are at the same time\nactive, and thus they mutually destroy their determinant power, and\nby their antagonism produce a negation. This medium situation in\nwhich the soul is neither physically nor morally constrained, and\nyet is in both ways active, merits essentially the name of a free\nsituation; and if we call the state of sensuous determination\nphysical, and the state of rational determination logical or moral,\nthat state of real and active determination should be called the\naesthetic.\n\nLETTER XXI.\n\nI have remarked in the beginning of the foregoing letter that there\nis a twofold condition of determinableness and a twofold condition\nof determination. And now I can clear up this proposition.\n\nThe mind can be determined--is determinate--only in as far as it is\nnot determined; it is, however, determinable also, in as far as it\nis not exclusively determined; that is, if it is not confined in its\ndetermination. The former is only a want of determination--it is\nwithout limits, because it is without reality; but the latter, the\naesthetic determinableness, has no limits, because it unites all\nreality.\n\nThe mind is determined, inasmuch as it is only limited; but it is\nalso determined because it limits itself of its own absolute\ncapacity. It is situated in the former position when it feels, in\nthe second when it thinks. Accordingly the aesthetic constitution is\nin relation to determinableness what thought is in relation to\ndetermination. The latter is a negative from internal and infinite\ncompleteness, the former a limitation from internal infinite power.\nFeeling and thought come into contact in one single point, the mind\nis determined in both conditions, the man becomes something and\nexists--either as individual or person--by exclusion; in other cases\nthese two faculties stand infinitely apart. Just in the same manner,\nthe aesthetic determinableness comes in contact with the mere want\nof determination in a single point, by both excluding every distinct\ndetermined existence, by thus being in all other points nothing and\nall, and hence by being infinitely different. Therefore, if the\nlatter, in the absence of determination from deficiency, is\nrepresented as an empty infiniteness, the aesthetic freedom of\ndetermination, which forms the proper counterpart to the former, can\nbe considered, as a completed infiniteness; a representation which\nexactly agrees with the teachings of the previous investigations.\n\nMan is therefore nothing in the aesthetic state, if attention is\ngiven to the single result, and not to the whole faculty, and if we\nregard only the absence or want of every special determination. We\nmust therefore do justice to those who pronounce the beautiful, and\nthe disposition in which it places the mind, as entirely indifferent\nand unprofitable, in relation to knowledge and feeling. They are\nperfectly right; for it is certain that beauty gives no separate,\nsingle result, either for the understanding or for the will; it does\nnot carry out a single intellectual or moral object; it discovers no\ntruth, does not help us to fulfil a single duty, and, in one word,\nis equally unfit to found the character or to clear the head.\nAccordingly, the personal worth of a man, or his dignity, as far as\nthis can only depend on himself, remains entirely undetermined by\naesthetic culture, and nothing further is attained than that, on the\npart of nature, it is made profitable for him to make of himself\nwhat he will; that the freedom to be what he ought to be is restored\nperfectly to him.\n\nBut by this, something infinite is attained. But as soon as we\nremember that freedom is taken from man by the one-sided compulsion\nof nature in feeling, and by the exclusive legislation of the reason\nin thinking, we must consider the capacity restored to him by the\naesthetical disposition, as the highest of all gifts, as the gift of\nhumanity. I admit that he possesses this capacity for humanity,\nbefore every definite determination in which he may be placed. But\nas a matter of fact, he loses it with every determined condition,\ninto which he may come, and if he is to pass over to an opposite\ncondition, humanity must be in every case restored to him by the\naesthetic life.\n\nIt is therefore not only a poetical license, but also\nphilosophically correct, when beauty is named our second creator.\nNor is this inconsistent with the fact that she only makes it\npossible for us to attain and realise humanity, leaving this to our\nfree will. For in this she acts in common with our original creator,\nnature, which has imparted to us nothing further than this capacity\nfor humanity, but leaves the use of it to our own determination of\nwill.\n\nLETTER XXII.\n\nAccordingly, if the aesthetic disposition of the mind must be looked\nupon in one respect as nothing--that is, when we confine our view to\nseparate and determined operations--it must be looked upon in\nanother respect as a state of the highest reality, in as far as we\nattend to the absence of all limits and the sum of powers which are\ncommonly active in it. Accordingly we cannot pronounce them, again,\nto be wrong who describe the aesthetic state to be the most\nproductive in relation to knowledge and morality. They are perfectly\nright, for a state of mind which comprises the whole of humanity in\nitself must of necessity include in itself also--necessarily and\npotentially--every separate expression of it. Again, a disposition\nof mind that removes all limitation from the totality of human\nnature must also remove it from every social expression of the same.\nExactly because its \"aesthetic disposition\" does not exclusively\nshelter any separate function of humanity, it is favourable to all\nwithout distinction, nor does it favour any particular functions,\nprecisely because it is the foundation of the possibility of all.\nAll other exercises give to the mind some special aptitude, but for\nthat very reason give it some definite limits; only the aesthetical\nleads him to the unlimited. Every other condition, in which we can\nlive, refers us to a previous condition, and requires for its\nsolution a following condition; only the aesthetic is a complete\nwhole in itself, for it unites in itself all conditions of its\nsource and of its duration. Here alone we feel ourselves swept out\nof time, and our humanity expresses itself with purity and integrity\nas if it had not yet received any impression or interruption from\nthe operation of external powers.\n\nThat which flatters our senses in immediate sensation opens our weak\nand volatile spirit to every impression, but makes us in the same\ndegree less apt for exertion. That which stretches our thinking\npower and invites to abstract conceptions strengthens our mind for\nevery kind of resistance, but hardens it also in the same\nproportion, and deprives us of susceptibility in the same ratio that\nit helps us to greater mental activity. For this very reason, one as\nwell as the other brings us at length to exhaustion, because matter\ncannot long do without the shaping, constructive force, and the\nforce cannot do without the constructible material. But on the other\nhand, if we have resigned ourselves to the enjoyment of genuine\nbeauty, we are at such a moment of our passive and active powers in\nthe same degree master, and we shall turn with ease from grave to\ngay, from rest to movement, from submission to resistance, to\nabstract thinking and intuition.\n\nThis high indifference and freedom of mind, united with power and\nelasticity, is the disposition in which a true work of art ought to\ndismiss us, and there is no better test of true aesthetic\nexcellence. If after an enjoyment of this kind we find ourselves\nspecially impelled to a particular mode of feeling or action, and\nunfit for other modes, this serves as an infallible proof that we\nhave not experienced any pure aesthetic effect, whether this is\nowing to the object, to our own mode of feeling--as generally\nhappens--or to both together.\n\nAs in reality no purely aesthetical effect can be met with--for man\ncan never leave his dependence on material forces--the excellence of\na work of art can only consist in its greater approximation to its\nideal of aesthetic purity, and however high we may raise the freedom\nof this effect, we shall always leave it with a particular\ndisposition and a particular bias. Any class of productions or\nseparate work in the world of art is noble and excellent in\nproportion to the universality of the disposition and the unlimited\ncharacter of the bias thereby presented to our mind. This truth can\nbe applied to works in various branches of art, and also to\ndifferent works in the same branch. We leave a grand musical\nperformance with our feelings excited, the reading of a noble poem\nwith a quickened imagination, a beautiful statue or building with an\nawakened understanding; but a man would not choose an opportune\nmoment who attempted to invite us to abstract thinking after a high\nmusical enjoyment, or to attend to a prosaic affair of common life\nafter a high poetical enjoyment, or to kindle our imagination and\nastonish our feelings directly after inspecting a fine statue or\nedifice. The reason of this is that music, BY ITS MATTER, even when\nmost spiritual, presents a greater affinity with the senses than is\npermitted by aesthetic liberty; it is because even the most happy\npoetry, having FOR TIS MEDIUM the arbitrary and contingent play of\nthe imagination, always shares in it more than the intimate\nnecessity of the really beautiful allows; it is because the best\nsculpture touches on severe science BY WHAT IS DETERMINATE IN ITS\nCONCEPTION. However, these particular affinities are lost in\nproportion as the works of these three kinds of art rise to a\ngreater elevation, and it is a natural and necessary consequence of\ntheir perfection, that, without confounding their objective limits,\nthe different arts come to resemble each other more and more, in the\naction WHICH THEY EXERCISE ON THE MIND. At its highest degree of\nennobling, music ought to become a form, and act on us with the calm\npower of an antique statue; in its most elevated perfection, the\nplastic art ought to become music and move us by the immediate\naction exercised on the mind by the senses; in its most complete\ndevelopmentment, poetry ought both to stir us powerfully like music\nand like plastic art to surround us with a peaceful light. In each\nart, the perfect style consists exactly in knowing how to remove\nspecific limits, while sacrificing at the same time the particular\nadvantages of the art, and to give it by a wise use of what belongs\nto it specially a more general character.\n\nNor is it only the limits inherent in the specific character of each\nkind of art that the artist ought to overstep in putting his hand to\nthe work; he must also triumph over those which are inherent in the\nparticular subject of which he treats. In a really beautiful work of\nart, the substance ought to be inoperative, the form should do\neverything; for by the form, the whole man is acted on; the\nsubstance acts on nothing but isolated forces. Thus, however vast\nand sublime it may be, the substance always exercises a restrictive\naction on the mind, and true aesthetic liberty can only be expected\nfrom the form. Consequently the true search of the master consists\nin destroying matter by the form; and the triumph of art is great in\nproportion as it overcomes matter and maintains its sway over those\nwho enjoy its work. It is great particularly in destroying matter\nwhen most imposing, ambitious, and attractive, when therefore matter\nhas most power to produce the effect proper to it, or, again, when\nit leads those who consider it more closely to enter directly into\nrelation with it. The mind of the spectator and of the hearer must\nremain perfectly free and intact; it must issue pure and entire from\nthe magic circle of the artist, as from the hands of the Creator.\nThe most frivolous subject ought to be treated in such a way that we\npreserve the faculty to exchange it immediately for the most serious\nwork. The arts which have passion for their object, as a tragedy for\nexample, do not present a difficulty here; for, in the first place\nthese arts are not entirely free, because they are in the service of\na particular end (the pathetic), and then no connoisseur will deny\nthat even in this class a work is perfect in proportion as amidst\nthe most violent storms of passion it respects the liberty of the\nsoul. There is a fine art of passion, but an impassioned fine art is\na contradiction in terms, for the infallible effect of the beautiful\nis emancipation from the passions. The idea of an instructive fine\nart (didactic art) or improving (moral) art is no less contradictory,\nfor nothing agrees less with the idea of the beautiful than to give\na determinate tendency to the mind.\n\nHowever, from the fact that a work produces effects only by its\nsubstance, it must not always be inferred that there is a want of\nform in this work; this conclusion may quite as well testify to a\nwant of form in the observer. If his mind is too stretched or too\nrelaxed, if it is only accustomed to receive things either by the\nsenses or the intelligence, even in the most perfect combination, it\nwill only stop to look at the parts, and it will only see matter in\nthe most beautiful form. Only sensible of the coarse elements, he\nmust first destroy the aesthetic organisation of a work to find\nenjoyment in it, and carefully disinter the details which genius has\ncaused to vanish, with infinite art, in the harmony of the whole.\nThe interest he takes in the work is either solely moral or\nexclusively physical; the only thing wanting to it is to be exactly\nwhat it ought to be--aesthetical. The readers of this class enjoy a\nserious and pathetic poem as they do a sermon; a simple and playful\nwork, as an inebriating draught; and if on the one hand they have so\nlittle taste as to demand edification from a tragedy or from an\nepos, even such as the \"Messias,\" on the other hand they will be\ninfallibly scandalised by a piece after the fashion of Anacreon and\nCatullus.\n\nLETTER XXIII.\n\nI take up the thread of my researches, which I broke off only to\napply the principles I laid down to practical art and the\nappreciation of its works.\n\nThe transition from the passivity of sensuousness to the activity of\nthought and of will can be effected only by the intermediary state\nof aesthetic liberty; and though in itself this state decides\nnothing respecting our opinions and our sentiments, and therefore\nleaves our intellectual and moral value entirely problematical, it\nis, however, the necessary condition without which we should never\nattain to an opinion or a sentiment. In a word, there is no other\nway to make a reasonable being out of a sensuous man than by making\nhim first aesthetic.\n\nBut, you might object: Is this mediation absolutely indispensable?\nCould not truth and duty, one or the other, in themselves and by\nthemselves, find access to the sensuous man? To this I reply: Not\nonly is it possible, but it is I absolutely necessary that they owe\nsolely to themselves their determining force, and nothing would be\nmore contradictory to our preceding affirmations than to appear to\ndefend the contrary opinion. It has been expressly proved that the\nbeautiful furnishes no result, either for the comprehension or for\nthe will; that it mingles with no operations, either of thought or\nof resolution; and that it confers this double power without\ndetermining anything with regard to the real exercise of this power.\nHere all foreign help disappears, and the pure logical form, the\nidea, would speak immediately to the intelligence, as the pure moral\nform, the law, immediately to the will.\n\nBut that the pure form should be capable of it, and that there is in\ngeneral a pure form for sensuous man, is that, I maintain, which\nshould be rendered possible by the aesthetic disposition of the\nsoul. Truth is not a thing which can be received from without like\nreality or the visible existence of objects. It is the thinking\nforce, in his own liberty and activity, which produces it, and it is\njust this liberty proper to it, this liberty which we seek in vain\nin sensuous man. The sensuous man is already determined physically,\nand thenceforth he has no longer his free determinability; he must\nnecessarily first enter into possession of this lost determinability\nbefore he can exchange the passive against an active determination.\nTherefore, in order to recover it, he must either lose the passive\ndetermination that he had, or he should enclose already in Himself\nthe active determination to which he should pass. If he confined\nhimself to lose passive determination, he would at the same time\nlose with it the possibility of an active determination, because\nthought needs a body, and form can only be realised through matter.\nHe must therefore contain already in himself the active\ndetermination that he may be at once both actively and passively\ndetermined, that is to say, he becomes necessarily aesthetic.\n\nConsequently, by the aesthetic disposition of the soul the proper\nactivity of reason is already revealed in the sphere of\nsensuousness, the power of sense is already broken within its own\nboundaries, and the ennobling of physical man carried far enough,\nfor spiritual man has only to develop himself according to the laws\nof liberty. The transition from an aesthetic state to a logical and\nmoral state (from the beautiful to truth and duty) is then\ninfinitely more easy than the transition from the physical state to\nthe aesthetic state (from life pure and blind to form). This\ntransition man can effectuate alone by his liberty, whilst he has\nonly to enter into possession of himself not to give it himself; but\nto separate the elements of his nature, and not to enlarge it.\nHaving attained to the aesthetic disposition, man will give to his\njudgments and to his actions a universal value as soon as he desires\nit This passage from brute nature to beauty, in which an entirely\nnew faculty would awaken in him, nature would render easier, and his\nwill has no power over a disposition which, we know, itself gives\nbirth to the will. To bring the aesthetic man to profound views, to\nelevated sentiments, he requires nothing more than important\noccasions; to obtain the same thing from the sensuous man, his\nnature must at first be changed. To make of the former a hero, a\nsage, it is often only necessary to meet with a sublime situation,\nwhich exercises upon the faculty of the will the more immediate\naction; for the second, it must first be transplanted under another\nsky.\n\nOne of the most important tasks of culture, then, is to submit man\nto form, even in a purely physical life, and to render it aesthetic\nas far as the domain of the beautiful can be extended, for it is\nalone in the aesthetic state, and not in the physical state, that\nthe moral state can be developed. If in each particular case man\nought to possess the power to make his judgment and his will the\njudgment of the entire species; if he ought to find in each limited\nexistence the transition to an infinite existence; if, lastly, he\nought from every dependent situation to take his flight to rise to\nautonomy and to liberty, it must be observed that at no moment is he\nonly individual and solely obeys the law of nature. To be apt and\nready to raise himself from the narrow circle of the ends of nature,\nto rational ends, in the sphere of the former he must already have\nexercised himself in the second; he must already have realised his\nphysical destiny with a certain liberty that belongs only to\nspiritual nature, that is to say, according to the laws of the\nbeautiful.\n\nAnd that he can effect without thwarting in the least degree his\nphysical aim. The exigencies of nature with regard to him turn only\nupon what he does--upon the substance of his acts; but the ends of\nnature in no degree determine the way in which he acts, the form of\nhis actions. On the contrary, the exigencies of reason have\nrigorously the form of his activity for its object. Thus, so much as\nit is necessary for the moral destination of man, that he be purely\nmoral, that he shows an absolute personal activity, so much is he\nindifferent that his physical destination be entirely physical, that\nhe acts in a manner entirely passive. Henceforth with regard to this\nlast destination, it entirely depends on him to fulfil it solely as\na sensuous being and natural force (as a force which acts only as it\ndiminishes) or, at the same time, as absolute force, as a rational\nbeing. To which of these does his dignity best respond? Of this,\nthere can be no question. It is as disgraceful and contemptible for\nhim to do under sensuous impulsion that which he ought to have\ndetermined merely by the motive of duty, as it is noble and\nhonourable for him to incline towards conformity with laws, harmony,\nindependence; there even where the vulgar man only satisfies a\nlegitimate want. In a word, in the domain of truth and morality,\nsensuousness must have nothing to determine; but in the sphere of\nhappiness, form may find a place, and the instinct of play prevail.\n\nThus then, in the indifferent sphere of physical life, man ought to\nalready commence his moral life; his own proper activity ought\nalready to make way in passivity, and his rational liberty beyond\nthe limits of sense; he ought already to impose the law of his will\nupon his inclinations; he ought--if you will permit me the\nexpression--to carry into the domain of matter the war against\nmatter, in order to be dispensed from combatting this redoubtable\nenemy upon the sacred field of liberty; he ought to learn to have\nnobler desires, not to be forced to have sublime volitions. This is\nthe fruit of aesthetic culture, which submits to the laws of the\nbeautiful, in which neither the laws of nature nor those of reason\nsuffer, which does not force the will of man, and which by the form\nit gives to exterior life already opens internal life.\n\nLETTER XXIV.\n\nAccordingly three different moments or stages of development can be\ndistinguished, which the individual man, as well as the whole race,\nmust of necessity traverse in a determinate order if they are to\nfulfil the circle of their determination. No doubt, the separate\nperiods can be lengthened or shortened, through accidental causes\nwhich are inherent either in the influence of external things or\nunder the free caprice of men; but neither of them can be\noverstepped, and the order of their sequence cannot be inverted\neither by nature or by the will. Man, in his PHYSICAL condition,\nsuffers only the power of nature; he gets rid of this power in the\naesthetical condition, and he rules them in the moral state.\n\nWhat is man before beauty liberates him from free pleasure, and the\nserenity of form tames down the savageness of life? Eternally\nuniform in his aims, eternally changing in his judgments, self-\nseeking without being himself, unfettered without being free, a\nslave without serving any rule. At this period, the world is to him\nonly destiny, not yet an object; all has existence for him only in\nas far as it procures existence to him; a thing that neither seeks\nfrom nor gives to him is non-existent. Every phenomenon stands out\nbefore him, separate and cut off, as he finds himself in the series\nof beings. All that is, is to him through the bias of the moment;\nevery change is to him an entirely fresh creation, because with the\nnecessary IN HIM, the necessary OUT OF HIM is wanting, which binds\ntogether all the changing forms in the universe, and which holds\nfast the law on the theatre of his action, while the individual\ndeparts. It is in vain that nature lets the rich variety of her\nforms pass before him; he sees in her glorious fulness nothing but\nhis prey, in her power and greatness nothing but his enemy. Either\nhe encounters objects, and wishes to draw them to himself in desire,\nor the objects press in a destructive manner upon him, and he\nthrusts them away in dismay and terror. In both cases his relation\nto the world of sense is immediate CONTACT; and perpetually anxious\nthrough its pressure, restless and plagued by imperious wants, he\nnowhere finds rest except in enervation, and nowhere limits save in\nexhausted desire.\n\n    \"True, his is the powerful breast and the mighty hand of the\n       Titans...\n     A certain inheritance; yet the god welded\n     Round his forehead a brazen band;\n     Advice, moderation, wisdom, and patience,--\n     Hid it from his shy, sinister look.\n     Every desire is with him a rage,\n     And his rage prowls around limitless.\"--\"Iphigenia in Tauris\"\n\nIgnorant of his own human dignity, he is far removed from honouring\nit in others, and conscious of his own savage greed, he fears it in\nevery creature that he sees like himself. He never sees others in\nhimself, only himself in others, and human society, instead of\nenlarging him to the race, only shuts him up continually closer in\nhis individuality. Thus limited, he wanders through his sunless\nlife, till favouring nature rolls away the load of matter from his\ndarkened senses, reflection separates him from things, and objects\nshow themselves at length in the after-glow of the consciousness.\n\nIt is true we cannot point out this state of rude nature as we have\nhere portrayed it in any definite people and age. It is only an\nidea, but an idea with which experience agrees most closely in\nspecial features. It may be said that man was never in this animal\ncondition, but he has not, on the other hand, ever entirely escaped\nfrom it. Even in the rudest subjects, unmistakable traces of\nrational freedom can be found, and even in the most cultivated,\nfeatures are not wanting that remind us of that dismal natural\ncondition. It is possible for man, at one and the same time, to\nunite the highest and the lowest in his nature; and if his DIGNITY\ndepends on a strict separation of one from the other, his HAPPINESS\ndepends on a skilful removal of this separation. The culture which\nis to bring his dignity into agreement with his happiness will\ntherefore have to provide for the greatest purity of these two\nprinciples in their most intimate combination.\n\nConsequently the first appearance of reason in man is not the\nbeginning of humanity. This is first decided by his freedom, and\nreason begins first by making his sensuous dependence boundless; a\nphenomenon that does not appear to me to have been sufficiently\nelucidated, considering its importance and universality. We know\nthat the reason makes itself known to man by the demand for the\nabsolute--the self-dependent and necessary. But as this want of the\nreason cannot be satisfied in any separate or single state of his\nphysical life, he is obliged to leave the physical entirely and to\nrise from a limited reality to ideas. But although the true meaning\nof that demand of the reason is to withdraw him from the limits of\ntime and to lead him up from the world of sense to an ideal world,\nyet this same demand of reason, by a misapplication--scarcely to be\navoided in this age, prone to sensuousness--can direct him to\nphysical life, and, instead of making man free, plunge him in the\nmost terrible slavery.\n\nFacts verify this supposition. Man raised on the wings of\nimagination leaves the narrow limits of the present, in which mere\nanimality is enclosed, in order to strive on to an unlimited future.\nBut while the limitless is unfolded to his dazed IMAGINATION, his\nheart has not ceased to live in the separate, and to serve the\nmoment. The impulse towards the absolute seizes him suddenly in the\nmidst of his animality, and as in this cloddish condition all his\nefforts aim only at the material and temporal, and are limited by\nhis individuality, he is only led by that demand of the reason to\nextend his individuality into the infinite, instead of to abstract\nfrom it. He will be led to seek instead of form an inexhaustible\nmatter, instead of the unchangeable an everlasting change and an\nabsolute securing of his temporal existence. The same impulse which,\ndirected to his thought and action, ought to lead to truth and\nmorality, now directed to his passion and emotional state, produces\nnothing but an unlimited desire and an absolute want. The first\nfruits, therefore, that he reaps in the world of spirits, are cares\nand fear--both operations of the reason; not of sensuousness, but of\na reason that mistakes its object and applies its categorical\nimperative to matter. All unconditional systems of happiness are\nfruits of this tree, whether they have for their object the present\nday or the whole of life, or what does not make them any more\nrespectable, the whole of eternity, for their object. An unlimited\nduration of existence and of well-being is only an ideal of the\ndesires; hence a demand which can only be put forth by an animality\nstriving up to the absolute. Man, therefore, without gaining\nanything for his humanity by a rational expression of this sort,\nloses the happy limitation of the animal over which he now only\npossesses the unenviable superiority of losing the present for an\nendeavour after what is remote, yet without seeking in the limitless\nfuture anything but the present.\n\nBut even if the reason does not go astray in its object, or err in\nthe question, sensuousness will continue to falsify the answer for a\nlong time. As soon as man has begun to use his understanding and to\nknit together phenomena in cause and effect, the reason, according\nto its conception, presses on to an absolute knitting together and\nto an unconditional basis. In order merely to be able to put forward\nthis demand man must already have stepped beyond the sensuous, but\nthe sensuous uses this very demand to bring back the fugitive.\n\nIn fact it is now that he ought to abandon entirely the world of\nsense in order to take his flight into the realm of ideas; for the\nintelligence temains eternally shut up in the finite and in the\ncontingent, and does not cease putting questions without reaching\nthe last link of the chain. But as the man with whom we are engaged\nis not yet capable of such an abstraction, and does not find it in\nthe sphere of sensuous knowledge, and because he does not look for\nit in pure reason, he will seek for it below in the region of\nsentiment, and will appear to find it. No doubt the sensuous shows\nhim nothing that has its foundation in itself, and that legislates\nfor itself, but it shows him something that does not care for\nfoundation or law; therefore thus not being able to quiet the\nintelligence by showing it a final cause, he reduces it to silence\nby the conception which desires no cause; and being incapable of\nunderstanding the sublime necessity of reason, he keeps to the blind\nconstraint of matter. As sensuousness knows no other end than its\ninterest, and is determined by nothing except blind chance, it makes\nthe former the motive of its actions, and the latter the master of\nthe world.\n\nEven the divine part in man, the moral law, in its first\nmanifestation in the sensuous cannot avoid this perversion, As this\nmoral law is only prohibited and combats in man the interest of\nsensuous egotism, it must appear to him as something strange until\nhe has come to consider this self-love as the stranger, and the\nvoice of reason as his true self. Therefore he confines himself to\nfeeling the fetters which the latter imposes on him, without having\nthe consciousness of the infinite emancipation which it procures for\nhim. Without suspecting in himself the dignity of lawgiver, he only\nexperiences the constraint and the impotent revolt of a subject\nfretting under the yoke, because in this experience the sensuous\nimpulsion precedes the moral impulsion, he gives to the law of\nnecessity a beginning in him, a positive origin, and by the most\nunfortunate of all mistakes he converts the immutable and the\neternal in himself into a transitory accident He makes up his mind\nto consider the notions of the just and the unjust as statutes which\nhave been introduced by a will, and not as having in themselves an\neternal value. Just as in the explanation of certain natural\nphenomena he goes beyond nature and seeks out of her what can only\nbe found in her, in her own laws; so also in the explanation of\nmoral phenomena he goes beyond reason and makes light of his\nhumanity, seeking a god in this way. It is not wonderful that a\nreligion which he has purchased at the cost of his humanity shows\nitself worthy of this origin, and that he only considers as absolute\nand eternally binding laws that have never been binding from all\neternity. He has placed himself in relation with, not a holy being,\nbut a powerful. Therefore the spirit of his religion, of the homage\nthat he gives to God, is a fear that abases him, and not a\nveneration that elevates him in his own esteem.\n\nThough these different aberrations by which man departs from the\nideal of his destination cannot all take place at the same time,\nbecause several degrees have to be passed over in the transition\nfrom the obscure of thought to error, and from the obscure of will\nto the corruption of the will; these degrees are all, without\nexception, the consequence of his physical state, because in all the\nvital impulsion sways the formal impulsion. Now, two cases may\nhappen: either reason may not yet have spoken in man, and the\nphysical may reign over him with a blind necessity, or reason may\nnot be sufficiently purified from sensuous impressions, and the\nmoral may still be subject to the physical; in both cases the only\nprinciple that has a real power over him is a material principle,\nand man, at least as regards his ultimate tendency, is a sensuous\nbeing. The only difference is, that in the former case he is an\nanimal without reason, and in the second case a rational animal. But\nhe ought to be neither one nor the other: he ought to be a man.\nNature ought not to rule him exclusively; nor reason conditionally.\nThe two legislations ought to be completely independent and yet\nmutually complementary.\n\nLETTER XXV.\n\nWhilst man, in his first physical condition, is only passively\naffected by the world of sense, he is still entirely identified with\nit; and for this reason the external world, as yet, has no objective\nexistence for him. When he begins in his aesthetic state of mind to\nregard the world objectively, then only is his personality severed\nfrom it, and the world appears to him an objective reality, for the\nsimple reason that he has ceased to form an identical portion of it.\n\nThat which first connects man with the surrounding universe is the\npower of reflective contemplation. Whereas desire seizes at once its\nobject, reflection removes it to a distance and renders it\ninalienably her own by saving it from the greed of passion. The\nnecessity of sense which he obeyed during the period of mere\nsensations, lessens during the period of reflection; the senses are\nfor the time in abeyance; even ever-fleeting time stands still\nwhilst the scattered rays of consciousness are gathering and shape\nthemselves; an image of the infinite is reflected upon the\nperishable ground. As soon as light dawns in man, there is no longer\nnight outside of him; as soon as there is peace within him the storm\nlulls throughout the universe, and the contending forces of nature\nfind rest within prescribed limits. Hence we cannot wonder if\nancient traditions allude to these great changes in the inner man as\nto a revolution in surrounding nature, and symbolise thought\ntriumphing over the laws of time, by the figure of Zeus, which\nterminates the reign of Saturn.\n\nAs long as man derives sensations from a contact with nature, he is\nher slave; but as soon as he begins to reflect upon her objects and\nlaws he becomes her lawgiver. Nature, which previously ruled him as\na power, now expands before him as an object. What is objective to\nhim can have no power over him, for in order to become objective it\nhas to experience his own power. As far and as long as he impresses\na form upon matter, he cannot be injured by its effect; for a spirit\ncan only be injured by that which deprives it of its freedom.\nWhereas he proves his own freedom by giving a form to the formless;\nwhere the mass rules heavily and without shape, and its undefined\noutlines are for ever fluctuating between uncertain boundaries, fear\ntakes up its abode; but man rises above any natural terror as soon\nas he knows how to mould it, and transform it into an object of his\nart. As soon as he upholds his independence toward phaenomenal\nnature, he maintains his dignity toward her as a thing of power and\nwith a noble freedom he rises against his gods. They throw aside the\nmask with which they had kept him in awe during his infancy, and to\nhis surprise his mind perceives the reflection of his own image. The\ndivine monster of the Oriental, which roams about changing the world\nwith the blind force of a beast of prey, dwindles to the charming\noutline of humanity in Greek fable; the empire of the Titans is\ncrushed, and boundless force is tamed by infinite form.\n\nBut whilst I have been merely searching for an issue from the\nmaterial world and a passage into the world of mind, the bold flight\nof my imagination has already taken me into the very midst of the\nlatter world. The beauty of which we are in search we have left\nbehind by passing from the life of mere sensations to the pure form\nand to the pure object. Such a leap exceeds the condition of human\nnature; in order to keep pace with the latter we must return to the\nworld of sense. Beauty is indeed the sphere of unfettered\ncontemplation and reflection; beauty conducts us into the world of\nideas, without however taking us from the world of sense, as occurs\nwhen a truth is perceived and acknowledged. This is the pure product\nof a process of abstraction from everything material and accidental,\na pure object free from every subjective barrier, a pure state of\nself-activity without any admixture of passive sensations. There is\nindeed a way back to sensation from the highest abstraction; for\nthought teaches the inner sensation, and the idea of logical and\nmoral unity passes into a sensation of sensual accord. But if we\ndelight in knowledge we separate very accurately our own conceptions\nfrom our sensations; we look upon the latter as something\naccidental, which might have been omitted without the knowledge\nbeing impaired thereby, without truth being less true. It would,\nhowever, be a vain attempt to suppress this connection of the\nfaculty of feeling with the idea of beauty, consequently, we shall\nnot succeed in representing to ourselves one as the effect of the\nother, but we must look upon them both together and reciprocally as\ncause and effect. In the pleasure which we derive from knowledge we\nreadily distinguish the passage from the active to the passive\nstate, and we clearly perceive that the first ends when the second\nbegins. On the contrary, from the pleasure which we take in beauty,\nthis transition from the active to the passive is not perceivable,\nand reflection is so intimately blended with feeling that we believe\nwe feel the form immediately. Beauty is then an object to us, it is\ntrue, because reflection is the condition of the feeling which we\nhave of it; but it is also a state of our personality (our Ego),\nbecause the feeling is the condition of the idea we conceive of it:\nbeauty is therefore doubtless form, because we contemplate it, but\nit is equally life because we feel it. In a word, it is at once our\nstate and our act. And precisely because it is at the same time both\na state and an act, it triumphantly proves to us that the passive\ndoes not exclude the active, neither matter nor form, neither the\nfinite nor the infinite; and that consequently the physical\ndependence to which man is necessarily devoted does not in any way\ndestroy his moral liberty. This is the proof of beauty, and I ought\nto add that this ALONE can prove it. In fact, as in the possession\nof truth or of logical unity, feeling is not necessarily one with\nthe thought, but follows it accidentally; it is a fact which only\nproves that a sensitive nature can succeed a rational nature, and\nvice versa; not that they co-exist, that they exercise a reciprocal\naction one over the other, and lastly that they ought to be united\nin an absolute and necessary manner. From this exclusion of feeling\nas long as there is thought, and of thought so long as there is\nfeeling, we should on the contrary conclude that the two natures are\nincompatible, so that in order to demonstrate that pure reason is to\nbe realised in humanity, the best proof given by the analysis is\nthat this realisation is demanded. But, as in the realisation of\nbeauty or of aesthetic unity, there is a real union, mutual\nsubstitution of matter and of form, of passive and of active, by\nthis alone is proved the compatibility of the two natures, the\npossible realisation of the infinite in the finite, and consequently\nalso the possibility of the most sublime humanity.\n\nHenceforth we need no longer be embarrassed to find a transition\nfrom dependent feeling to moral liberty, because beauty reveals to\nus the fact that they can perfectly co-exist, and that to show\nhimself a spirit, man need not escape from matter. But if on one\nside he is free, even in his relation with a visible world, as the\nfact of beauty teaches, and if on the other side freedom is\nsomething absolute and super-sensuous, as its idea necessarily\nimplies, the question is no longer how man succeeds in raising\nhimself from the finite to the absolute, and opposing himself in his\nthought and will to sensuality, as this has already been produced in\nthe fact of beauty. In a word, we have no longer to ask how he\npasses from virtue to truth, which is already included in the\nformer, but how he opens a way for himself from vulgar reality to\naesthetic reality, and from the ordinary feelings of life to the\nperception of the beautiful.\n\nLETTER XXVI.\n\nI have shown in the previous letters that it is only the aesthetic\ndisposition of the soul that gives birth to liberty, it cannot\ntherefore be derived from liberty nor have a moral origin. It must\nbe a gift of nature; the favour of chance alone can break the bonds\nof the physical state and bring the savage to duty. The germ of the\nbeautiful will find an equal difficulty in developing itself in\ncountries where a severe nature forbids man to enjoy himself, and in\nthose where a prodigal nature dispenses him from all effort; where\nthe blunted senses experience no want, and where violent desire can\nnever be satisfied. The delightful flower of the beautiful will\nnever unfold itself in the case of the Troglodyte hid in his cavern\nalways alone, and never finding humanity outside himself; nor among\nnomads, who, travelling in great troops, only consist of a\nmultitude, and have no individual humanity. It will only flourish in\nplaces where man converses peacefully with himself in his cottage,\nand with the whole race when he issues from it. In those climates\nwhere a limpid ether opens the senses to the lightest impression,\nwhilst a life-giving warmth developes a luxuriant nature, where even\nin the inanimate creation the sway of inert matter is overthrown,\nand the victorious form ennobles even the most abject natures; in\nthis joyful state and fortunate zone, where activity alone leads to\nenjoyment, and enjoyment to activity, from life itself issues a holy\nharmony, and the laws of order develope life, a different result\ntakes place. When imagination incessantly escapes from reality, and\ndoes not abandon the simplicity of nature in its wanderings: then\nand there only the mind and the senses, the receptive force and the\nplastic force, are developed in that happy equilibrium which is the\nsoul of the beautiful and the condition of humanity.\n\nWhat phaenomenon accompanies the initiation of the savage into\nhumanity? However far we look back into history the phaenomenon is\nidentical among all people who have shaken off the slavery of the\nanimal state, the love of appearance, the inclination for dress and\nfor games.\n\nExtreme stupidity and extreme intelligence have a certain affinity\nin only seeking the real and being completely insensible to mere\nappearance. The former is only drawn forth by the immediate presence\nof an object in the senses, and the second is reduced to a quiescent\nstate only by referring conceptions to the facts of experience. In\nshort, stupidity cannot rise above reality, nor the intelligence\ndescend below truth. Thus, in as far as the want of reality and\nattachment to the real are only the consequence of a want and a\ndefect, indifference to the real and an interest taken in\nappearances are a real enlargement of humanity and a decisive step\ntowards culture. In the first place it is the proof of an exterior\nliberty, for as long as necessity commands and want solicits, the\nfancy is strictly chained down to the real; it is only when want is\nsatisfied that it developes without hindrance. But it is also the\nproof of an internal liberty, because it reveals to us a force\nwhich, independent of an external substratum, sets itself in motion,\nand has sufficient energy to remove from itself the solicitations of\nnature. The reality of things is effected by things, the appearance\nof things is the work of man, and a soul that takes pleasure in\nappearance does not take pleasure in what it receives but in what it\nmakes.\n\nIt is self-evident that I am speaking of aesthetical evidence\ndifferent from reality and truth, and not of logical appearance\nidentical with them. Therefore if it is liked it is because it is an\nappearance, and not because it is held to be something better than\nit is: the first principle alone is a play whilst the second is a\ndeception. To give a value to the appearance of the first kind can\nnever injure truth, because it is never to be feared that it will\nsupplant it--the only way in which truth can be injured. To despise\nthis appearance is to despise in general all the fine arts of which\nit is the essence. Nevertheless, it happens sometimes that the\nunderstanding carries its zeal for reality as far as this\nintolerance, and strikes with a sentence of ostracism all the arts\nrelating to beauty in appearance, because it is only an appearance.\nHowever, the intelligence only shows this vigorous spirit when it\ncalls to mind the affinity pointed out further back. I shall find\nsome day the occasion to treat specially of the limits of beauty in\nits appearance.\n\nIt is nature herself which raises man from reality to appearance by\nendowing him with two senses which only lead him to the knowledge of\nthe real through appearance. In the eye and the ear the organs of\nthe senses are already freed from the persecutions of nature, and\nthe object with which we are immediately in contact through the\nanimal senses is remoter from us. What we see by the eye differs\nfrom what we feel; for the understanding to reach objects overleaps\nthe light which separates us from them. In truth, we are passive to\nan object; in sight and hearing the object is a form we create.\nWhile still a savage, man only enjoys through touch merely aided by\nsight and sound. He either does not rise to perception through\nsight, or does not rest there. As soon as he begins to enjoy through\nsight, vision has an independent value, he is aesthetically free,\nand the instinct of play is developed.\n\nThe instinct of play likes appearance, and directly it is awakened\nit is followed by the formal imitative instinct which treats\nappearance as an independent thing. Directly man has come to\ndistinguish the appearance from the reality, the form from the body,\nhe can separate, in fact he has already done so. Thus the faculty of\nthe art of imitation is given with the faculty of form in general.\nThe inclination that draws us to it reposes on another tendency I\nhave not to notice here. The exact period when the aesthetic\ninstinct, or that of art, developes, depends entirely on the\nattraction that mere appearance has for men.\n\nAs every real existence proceeds from nature as a foreign power,\nwhilst every appearance comes in the first place from man as a\npercipient subject, he only uses his absolute sight in separating\nsemblance from essence, and arranging according to subjective law.\nWith an unbridled liberty he can unite what nature has severed,\nprovided he can imagine his union, and he can separate what nature\nhas united, provided this separation can take place in his\nintelligence. Here nothing can be sacred to him but his own law: the\nonly condition imposed upon him is to respect the border which\nseparates his own sphere from the existence of things or from the\nrealm of nature.\n\nThis human right of ruling is exercised by man in the art of\nappearance; and his success in extending the empire of the\nbeautiful, and guarding the frontiers of truth, will be in\nproportion with the strictness with which he separates form from\nsubstance: for if he frees appearance from reality he must also do\nthe converse.\n\nBut man possesses sovereign power only in the world of appearance,\nin the unstibstantial realm of imagination, only by abstaining from\ngiving being to appearance in theory, and by giving it being in\npractice. It follows that the poet transgresses his proper limits\nwhen he attributes being to his ideal, and when he gives this ideal\naim as a determined existence. For he can only reach this result by\nexceeding his right as a poet, that of encroaching by the ideal on\nthe field of experience, and by pretending to determine real\nexistence in virtue of a simple possibility, or else he renounces\nhis right as poet by letting experience encroach on the sphere of\nthe ideal, and by restricting possibility to the conditions of\nreality.\n\nIt is only by being frank or disclaiming all reality, and by being\nindependent or doing without reality, that the appearance is\naesthetical. Directly it apes reality or needs reality for effect it\nis nothing more than a vile instrument for material ends, and can\nprove nothing for the freedom of the mind. Moreover, the object in\nwhich we find beauty need not be unreal if pur judgment disregards\nthis reality; nor if it regards this the judgment is no longer\naesthetical. A beautiful woman if living would no doubt please us as\nmuch and rather more than an equally beautiful woman seen in\npainting; but what makes the former please men is not her being an\nindependent appearance; she no longer pleases the pure aesthetic\nfeeling. In the painting, life must only attract as an appearance,\nand reality as an idea. But it is certain that to feel in a living\nobject only the pure appearance, requires a greatly higher aesthetic\nculture than to do without life in the appearance.\n\nWhen the frank and independent appearance is found in man\nseparately, or in a whole people, it may be inferred they have mind,\ntaste, and all prerogatives connected with them. In this case, the\nideal will be seen to govern real life, honour triumphing over\nfortune, thought over enjoyment, the dream of immortality over a\ntransitory existence.\n\nIn this case public opinion will no longer be feared and an olive\ncrown will be more valued than a purple mantle. Impotence and\nperversity alone have recourse to false and paltry semblance, and\nindividuals as well as nations who lend to reality the support of\nappearance, or to the aesthetical appearance the support of reality,\nshow their moral unworthiness and their aesthetical impotence.\nTherefore, a short and conclusive answer can be given to this\nquestion--How far will appearance be permitted in the moral world?\nIt will run thus in proportion as this appearance will be\nsesthetical, that is, an appearance that does not try to make up for\nreality, nor requires to be made up for by it. The aesthetical\nappearance can never endanger the truth of morals: wherever it seems\nto do so the appearance is not aesthetical. Only a stranger to the\nfashionable world can take the polite assurances, which are only a\nform, for proofs of affection, and say he has been deceived; but\nonly a clumsy fellow in good society calls in the aid of duplicity\nand flatters to become amiable. The former lacks the pure sense for\nindependent appearance; therefore he can only give a value to\nappearance by truth. The second lacks reality, and wishes to replace\nit by appearance. Nothing is more common than to hear depreciators\nof the times utter these paltry complaints--that all solidity has\ndisappeared from the world, and that essence is neglected for\nsemblance. Though I feel by no means called upon to defend this age\nagainst these reproaches, I must say that the wide application of\nthese criticisms shows that they attach blame to the age, not only\non the score of the falsez but also of the frank appearance. And\neven the exceptions they admit in favour of the beautiful have for\ntheir object less the independent appearance than the needy\nappearance. Not only do they attack the artificial colouring that\nhides truth and replaces reality, but also the beneficent appearance\nthat fills a vacuum and clothes poverty; and they even attack the\nideal appearance that ennobles a vulgar reality. Their strict sense\nof truth is rightlyl offended by the falsity of manners;\nunfortunately, they class politeness in this category. It displeases\nthem that the noisy and showy so often eclipse true merit, but they\nare no less shocked that appearance is also demanded from merit, and\nthat a real substance does not dispense with an agreeable form. They\nregret the cordiality, the energy, and solidity of ancient times;\nthey would restore with them ancient coarseness, heaviness, and the\nold Gothic profusion. By judgments of this kind they show an esteem\nfor the matter itself unworthy of humanity, which ought only to\nvalue tne matter inasmuch as it can receive a form and enlarge the\nempire of ideas. Accordingly, the taste of the age need not much\nfear these criticisms, if it can clear itself before better judges.\nOur defect is not to grant a value to aesthetic appearance (we do\nnot do this enough): a severe judge of the beautiful might rather\nreproach us with not having arrived at pure appearance, with not\nhaving separated clearly enough existence from the phaenomenon, and\nthus established their limits. We shall deserve this reproach so\nlong as we cannot enjoy the beautiful in living nature without\ndesiring it; as long as we cannot admire the beautiful in the\nimitative arts without having an end in view; as long as we do not\ngrant to imagination an absolute legislation of its own; and as long\nas we do not inspire it with care for its dignity by the esteem we\ntestify for its works.\n\nLETTER XXVII.\n\nDo not fear for reality and truth. Even if the elevated idea of\naesthetic appearance became general, it would not become so, as long\nas man remains so little cultivated as to abuse it; and if it became\ngeneral, this would result from a culture that would prevent all\nabuse of it. The pursuit of independent appearance requires more\npower of abstraction, freedom of heart, and energy of will than man\nrequires to shut himself up in reality; and he must have left the\nlatter behind him if he wishes to attain to aesthetic appearance.\nTherefore a man would calculate very badly who took the road of the\nideal to save himself that of reality. Thus reality would not have\nmuch to fear from appearance, as we understand it; but, on the other\nhand, appearance would have more to fear from reality. Chained to\nmatter, man uses appearance for his purposes before he allows it a\nproper personality in the art of the ideal: to come to that point a\ncomplete revolution must take place in his mode of feeling,\notherwise he would not be even on the way to the ideal.\nConsequently, when we find in man the signs of a pure and\ndisinterested esteem, we can infer that this revolution has taken\nplace in his nature, and that humanity has really begun in him.\nSigns of this kind are found even in the first and rude attempts\nthat he makes to embellish his existence, even at the risk of making\nit worse in its material conditions. As soon as he begins to prefer\nform to substance and to risk reality for appearance (known by him\nto be such), the barriers of animal life fall, and he finds himself\non a track that has no end.\n\nNot satisfied with the needs of nature, he demands the superfluous.\nFirst, only the superfluous of matter, to secure his enjoyment\nbeyond the present necessity; but afterwards he wishes a\nsuperabundance in matter, an aesthetical supplement to satisfy the\nimpulse for the formal, to extend enjoyment beyond necessity. By\npiling up provisions simply for a future use, and anticipating their\nenjoyment in the imagination, he outsteps the limits of the present\nmoment, but not those of time in general. He enjoys more; he does\nnot enjoy differently. But as soon as he makes form enter into his\nenjoyment, and he keeps in view the forms of the objects which\nsatisfy his desires, he has not only increased his pleasure in\nextent and intensity, but he has also ennobled it in mode and\nspecies.\n\nNo doubt nature has given more than is necessary to unreasoning\nbeings; she has caused a gleam of freedom to shine even in the\ndarkness of animal life. When the lion is not tormented by hunger,\nand when no wild beast challenges him to fight, his unemployed\nenergy creates an object for himself; full of ardour, he fills the\nre-echoing desert with his terrible roars, and his exuberant force\nrejoices in itself, showing itself without an object. The insect\nflits about rejoicing in life in the sunlight, and it is certainly\nnot the cry of want that makes itself heard in the melodious song of\nthe bird; there is undeniably freedom in these movements, though it\nis not emancipation from want in general, but from a determinate\nexternal necessity.\n\nThe animal works, when a privation is the motor of its activity, and\nit plays when the plenitude of force is this motor, when an\nexuberant life is excited to action. Even in inanimate nature a\nluxury of strength and a latitude of determination are shown, which\nin this material sense might be styled play. The tree produces\nnumberless germs that are abortive without developing, and it sends\nforth more roots, branches and leaves, organs of nutrition, than are\nused for the preservation of the species. Whatever this tree\nrestores to the elements of its exuberant life, without using it, or\nenjoying it, may be expended by life in free and joyful movements.\nIt is thus that nature offers in her material sphere a sort of\nprelude to the limitless, and that even there she suppresses\npartially the chains from which she will be completely emancipated\nin the realm of form. The constraint of superabundance or physical\nplay, answers as a transition from the constraint of necessity, or\nof physical seriousness, to aesthetical play; and before shaking\noff, in the supreme freedom of the beautiful, the yoke of any\nspecial aim, nature already approaches, at least remotely, this\nindependence, by the free movement which is itself its own end and\nmeans.\n\nThe imagination, like the bodily organs, has in man its free\nmovement and its material play, a play in which, without any\nreference to form, it simply takes pleasure in its arbitrary power\nand in the absence of all hindrance. These plays of fancy, inasmuch\nas form is not mixed up with them, and because a free succession of\nimages makes all their charm, though confined to man, belong\nexclusively to animal life, and only prove one thing--that he is\ndelivered from all external sensuous constraint--without our being\nentitled to infer that there is in it an independent plastic force.\n\nFrom this play of free association of ideas, which is still quite\nmaterial in nature and is explained by simple natural laws, the\nimagination, by making the attempt of creating a free form, passes\nat length at a jump to the aesthetic play: I say at one leap, for\nquite a new force enters into action here; for here, for the first\ntime, the legislative mind is mixed with the acts of a blind\ninstinct, subjects the arbitrary march of the imagination to its\neternal and immutable unity, causes its independent permanence to\nenter in that which is transitory, and its infinity in the sensuous.\nNevertheless, as long as rude nature, which knows of no other law\nthan running incessantly from change to change, will yet retain too\nmuch strength, it will oppose itself by its different caprices to\nthis necessity; by its agitation to this permanence; by its manifold\nneeds to this independence, and by its insatiability to this sublime\nsimplicity. It will be also troublesome to recognise the instinct of\nplay in its first trials, seeing that the sensuous impulsion, with\nits capricious humour and its violent appetites, constantly crosses.\nIt is on that account that we see the taste, still coarse, seize\nthat which is new and startling, the disordered, the adventurous and\nthe strange, the violent and the savage, and fly from nothing so\nmuch as from calm and simplicity. It invents grotesque figures, it\nlikes rapid transitions, luxurious forms, sharply marked changes,\nacute tones, a pathetic song. That which man calls beautiful at this\ntime, is that which excites him, that which gives him matter; but\nthat which excites him to give his personality to the object, that\nwhich gives matter to a possible plastic operation, for otherwise it\nwould not be the beautiful for him. A remarkable change has\ntherefore taken place in the form of his judgments; he searches for\nthese objects, not because they affect him, but because they furnish\nhim with the occasion of acting; they please him, not because they\nanswer to a want, but because they satisfy a law, which speaks in\nhis breast, although quite low as yet.\n\nSoon it will not be sufficient for things to please him; he will\nwish to please: in the first place, it is true, only by that which\nbelongs to him; afterwards by that which he is. That which he\npossesses, that which he produces, ought not merely to bear any more\nthe traces of servitude, nor to mark out the end, simply and\nscrupulously, by the form. Independently of the use to which it is\ndestined, the object ought also to reflect the enlightened\nintelligence which imagines it, the hand which shaped it with\naffection, the mind free and serene which chose it and exposed it to\nview. Now, the ancient German searches for more magnificent furs,\nfor more splendid antlers of the stag, for more elegant drinking\nhorns; and the Caledonian chooses the prettiest shells for his\nfestivals. The arms themselves ought to be no longer only objects of\nterror, but also of pleasure; and the skilfully worked scabbard will\nnot attract less attention than the homicidal edge of the sword. The\ninstinct of play, not satisfied with bringing into the sphere of the\nnecessary an aesthetic superabundance for the future more free, is\nat last completely emancipated from the bonds of duty, and the\nbeautiful becomes of itself an object of man's exertions. He adorns\nhimself. The free pleasure comes to take a place among his wants,\nand the useless soon becomes the best part of his joys. Form, which\nfrom the outside gradually approaches him, in his dwelling, his\nfurniture, his clothing, begins at last to take possession of the\nman himself, to transform him, at first exteriorly, and afterwards\nin the interior. The disordered leaps of joy become the dance, the\nformless gesture is changed into an amiable and harmonious\npantomime, the confused accents of feeling are developed, and begin\nto obey measure and adapt themselves to song. When, like the flight\nof cranes, the Trojan army rushes on to the field of battle with\nthrilling cries, the Greek army approaches in silence and with a\nnoble and measured step. On the one side we see but the exuberance\nof a blind force, on the other; the triumph of form and the simple\nmajesty of law.\n\nNow, a nobler necessity binds the two sexes mutually, and the\ninterests of the heart contribute in rendering durable an alliance\nwhich was at first capricious and changing like the desire that\nknits it. Delivered from the heavy fetters of desire, the eye, now\ncalmer, attends to the form, the soul contemplates the soul, and the\ninterested exchange of pleasure becomes a generous exchange of\nmutual inclination. Desire enlarges and rises to love, in proportion\nas it sees humanity dawn in its object; and, despising the vile\ntriumphs gained by the senses, man tries to win a nobler victory\nover the will. The necessity of pleasing subjects the powerful\nnature to the gentle laws of taste; pleasure may be stolen, but love\nmust be a gift. To obtain this higher recompense, it is only through\nthe form and not through matter that it can carry on the contest. It\nmust cease to act on feeling as a force, to appear in the\nintelligence as a simple phenomenon; it must respect liberty, as it\nis liberty it wishes to please. The beautiful reconciles the\ncontrast of different natures in its simplest and purest expression.\nIt also reconciles the eternal contrast of the two sexes, in the\nwhole complex framework of society, or at all events it seeks to do\nso; and, taking as its model the free alliance it has knit between\nmanly strength and womanly gentleness, it strives to place in\nharmony, in the moral world, all the elements of gentleness and of\nviolence. Now, at length, weakness becomes sacred, and an unbridled\nstrength disgraces; the injustice of nature is corrected by the\ngenerosity of chivalrous manners. The being whom no power can make\ntremble, is disarmed by the amiable blush of modesty, and tears\nextinguish a vengeance that blood could not have quenched. Hatred\nitself hears the delicate voice of honour, the conqueror's sword\nspares the disarmed enemy, and a hospitable hearth smokes for the\nstranger on the dreaded hill-side where murder alone awaited him\nbefore.\n\nIn the midst of the formidable realm of forces, and of the sacred\nempire of laws, the aesthetic impulse of form creates by degrees a\nthird and a joyous realm, that of play and of the appearance, where\nshe emancipates man from fetters, in all his relations, and from all\nthat is named constraint, whether physical or moral.\n\nIf in the dynamic state of rights men mutually move and come into\ncollision as forces, in the moral (ethical) state of duties, man\nopposes to man the majesty of the laws, and chains down his will. In\nthis realm of the beautiful or the aesthetic state, man ought to\nappear to man only as a form, and an object of free play. To give\nfreedom through freedom is the fundamental law of this realm.\n\nThe dynamic state can only make society simply possible by subduing\nnature through nature; the moral (ethical) state can only make it\nmorally necessary by submitting the will of the individual to the\ngeneral will. The aesthetic state alone can make it real, because it\ncarries out the will of all through the nature of the individual. If\nnecessity alone forces man to enter into society, and if his reason\nengraves on his soul social principles, it is beauty only that can\ngive him a social character; taste alone brings harmony into\nsociety, because it creates harmony in the individual. All other\nforms of perception divide the man, because they are based\nexclusively either in the sensuous or in the spiritual part of his\nbeing. It is only the perception of beauty that makes of him an\nentirety, because it demands the co-operation of his two natures.\nAll other forms of communication divide society, because they apply\nexclusively either to the receptivity or to the private activity of\nits members, and therefore to what distinguishes men one from the\nother. The aesthetic communication alone unites society, because it\napplies to what is common to all its members. We only enjoy the\npleasures of sense as individuals, without the nature of the race in\nus sharing in it; accordingly, we cannot generalise our individual\npleasures, because we cannot generalise our individuality. We enjoy\nthe pleasures of knowledge as a race, dropping the Individual in our\njudgment; but we cannot generalise the pleasures of the\nunderstanding, because we cannot eliminate individuality from the\njudgments of others as we do from our own. Beauty alone can we enjoy\nboth as individuals and as a race, that is, as representing a race.\nGood appertaining to sense can only make one person happy, because\nit is founded on inclination, which is always exclusive; and it can\nonly make a man partially happy, because his real personality does\nnot share in it. Absolute good can only render a man happy\nconditionally, for truth is only the reward of abnegation, and a\npure heart alone has faith in a pure will. Beauty alone confers\nhappiness on all, and under its influence every being forgets that\nhe is limited.\n\nTaste does not suffer any superior or absolute authority, and the\nsway of beauty is extended over appearance. It extends up to the\nseat of reason's supremacy, suppressing all that is material. It\nextends down to where sensuous impulse rules with blind compulsion,\nand form is undeveloped. Taste ever maintains its power on these\nremote borders, where legislation is taken from it. Particular\ndesires must renounce their egotism, and the agreeable, otherwise\ntempting the senses, must in matters of taste adorn the mind with\nthe attractions of grace.\n\nDuty and stern necessity must change their forbidding tone, only\nexcused by resistance, and do homage to nature by a nobler trust in\nher. Taste leads our knowledge from the mysteries of science into\nthe open expanse of common sense, and changes a narrow scholasticism\ninto the common property of the human race. Here the highest genius\nmust leave its particular elevation, and make itself familiar to the\ncomprehension even of a child. Strength must let the Graces bind it,\nand the arbitrary lion must yield to the reins of love. For this\npurpose taste throws a veil over physical necessity, offending a\nfree mind by its coarse nudity, and dissimulating our degrading\nparentage with matter by a delightful illusion of freedom. Mercenary\nart itself rises from the dust; and the bondage of the bodily, at\nits magic touch, falls off from the inanimate and animate. In the\naesthetic state the most slavish tool is a free citizen, having the\nsame rights as the noblest; and the intellect which shapes the mass\nto its intent must consult it concerning its destination.\nConsequently in the realm of aesthetic appearance, the idea of\nequality is realised, which the political zealot would gladly see\ncarried out socially. It has often been said that perfect politeness\nis only found near a throne. If thus restricted in the material, man\nhas, as elsewhere appears, to find compensation in the ideal world.\n\nDoes such a state of beauty in appearance exist, and where? It must\nbe in every finely harmonised soul; but as a fact, only in select\ncircles, like the pure ideal of the church and state--in circles\nwhere manners are not formed by the empty imitations of the foreign,\nbut by the very beauty of nature; where man passes through all sorts\nof complications in all simplicity and innocence, neither forced to\ntrench on another's freedom to preserve his own, nor to show grace\nat the cost of dignity.\n\n\n\n\nFUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES OF THE METAPHYSIC OF MORALS\n\nBY\n\nIMMANUEL KANT\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nT. K. ABBOTT\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\n\nImmanuel Kant was born in Konigsberg, East Prussia, April 22, 1724,\nthe son of a saddler of Scottish descent. The family was pietist,\nand the future philosopher entered the university of his native city\nin 1740, with a view to studying theology. He developed, however, a\nmany-sided interest in learning, and his earlier publications were\nin the field of speculative physics. After the close of his period\nof study at the university he became a private tutor; then In 1755,\nprivat-docent; and in 1770, professor. During the first eleven years\nof his professorship Kant published little, spending his energies in\nthe meditation that was to result in the philosophical system of\nwhich the first part was given to the world in his \"Critique of Pure\nReason\" in 1781. From that time till near the end of the century he\nissued volume after volume; yet when he died In 1804 he regarded his\nstatement of his system as fragmentary.\n\nOf the enormous importance of Kant in the history of philosophy, no\nidea can be given here. The important document which follows was\npublished in 1785, and forms the basis of the moral system on which\nhe erected the whole structure of belief in God, Freedom, and\nImmortality. Kant is often difficult and obscure, and became more so\nas he grew older; but the present treatise can be followed, in its\nmain lines, by any intelligent person who is interested enough in\nthe fundamental problems of human life and conduct to give it\nserious and concentrated attention. To such a reader the subtle yet\nclear distinctions, and the lofty and rigorous principles of action,\nwhich it lays down, will prove an intellectual and moral tonic such\nas hardly any other modern writer affords.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nAncient Greek philosophy was divided into three sciences: Physics,\nEthics, and Logic. This division is perfectly suitable to the nature\nof the thing, and the only improvement that can be made in it is to\nadd the principle on which it is based, so that we may both satisfy\nourselves of its completeness, and also be able to determine\ncorrectly the necessary subdivisions.\n\nAll rational knowledge is either material or formal: the former\nconsiders some object, the latter is concerned only with the form of\nthe understanding and of the reason itself, and with the universal\nlaws of thought in general without distinction of its objects.\nFormal philosophy is called Logic. Material philosophy, however,\nwhich has to do with determinate objects and the laws to which they\nare subject, is again two-fold; for these laws are either laws of\nnature or of freedom. The science of the former is Physics, that of\nthe latter, Ethics; they are also called natural philosophy and\nmoral philosophy respectively.\n\nLogic cannot have any empirical part; that is, a part in which the\nuniversal and necessary laws of thought should rest on grounds taken\nfrom experience; otherwise it would not be logic, i. e. a canon for\nthe understanding or the reason, valid for all thought, and capable\nof demonstration. Natural and moral philosophy, on the contrary, can\neach have their empirical part, since the former has to determine\nthe laws of nature as an object of experience; the latter the laws\nof the human will, so far as it is affected by nature: the former,\nhowever, being laws according to which everything does happen; the\nlatter, laws according to which everything ought to happen.\n[Footnote: The word \"law\" is here used in two different senses, on\nwhich see Whately's Logic, Appendix, Art. \"Law.\"] Ethics, however,\nmust also consider the conditions under which what ought to happen\nfrequently does not.\n\nWe may call all philosophy empirical, so far as it is based on\ngrounds of experience: on the other hand, that which delivers its\ndoctrines from a priori principles alone we may call pure\nphilosophy. When the latter is merely formal it is logic; if it is\nrestricted to definite objects of the understanding it is\nmetaphysic.\n\nIn this way there arises the idea of a two-fold metaphysic--a\nmetaphysic of nature and a metaphysic of morals. Physics will thus\nhave an empirical and also a rational part. It is the same with\nEthics; but here the empirical part might have the special name of\npractical anthropology, the name morality being appropriated to the\nrational part.\n\nAll trades, arts, and handiworks have gained by division of labour,\nnamely, when, instead of one man doing everything, each confines\nhimself to a certain kind of work distinct from others in the\ntreatment it requires, so as to be able to perform it With greater\nfacility and. in the greatest perfection. Where the different kinds\nof work are not so distinguished and divided, where everyone is a\njack-of-all-trades, there manufactures remain still in the greatest\nbarbarism. It might deserve to be considered whether pure philosophy\nin all its parts does not require a man specially devoted to it, and\nwhether it would not be better for the whole business of science if\nthose who, to please the tastes of the public, are wont to blend the\nrational and empirical elements together, mixed in all sorts of\nproportions unknown to themselves, and who call themselves\nindependent thinkers, giving the name of minute philosophers to\nthose who apply themselves to the rational part only--if these, I\nsay, were warned not to carry on two employments together which\ndiffer widely in the treatment they demand, for each of which\nperhaps a special talent is required, and the combination of which\nin one person only produces bunglers. But I only ask here whether\nthe nature of science does not require that we should always\ncarefully separate the empirical from the rational part, and prefix\nto Physics proper (or empirical physics) a metaphysic of nature, and\nto practical anthropology a metaphysic of morals, which must be\ncarefully cleared of everything empirical, so that we may know how\nmuch can be accomplished by pure reason in both cases, and from\nwhnat sources it draws this its a priori teaching, and that whether\nthe latter inquiry is conducted by all moralists (whose name is\nlegion), or only by some who feel a calling thereto.\n\nAs my concern here is with moral philosophy, I limit the question\nsuggested to this: Whether it is not of the utmost necessity to\nconstruct a pure moral philosophy, perfectly cleared of everything\nwhich is only empirical, and which belongs to anthropology? for that\nsuch a philosophy must be possible is evident from the common idea\nof duty and of the moral laws. Every one must admit that if a law is\nto have moral force, i. e. to be the basis of an obligation, it must\ncarry with it absolute necessity; that, for example, the precept,\n\"Thou shalt not lie,\" is not valid for men alone, as if other\nrational beings had no need to observe it; and so with all the other\nmoral laws properly so called; that, therefore, the basis of\nobligation must not be sought in the nature of man, or in the\ncircumstanced in the world in which he is placed, but a priori\nsimply in the conceptions of pure reason; and although any other\nprecept which is founded on principles of mere experience may be in\ncertain respects universal, yet in as far as it rests even in the\nleast degree on an empirical basis, perhaps only as to a motive,\nsuch a precept, while it may be a practical rule, can never be\ncalled a moral law.\n\nThus not only are moral laws with their principles essentially\ndistinguished from every other kind of practical knowledge in which\nthere is anything empirical, but all moral philosophy rests wholly\non its pure part. When applied to man, it does not borrow the least\nthing from the knowledge of man himself (anthropology), but gives\nlaws a priori to him as a rational being. No doubt these laws\nrequire a judgment sharpened by experience, in order on the one hand\nto distinguish in what cases they are applicable, and on the other\nto procure for them access to the will of the man, and effectual\ninfluence on conduct; since man is acted on by so many inclinations\nthat, though capable of the idea of a practical pure reason, he is\nnot so easily able to make it effective in concrete in his life.\n\nA metaphysic of morals is therefore indispensably necessary, not\nmerely for speculative reasons, in order to investigate the sources\nof the practical principles which are to be found a priori in our\nreason, but also because morals themselves are liable to all sorts\nof corruption, as long as we are without that clue and supreme canon\nby which to estimate them correctly. For in order that an action\nshould be morally good, it is not enough that it conform to the\nmoral law, but it must also be done for the sake of the law,\notherwise that conformity is only very contingent and uncertain;\nsince a principle which is not moral, although it may now and then\nproduce actions conformable to the law, will also often produce\nactions which contradict it. Now it is only in a pure philosophy\nthat we can look for the moral law in its purity and genuineness\n(and, in a practical matter, this is of the utmost consequence): we\nmust, therefore, begin with pure philosophy (metaphysic), and\nwithout it there cannot be any moral philosophy at all. That which\nmingles these pure principles with the empirical does not deserve\nthe name of philosophy (for what distinguishes philosophy from\ncommon rational knowledge is, that it treats in separate sciences\nwhat the latter only comprehends confusedly); much less does it\ndeserve that of moral philosophy, since by this confusion it even\nspoils the purity of morals themselves, and counteracts its own end.\n\nLet it not be thought, however, that what is here demanded is\nalready extant in the propaedeutic prefixed by the celebrated Wolf\n[Footnote: Johann Christian Von Wolf (1679-1728) was the author of\ntreatises on philosophy, mathematics, &c., which were for a long\ntime the standard text-books in the German Universities. His\nphilosophy was founded on that of Leibnitz.] to his moral\nphilosophy, namely, his so-called general practical philosophy, and\nthat, therefore, we have not to strike into an entirely new field.\nJust because it was to be a general practical philosophy, it has not\ntaken into consideration a will of any particular kind-say one which\nshould be determined solely from a priori principles without any\nempirical motives, and which we might call a pure will, but volition\nin general, with all the actions and conditions which belong to it\nin this general signification. By this it is distinguished from a\nmetaphysic of morals, just as general logic, which treats of the\nacts and canons of thought in general, is distinguished from\ntranscendental philosophy, which treats of the particular acts and\ncanons of pure thought, i. e. that whose cognitions are altogether a\npriori. For the metaphysic of morals has to examine the idea and the\nprinciples of a possible pure will, and not the acts and conditions\nof human volition generally, which for the most part are drawn from\npsychology. It is true that moral laws and duty are spoken of in the\ngeneral practical philosophy (contrary indeed to all fitness). But\nthis is no objection, for in this respect, also the authors of that\nscience remain true to their idea of it; they do not distinguish the\nmotives which are prescribed as such by reason alone altogether a\npriori, and which are properly moral, from the empirical motives\nwhich the understanding raises to general conceptions merely by\ncomparison of experiences; but without noticing the difference of\ntheir sources, and looking on them all as homogeneous, they consider\nonly their greater or less amount. It is in this way they frame\ntheir notion of obligation, which though anything but moral, is all\nthat can be asked for in a philosophy which passes no judgment at\nall on the origin of all possible practical concepts, whether they\nare a priori, or only a posteriori.\n\nIntending to publish hereafter a metaphysic of morals, I issue in\nthe first instance these fundamental principles. Indeed there is\nproperly no other foundation for it than the critical examination of\na pure practical reason; just as that of metaphysics is the critical\nexamination of the pure speculative reason, already published. But\nin the first place the former is not so absolutely necessary as the\nlatter, because in moral concerns human reason can easily be brought\nto a high degree of correctness and completeness, even in the\ncommonest understanding, while on the contrary in its theoretic but\npure use it is wholly dialectical; and in the second place if the\ncritique of a pure practical reason is to be complete, it must be\npossible at the same time to show its identity with the speculative\nreason in a common principle, for it can ultimately be only one and\nthe same reason which has to be distinguished merely in its\napplication. I could not, however, bring it to such completeness\nhere, without introducing considerations of a wholly different kind,\nwhich would be perplexing to the reader. On this account I have\nadopted the title of Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of\nMorals, instead of that of a Critical Examination of the pure\npractical Reason.\n\nBut in the third place, since a metaphysic of morals, in spite of\nthe; discouraging title, is yet capable of being presented in a\npopular form, and one adapted to the common understanding, I find it\nuseful to separate from it this preliminary treatise on its\nfundamental principles, in order that I may not hereafter have need\nto introduce these necessarily subtle discussions into a book of a\nmore simple character.\n\nThe present treatise is, however, nothing more than the\ninvestigation and establishment of the supreme principle of\nmorality, and this alone constitutes a study complete in itself, and\none which ought to be kept apart from every other moral\ninvestigation. No doubt my conclusions on this weighty question,\nwhich has hitherto been very unsatisfactorily examined, would\nreceive much light from the application of the same principle to the\nwhole system, and would be greatly confirmed by the adequacy which\nit exhibits throughout; but I must forego this advantage, which\nindeed would be after all more gratifying than useful, since the\neasy applicability of a principle and its apparent adequacy give no\nvery certain proof of its soundness, but rather inspire a certain\npartiality, which prevents us from examining and estimating it\nstrictly in itself, and without regard to consequences.\n\nI have adopted in this work the method which I think most suitable,\nproceeding analytically from common knowledge to the determination\nof its ultimate principle, and again descending synthetically from\nthe examination of this principle and its sources to the common\nknowledge in which we find it employed. The division will,\ntherefore, be as follows:--\n\n1. First section.--Transition from the common rational knowledge of\nmorality to the philosophical.\n\n2. Second section.--Transition from popular moral philosophy to the\nmetaphysic of morals.\n\n3. Third section.--Final step from the metaphysic of morals to the\ncritique of the pure practical reason.\n\n\n\n\nFUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES OF THE METAPHYSIC OF MORALS\n\n\nFIRST SECTION\n\nTRANSITION FROM THE COMMON RATIONAL KNOWLEDGE OF MORALITY TO THE\nPHILOSOPHICAL\n\nNothing can possibly be conceived in the world, of even out of it,\nwhich can be called good without qualification, except a Good Will\nIntelligence, wit, judgment, and the other talents of the mind,\nhowever they may be named, or courage, resolution, perseverance, as\nqualities of temperament, are undoubtedly good and desirable in many\nrespects; but these gifts of nature may also become extremely bad\nand mischievous if the will which is to make use of them, and which,\ntherefore, constitutes what is called character, is not good. It is\nthe same with the gifts of fortune. Power, riches, honour, even\nhealth, and the general well-being and contentment with one's\ncondition which is called happiness, inspire pride, and often\npresumption, if there is not a good will to correct the influence of\nthese on the mind, and with this also to rectify the whole principle\nof acting, and adapt it to its end. The sight of a Deing who is not\nadorned with a single feature of a pure and good will, enjoying\nunbroken prosperity, can never give pleasure to an impartial\nrational spectator. Thus a good will appears to constitute the\nindispensable condition even of being worthy of happiness.\n\nThere are even some qualities which are of service to this good will\nitself, and may facilitate its action, yet which have no intrinsic\nunconditional value, but always presuppose a good will, and this\nqualifies the esteem that we justly have for them, and does not\npermit us to regard them as absolutely good. Moderation in the\naffections and passions, self-control and calm deliberation are not\nonly good in many respects, but even seem to constitute part of the\nintrinsic worth of the person; but they are far from deserving to be\ncalled good without qualification, although they have been so\nunconditionally praised by the ancients. For without the principles\nof a good will, they may become extremely bad, and the coolness of a\nvillain not only makes him far more dangerous, but also directly\nmakes him more abominable in our eyes than he would have been\nwithout it.\n\nA good will is good not because of what it performs or effects, not\nby its aptness for the attainment of some proposed end, but simply\nby virtue of the volition, that is, it is good in itself, and\nconsidered by itself is to be esteemed much higher than all that can\nbe brought about by it in favour of any inclination, nay, even of\nthe sum total of all inclinations. Even if it should happen that,\nowing to special disfavour of fortune, or the niggardly provision of\na stepmotherly nature, this will should wholly lack power to\naccomplish its purpose, if with its greatest efforts it should yet\nachieve nothing, and there should remain only the good will (not, to\nbe sure, a mere wish, but the summoning of all means in our power),\nthen, like a jewel, it would still shine by its own light, as a\nthing which has its whole value in itself. Its usefulness or\nfruitfulness can neither add to nor take away anything from this\nvalue. It would be, as it were, only the setting to enable us to\nhandle it the more conveniently in common commerce, or to attract to\nit the attention of those who are not yet connoisseurs, but not to\nrecommend it to true connoisseurs, or to determine its value.\n\nThere is, however, something so strange in this idea of the absolute\nvalue of the mere will, in which no account is taken of its utility,\nthat notwithstanding the thorough assent of even common reason to\nthe idea, yet a suspicion must arise that it may perhaps really be\nthe product of mere high-flown fancy, and that we may have\nmisunderstood the purpose of nature in assigning reason as the\ngovernor of our will. Therefore we will examine this idea from this\npoint of view.\n\nIn the physical constitution of an organized being, that is, a being\nadapted suitably to the purposes of life, we assume it as a\nfundamental principle that no organ for any purpose will be found\nbut what is also the fittest and best adapted for that purpose. Now\nin a being which has reason and a will, if the proper object of\nnature were its conservation, its welfare, in a word, its happiness,\nthen nature would have hit upon a very bad arrangement in selecting\nthe reason of the creature to carry out this purpose. For all the\nactions which the creature has to perform with a view to this\npurpose, and the whole rule of its conduct, would be far more surely\nprescribed to it by instinct, and that end would have been attained\nthereby much more certainly than it ever can be by reason. Should\nreason have been communicated to this favoured creature over and\nabove, it must only have served it to contemplate the happy\nconstitution of its nature, to admire it, to congratulate itself\nthereon, and to feel thankful for it to the beneficent cause, but\nnot that it should subject its desires to that weak and delusive\nguidance, and meddle bunglingly with the purpose of nature. In a\nword, nature would have taken care that reason should not break\nforth into practical exercise, nor have the presumption, with its\nweak insight, to think out for itself the plan of happiness, and of\nthe means of attaining it. Nature would not only have taken on\nherself the choice of the ends, but also of the means, and with wise\nforesight would have entrusted both to instinct.\n\nAnd, in fact, we find that the more a cultivated reason applies\nitself with deliberate purpose to the enjoyment of life and\nhappiness, so much the more does the man fail of true satisfaction.\nAnd from this circumstance there arises in many, if they are candid\nenough to confess it, a certain degree of misology, that is, hatred\nof reason, especially in the case of those who are most experienced\nin the use of it, because after calculating all the advantages they\nderive, I do not say from the invention of all the arts of common\nluxury, but even from the sciences (which seem to them to be after\nall only a luxury of the understanding), they find that they have,\nin fact, only brought more trouble on their shoulders, rather than\ngained in happiness; and they end by envying, rather than despising,\nthe more common stamp of men who keep closer to the guidance of mere\ninstinct, and do not allow their reason much influence on their\nconduct. And this we must admit, that the judgment of those who\nwould very much lower the lofty eulogies of the advantages which\nreason gives us in regard to the happiness and satisfaction of life,\nor who would even reduce them below zero, is by no means morose or\nungrateful to the goodness with which the world is governed, but\nthat there lies at the root of these judgments the idea that our\nexistence has a different and far nobler end, for which, and not for\nhappiness, reason is properly intended, and which must, therefore,\nbe regarded as the supreme condition to which the private ends of\nman must, for the most part, be postponed. For as reason is not\ncompetent to guide the will with certainty in regard to its objects\nand the satisfaction of all our wants (which it to some extent even\nmultiplies), this being an end to which an implanted instinct would\nhave led with much greater certainty; and since, nevertheless,\nreason is imparted to us as a practical faculty, i. e. as one which\nis to have influence on the will, therefore, admitting that nature\ngenerally in the distribution of her capacities has adapted the\nmeans to the end, its true destination must be to produce a will,\nnot merely good as a means to something else, but good in itself,\nfor which reason was absolutely necessary. This will then, though\nnot indeed the sole and complete good, must be the supreme good and\nthe condition of every other, even of the desire of happiness. Under\nthese circumstances, there is nothing inconsistent with the wisdom\nof nature in the fact that the cultivation of the reason, which is\nrequisite for the first and unconditional purpose, does in many ways\ninterfere, at least in this life, with the attainment of the second,\nwhich is always conditional, namely, happiness. Nay, it may even\nreduce it to nothing, without nature thereby failing of her purpose.\nFor reason recognises the establishment of a good will as its\nhighest practical destination, and in attaining this purpose is\ncapable only of a satisfaction of its own proper kind, namely, that\nfrom the attainment of an end, which end again is determined by\nreason only, notwithstanding that this may involve many a\ndisappointment to the ends of inclination.\n\nWe have then to develop the notion of a will which deserves to be\nhighly esteemed for itself, and is good without a view to anything\nfurther, a notion which exists already in the sound natural\nunderstanding, requiring rather to be cleared up than to be taught,\nand which in estimating the value of our actions always takes the\nfirst place, and constitutes the condition of all the rest. In order\nto do this we will take the notion of duty, which includes that of a\ngood will, although implying certain subjectve restrictions and\nhindrances. These, however, far from concealing it, or rendering it\nunrecognisable, rather bring it out by contrast, and make it shine\nforth so much the brighter.\n\nI omit here all actions which are already recognised as inconsistent\nwith duty, although they may be useful for this or that purpose, for\nwith these the question whether they are done from duty cannot arise\nat all, since they even conflict with it. I also set aside those\nactions which really conform to duty, but to which men have no\ndirect inclination, performing them because they are impelled\nthereto by some other inclination. For in this case we can readily\ndistinguish whether the action which agrees with duty is done from\nduty, or from a selfish view. It is much harder to make this\ndistinction when the action accords with duty, and the subject has\nbesides a direct inclination to it. For example, it is always a\nmatter of duty that a dealer should not overcharge an inexperienced\npurchaser, and wherever there is much commerce the prudent tradesman\ndoes not overcharge, but keeps a fixed price for everyone, so that a\nchild buys of him as well as any other. Men are thus honestly\nserved; but this is not enough to make us believe that the tradesman\nhas so acted from duty and from principles of honesty: his own\nadvantage required it; it is out of the question in this case to\nsuppose that he might besides have a direct inclination in favour of\nthe buyers, so that, as it were, from love he should give no\nadvantage to one over another. Accordingly the action was done\nneither from duty nor from direct inclination, but merely with a\nselfish view.\n\nOn the other hand, it is a duty to maintain one's life; and, in\naddition, everyone has also a direct inclination to do so. But on\nthis account the often anxious care which most men take for it has\nno intrinsic worth, and their maxim has no moral import. They\npreserve their life as duty requires, no doubt, but not because duty\nrequires. On the other hand, if adversity and hopeless sorrow have\ncompletely taken away the relish for life; if the unfortunate one,\nstrong in mind, indignant at his fate rather than desponding or\ndejected, wishes for death, and yet preserves his life without\nloving it--not from inclination or fear, but from duty--then his\nmaxim has a moral worth.\n\nTo be beneficent when we can is a duty; and besides this, there are\nmany minds so sympathetically constituted that, without any other\nmotive of vanity or self-interest, they find a pleasure in spreading\njoy around them and can take delight in the satisfaction of others\nso far as it is their own work. But I maintain that in such a case\nan action of this kind, however proper, however amiable it may be,\nhas nevertheless no true moral worth, but is on a level with other\ninclinations, e. g. the inclination to honour, which, if it is\nhappily directed to that which is in fact of public utility and\naccordant with duty, and consequently honourable, deserves praise\nand encouragement, but not esteem. For the maxim lacks the moral\nimport, namely, that such actions be done from duty, not from\ninclination. Put the case that the mind of that philanthropist were\nclouded by sorrow of his own, extinguishing all sympathy with the\nlot of others, and that while he still has the power to benefit\nothers in distress, he is not touched oy their trouble because he is\nabsorbed with his own; and now suppose that he tears himself out of\nthis dead insensibility, and performs the action without any\ninclination to it, but simply from duty, then first has his action\nits genuine moral worth. Further still; if nature has put little\nsympathy in the heart of this or that man; if he, supposed to be an\nupright man, is by temperament cold and indifferent to the\nsufferings of others, perhaps because in respect of his own he is\nprovided with the special gift of patience and fortitude, and\nsupposes, or even requires, that others should have the same--and\nsuch a man would certainly not be the meanest product of nature--but\nif nature had not specially framed him for a philanthropist, would\nhe not still find in himself a source from whence to give himself a\nfar higher worth than that of a good-natured temperament could be?\nUnquestionably. It is just in this that the moral worth of the\ncharacter is brought out which is incomparably the highest of all,\nnamely, that he is beneficent, not from inclination, but from duty.\n\nTo secure one's own happiness is a duty, at least indirectly; for\ndiscontent with one's condition, under a pressure of many anxieties\nand amidst unsatisfied wants, might easily become a great temptation\nto transgression of duty. But here again, without looking to duty,\nall men have already the strongest and most intimate inclination to\nhappiness, because it is just in this idea that all inclinations are\ncombined in one total. But the precept of happiness is often of such\na sort that it greatly interferes with some inclinations, and yet a\nman cannot form any definite and certain conception of the sum of\nsatisfaction of all of them which is called happiness. It is not\nthen to be wandered at that a single inclination, definite both as\nto what it promises and as to the time within which it can be\ngratified, is often able to overcome such a fluctuating idea, and\nthat a gouty patient, for instance, can choose to enjoy what he\nlikes, and to suffer what he may, since, according to his\ncalculation, on this occasion at least, he has [only] not sacrificed\nthe enjoyment of the present moment to a possibly mistaken\nexpectation of a happiness which is supposed to be found in health.\nBut even in this case, if the general desire for happiness did not\ninfluence his will, and supposing that in his particular case health\nwas not a necessary element in this calculation, there yet remains\nin this, sas in all other cases, this law, namely, that he should\npromote his happiness not from inclination but from duty, land by\nthis would his conduct first acquire true moral worth.\n\nIt is in this manner, undoubtedly, that we are to understand those\npassages of Scripture also in which we are commanded to love our\nneighbour, even our enemy. For love, as an affection, cannot be\ncommanded, but beneficence for duty's sake may; even though we are\nnot impelled to it by any inclination--nay, are even repelled by a\nnatural and unconquerable aversion. This is practical love, and not\npathological--a love which is seated in the will, and not in the\npropensions of sense--in principles of action and not of tender\nsympathy; and it is this love alone which can be commanded.\n\nThe second [Footnote: The first proposition was that to have moral\nworth an action must be done from duty.] proposition is: That an\naction done from duty derives its moral worth, not from the purpose\nwhich is to be attained by it, but from the maxim by which it is\ndetermined, and therefore does not depend on the realization of the\nobject of the action, but merely on the principle of volition by\nwhich the action has taken place, without regard to any object of\ndesire. It is clear from what precedes that the purposes which we\nmay have in view in our actions, or their effects regarded as ends\nand springs of the will, cannot give to actions any unconditional or\nmoral worth. In what, then, can their worth lie, if it is not to\nconsist in the will and in reference to its expected effect? It\ncannot lie anywhere but in the principle of the will without regard\nto the ends which can be attained by the action. For the will stands\nbetween its a priori principle, which is formal, and its a\nposteriori spring, which is material, as between two roads, and as\nit must be determined by something, it follows that it must be\ndetermined by the formal principle of volition when an action is\ndone from duty, in which case every material principle has been\nwithdrawn from it.\n\nThe third proposition, which is a consequence of the two preceding,\nI would express thus: Duty is the necessity \"of acting from respect\nfor the law.\" I may have inclination for an object as the effect of\nmy proposed action, but I cannot have respect for it, just for this\nreason, that it is an effect and not an energy of will. Similarly, I\ncannot have respect for inclination, whether my own or another's; I\ncan at most, if my own, approve it; if another's, sometimes even\nlove it; i.e. look on it as favourable to my own interest. It is\nonly what is connected with my will as a principle, by no means as\nan effect--what does not subserve my inclination, but overpowers it,\nor at least in case of choice excludes it from its calculation--in\nother words, simply the law of itself, which can be an object of\nrespect, and hence a command. Now an action done from duty must\nwholly exclude the influence of inclination, and with it every\nobject of the will, so that nothing remains which can determine the\nwill except objectively the LAW, and subjectively PURE RESPECT for\nthis practical law, and consequently the maxim [Footnote: A MAXIM is\nthe subjective principle of volition. The objective principle (i. e.\nthat which would also serve subjectively as a practical principle to\nall rational beings if reason had full power over the faculty of\ndesire) is the practical LAW.] that I should follow this law even to\nthe thwarting of all my inclinations.\n\nThus the moral worth of an action does not lie in the effect\nexpected from it, nor in any principle of action which requires to\nborrow its motive from this expected effeet. For all these effects--\nagreeableness of one's condition, and even the promotion of the\nhappiness of others--could have been also brought about by other\ncauses, so that for this there would have been no need of the will\nof a rational being; whereas it is in this alone that the supreme\nand unconditional good can be found. The pre-eminent good which we\ncall moral can therefore consist in nothing else than THE CONCEPTION\nOF LAW in itself, WHICH CERTAINLY IS ONLY POSSIBLE IN A RATIONAL\nBEING, in so far as this conception, and not the expected effect,\ndetermines the will. This is a good which is already present in the\nperson who acts accordingly, and we have not to wait for it to\nappear first in the result. [Footnote: It might be here objected to\nme that I take refuge behind the word RESPECT in an obscure feeling,\ninstead of giving a distinct solution of the question by a concept\nof the reason. But although respect is a feeling, it is not a\nfeeling RECEIVED through influence, but is SELF-WROUGHT by a\nrational concept, and, therefore, is specifically distinct from all\nfeelings of the former kind, which may be referred either to\ninclination or fear, What I recognise immediately as a law for me, I\nrecognise with respect. This merely signifies the consciousness that\nmy will is SUBORDINATE to a law, without the intervention of other\ninfluences on my sense. The immediate determination of the will by\nthe law, and the consciousness of this is called RESPECT, so that\nthis is regarded as an EFFECT of the law on the subject, and not as\nthe CAUSE of it. Respect is properly the conception of a worth which\nthwarts my self-love. Accordingly it is something which is\nconsidered neither as am object of inclination nor of fear, although\nit has something analogous to both. The OBJECT of respect is the LAW\nonly, and that, the law which we impose on OURSELVES, and yet\nrecognise as necessary in itself. As a law, we are subjected to it\nwithout consulting self-love; as imposed by us on ourselves, it is a\nresult of our will. In the former aspect it has an analogy to fear,\nin the latter to inclination. Respect for a person is properly only\nrespect for the law (of honesty, &c.), of which he gives us an\nexample. Since we also look on the improvement of our talents as a\nduty, we consider that we see in a person of talents, as it were,\nthe EXAMPLE OF A LAW (viz. to become like him in this by exercise),\nand this constitutes our respect. All so-called moral INTEREST\nconsists simply in RESPECT for the law.]\n\nBut what sort of law can that be, the conception of which must\ndetermine the will, even without paying any regard to the effect\nexpected from it, in order that this will may be called good\nabsolutely and without qualification? As I have deprived the will of\nevery impulse which could arise to it from obedience to any law,\nthere remains nothing but the universal conformity of its actions to\nlaw in general, which alone is to serve the will as a principle, i.\ne. I am never to act otherwise than so THAT _I_ COULD ALSO WILL THAT\nMY MAXIM SHOULD BECOME A UNIVERSAL LAW. Here now, it is the simple\nconformity to law in general, without assuming any particular law\napplicable to certain actions, that serves the will as its\nprinciple, and must so serve it, if duty is not to be a vain\ndelusion and a chimerical notion. The common reason of men in its\npractical judgments perfectly coincides with this, and always has in\nview the principle here suggested. Let the question be, for example:\nMay I when in distress make a promise with the intention not to keep\nit? I readily distinguish here between the two significations which\nthe question may have. Whether it is prudent, or whether it is\nright, to make a false promise. The former may undoubtedly often be\nthe case. I see clearly indeed that it is not enough to extricate\nmyself from a present difficulty by means of this subterfuge, but it\nmust be well considered whether there may not hereafter spring from\nthis lie much greater inconvenience than that from which I now free\nmyself, and as, with all my supposed CUNNING, the consequences\ncannot be so easily foreseen but that credit once lost may be much\nmore injurious to me than any mischief which I seek to avoid at\npresent, it should be considered whether it would not be more\nprudent to act herein according to a universal maxim, and to make it\na habit to promise nothing except with the intention of keeping it.\nBut it is soon clear to me that such a maxim will still only be\nbased on the fear of consequences. Now it is a wholly different\nthing to be truthful from duty, and to be so from apprehension of\ninjurious consequences. In the first case, the very notion of the\naction already implies a law for me; in the second case, I must\nfirst look about elsewhere to see what results may be combined with\nit which would affect myself. For to deviate from the principle of\nduty is beyond all doubt wicked; but to be unfaithful to my maxim of\nprudence may often be very advantageous to me, although to abide by\nit is certainly safer. The shortest way, however, and an unerring\none, to discover the answer to this question whether a lying promise\nis consistent with duty, is to ask myself, Should I be content that\nmy maxim (to extricate myself from difficulty by a false promise)\nshould hold good as a universal law, for myself as well as for\nothers? and should I be able to say to myself, \"Every one may make a\ndeceitful promise when he finds himself in a difficulty from which\nhe cannot otherwise extricate himself\"? Then I presently become\naware that while I can will the lie, I can by no means will that\nlying should be a universal law. For with such a law there would be\nno promises at all, since it would be in vain to allege my intention\nin regard to my future actions to those who would not believe this\nallegation, or if they overhastily did so, would pay me back in my\nown coin. Hence my maxim, as soon as it should be made a universal\nlaw, would necessarily destroy itself.\n\nI do not, therefore, need any far-reaching penetration to discern\nwhat I have to do in order that my will may be morally good.\nInexperienced in the course of the world, incapable of being\nprepared for all its contingencies, I only ask myself: Canst thou\nalso will that thy maxim should be a universal law? If not, then it\nmust be rejected, and that not because of a disadvantage accruing\nfrom it to myself or even to others, but because it cannot enter as\na principle into a possible universal legislation, and reason\nextorts from me immediate respect for such legislation. I do not\nindeed as yet discern on what this respect is based (this the\nphilosopher may inquire), but at least I understand this, that it is\nan estimation of the worth which far outweighs all worth of what is\nrecommended by inclination, and that the necessity of acting from\npure respect for the practical law is what constitutes duty, to\nwhich every other motive must give place, because it is the\ncondition of a will being good in itself, and the worth of such a\nwill is above everything.\n\nThus, then, without quitting the moral knowledge of common human\nreason, we have arrived at its principle. And although, no doubt,\ncommon men do not conceive it in such an abstract and universal\nform, yet they always have it really before their eyes, and use it\nas the standard of their decision. Here it would be easy to show\nhow, with this compass in hand, men are well able to distinguish,\nin every case that occurs, what is good, what bad, conformably to\nduty or inconsistent with it, if, without in the least teaching\nthem anything new, we only, like Socrates, direct their attention\nto the principle they themselves employ; and that therefore we do\nnot need science and philosophy to know what we should do to be\nhonest and good, yea, even wise and virtuous. Indeed we might well\nhave conjectured beforehand that the knowledge of what every man\nis bound to do, and therefore also to know, would be within the\nreach of every man, even the commonest. [Footnote: Compare the note\nto the Preface to the Critique of the Practical Reason, p. 111. A\nspecimen of Kant's proposed application of the Socratic method may\nbe found in Mr. Semple'a translation of the Metaphysic of Ethics,\np. 290.] Here we cannot forbear admiration when we see how great\nan advantage the practical judgment has over the theoretical in\nthe common understanding of men. In the latter, if common reason\nventures to depart from the laws of experience and from the\nperceptions of the senses it falls into mere inconceivabilities and\nself-contradictions, at least into chaos of uncertainty, obscurity,\nand instability. But in the practical sphere it is just when the\ncommon understanding excludes all sensible springs from practical\nlaws that its power of judgment begins to show itself to advantage.\nIt then becomes even subtle, whether it be that it chicanes with\nits own conscience or with other claims respecting what is to\nbe called right, or whether it desires for its own instruction to\ndetermine honestly the worth of actions; and, in the latter case,\nit may even have as good a hope of hitting the mark as any philosopher\nwhatever can promise himself. Nay, it is almost more sure of doing\nso, because the philosopher cannot have any other principle, while\nhe may easily perplex his judgment by a multitude of considerations\nforeign to the matter, and so turn aside from the right way. Would\nit not therefore be wiser in moral concerns to acquiesce in the\njudgment of common reason or at most only to call in philosophy\nfor the purpose of rendering the system of morals more complete\nand intelligible, and its rules more convenient for use (especially\nfor disputation), but not so as to draw off the common understanding\nfrom its happy simplicity, or to bring it by means of philosophy\ninto a new path of inquiry and instruction?\n\nInnocence is indeed a glorious thing, only, on the other hand, it is\nvery sad that it cannot well maintain itself, and is easily seduced.\nOn this account even wisdom--which otherwise consists more in\nconduct than in knowledge--yet has need of science, not in order to\nlearn from it, but to secure for its precepts admission and\npermanence. Against all the commands of duty which reason represents\nto man as so deserving of respect, he feels in himself a powerful\ncounterpoise in his wants and inclinations, the entire satisfaction\nof which he sums up under the name of happiness. Now reason issues\nits commands unyieldingly, without promising anything to the\ninclinations, and, as it were, with disregard and contempt for these\nclaims, which are so impetuous, and at the same time so plausible,\nand which will not allow themselves to be suppressed by any command.\nHence there arises a natural dialectic, i. e. a disposition, to\nargue against these strict laws of duty and to question their\nvalidity, or at least their purity and strictness; and, if possible,\nto make them more accordant with our wishes and inclinations, that\nis to say, to corrupt them at their very source, and entirely to\ndestroy their worth--a thing which even common practical reason\ncannot ultimately call good.\n\nThus is the common reason of man compelled to go out of its sphere,\nand to take a step into the field of a practical philosophy, not to\nsatisfy any speculative want (which never occurs to it as long as it\nis content to be mere sound reason), but even on practical grounds,\nin order to attain in it information and clear instruction\nrespecting the source of its principle, and the correct\ndetermination of it in opposition to the maxims which are based on\nwants and inclinations, so that it may escape from the perplexity of\nopposite claims, and not run the risk of losing all genuine moral\nprinciples through the equivocation into which it easily falls.\nThus, when practical reason cultivates itself, there insensibly\narises in it a dialectic which forces it to seek aid in philosophy,\njust as happens to it in its theoretic use; and in this case,\ntherefore, as well as in the other, it will find rest nowhere but in\na thorough critical examination of our reason.\n\n\n\n\nSECOND SECTION\n\nTRANSITION FROM POPULAR MORAL PHILOSOPHY TO THE METAPHYSIC OF MORALS\n\n\nIf we have hitherto drawn our notion of duty from the common use of\nour practical reason, it is by no means to be inferred that we have\ntreated it as an empirical notion. On the contrary, if we attend to\nthe experience of men's conduct, we meet frequent and, as we\nourselves allow, just complaints that one cannot find a single\ncertain example of the disposition to act from pure duty. Although\nmany things are done in conformity with what duty prescribes, it is\nnevertheless always doubtful whether they are done strictly from\nduty, so as to have a moral worth. Hence there have, at all times,\nbeen philosophers who have altogether denied that this disposition\nactually exists at all in human actions, and have ascribed\neverything to a more or less refined self-love. Not that they have\non that account questioned the soundness of the conception of\nmorality; on the contrary, they spoke with sincere regret of the\nfrailty and corruption of human nature, which thought noble enough\nto take as its rule an idea so worthy of respect, is yet too weak to\nfollow it, and employs reason, which ought to give it the law only\nfor the purpose of providing for the interest of the inclinations,\nwhether singly or at the best in the greatest possible harmony with\none another.\n\nIn fact, it is absolutely impossible to make out by experience with\ncomplete certainty a single case in which the maxim of an action,\nhowever right in itself, rested simply on moral grounds and on the\nconception of duty. Sometimes it happens that with the sharpest\nself-examination we can find nothing beside the moral principle of\nduty which could have been powerful enough to move us to this or\nthat action and to so great a sacrifice; yet we cannot from this\ninfer with certainty that it was not really some secret impulse of\nself-love, under the false appearance of duty, that was the actual\ndetermining cause of the will. We like then to flatter ourselves by\nfalsely taking credit for a more noble motive; whereas in fact we\ncan never, even by the strictest examination, get completely behind\nthe secret springs of action; since, when the question is of moral\nworth, it is not with the actions which we see that we are\nconcerned, but with those inward principles of them which we do not\nsee.\n\nMoreover, we cannot better serve the wishes of those who ridicule\nall morality as a mere chimera of human imagination overstepping\nitself from vanity, than by conceding to them that notions of duty\nmust be drawn only from experience (as from indolence, people are\nready to think is also the case with all other notions); for this is\nto prepare for them a certain triumph. I am willing to admit out of\nlove of humanity that even most of our actions are correct, but if\nwe look closer at them we everywhere come upon the dear self which\nis always prominent, and it is this they have in view, and not the\nstrict command of duty which would often require self-denial.\nWithout being an enemy of virtue, a cool observer, one that does not\nmistake the wish for good, however lively, for its reality, may\nsometimes doubt whether true virtue is actually found anywhere in\nthe world, and this especially as years increase and the judgment is\npartly made wiser by experience, and partly also more acute in\nobservation. This being so, nothing can secure us from falling away\naltogether from our ideas of duty, or maintain in the soul a well-\ngrounded respect for its law, but the clear conviction that although\nthere should never have been actions which really sprang from such\npure sources, yet whether this or that takes place is not at all the\nquestion; but that reason of itself, independent on all experience,\nordains what ought to take place, that accordingly actions of which\nperhaps the world has hitherto never given an example, the\nfeasibility even of which might be very much doubted by one who\nfounds everything on experience, are nevertheless inflexibly\ncommanded by reason; that, ex. gr. even though there might never yet\nhave been a sincere friend, yet not a whit the less is pure\nsincerity in friendship required of every man, because, prior to all\nexperience, this duty is involved as duty in the idea of a reason\ndetermining the will by a priori principles.\n\nWhen we add further that, unless we deny that the notion of morality\nhas any truth or reference to any possible object, we must admit\nthat its law must be valid, not merely for men, but for all rational\ncreatures generally, not merely under certain contingent conditions\nor with exceptions, but with absolute necessity, then it is clear\nthat no experience could enable us to infer even the possibility of\nsuch apodictic laws. For with what right could we bring into\nunbounded respect as a universal precept for every rational nature\nthat which perhaps holds only under the contingent conditions of\nhumanity? Or how could laws of the determination of OUR will be\nregarded as laws of the determination of the will of rational beings\ngenerally, and for us only as such, if they were merely empirical,\nand did not take their origin wholly a priori from pure but\npractical reason?\n\nNor could anything be more fatal to morality than that we should\nwish to derive it from examples. For every example of it that is set\nbefore me must be first itself tested by principles of morality,\nwhether it is worthy to serve as an original example, i. e., as a\npattern, but by no means can it authoritatively furnish the\nconception of morality. Even the Holy One of the Gospels must first\nbe compared with our ideal of moral perfection before we can\nrecognise Him as such; and so He says of Himself, \"Why call ye Me\n(whom you see) good; none is good (the model of good) but God only\n(whom ye do not see)?\" But whence have we the conception of God as\nthe supreme good? Simply from the IDEA of moral perfection, which\nreason frames a priori, and connects inseparably with the notion of\na free-will. Imitation finds no place at all in morality, and\nexamples serve only for encouragement, i. e. they put beyond doubt\nthe feasibility of what the law commands, they make visible that\nwhich the practical rule expresses more generally, but they can\nnever authorise us to set aside the true original which lies in\nreason, and to guide ourselves by examples.\n\nIf then there is no genuine supreme principle of morality but what\nmust rest simply on pure reason, independent on all experience, I\nthink it is not necessary even to put the question, whether it is\ngood to exhibit these concepts in their generality (in abstracto) as\nthey are established a priori along with the principles belonging to\nthem, if our knowledge is to be distinguished from the vulgar, and\nto be called philosophical. In our times indeed this might perhaps\nbe necessary; for if we collected votes, whether pure rational\nknowledge separated from everything empirical, that is to say,\nmetaphysic of morals, or whether popular practical philosophy is to\nbe preferred, it is easy to guess which side would preponderate.\n\nThis descending to popular notions is certainly very commendable, if\nthe ascent to the principles of pure reason has first taken place\nand been satisfactorily accomplished. This implies that we first\nfound Ethics on Metaphysics, and then, when it is firmly\nestablished, procure a hearing for it by giving it a popular\ncharacter. But it is quite absurd to try to be popular in the first\ninquiry, on which the soundness of the principles depends. It is not\nonly that this proceeding can never lay claim to the very rare merit\nof a true philosophical popularity, since there is no art in being\nintelligible if one renounces all thoroughness of insight; but also\nit produces a disgusting medley of compiled observations and half-\nreasoned principles. Shallow pates enjoy this because it can be used\nfor every-day chat, but the sagacious find in it only confusion, and\nbeing unsatisfied and unable to help themselves, they turn away\ntheir eyes, while philosophers, who see quite well through this\ndelusion, are little listened to when they call men off for a time\nfrom this pretended popularity, in order that they might be\nrightfully popular after they have attained a definite insight.\n\nWe need only look at the attempts of moralists in that favourite\nfashion, and we shall find at one time the Special constitution of\nhuman nature (including, however, the idea of a rational nature\ngenerally), at one time perfection, at another happiness, here moral\nsense, there fear of God, a little of this, and a little of that, in\nmarvellous mixture, without its occurring to them to ask whether the\nprinciples of morality are to be sought in the knowledge of human\nnature at all (which we can have only from experience); and, if this\nis not so, if these principles are to be found altogether a priori\nfree from everything empirical, in pure rational concepts only, and\nnowhere else, not even in the smallest degree; then rather to adopt\nthe method of making this a separate inquiry, as pure practical\nphilosophy, or (if one may use a name so decried) as metaphysic of\nmorals, [Footnote: Just as pure mathematics are distinguished from\napplied, pure logic from applied, so if we choose we may alse\ndistinguish pure philosophy of morals (metaphysic) from applied\n(viz. applied to human nature). By this designation we are also at\nonce reminded that moral principles are not based on properties of\nhuman nature, but must subsist a priori of themselves while from\nsuch principles practical rules must be capable of being deduced for\nevery rational nature, and accordingly for that of man.] to bring it\nby itself to completeness, and to require the public, which wishes\nfor popular treatment, to await the issue of this undertaking.\n\nSuch a metaphysic of morals, completely isolated, not mixed with any\nanthropology, theology, physics, or hyperphysics, and still less\nwith occult qualities (which we might call hypophysical), is not\nonly an indispensable substratum of all sound theoretical knowledge\nof duties, but is at the same time a desideratum of the highest\nimportance to the actual fulfilment of their precepts. For the pure\nconception of duty, unmixed with any foreign addition of empirical\nattractions, and, in a word, the conception of the moral law,\nexercises on the human heart, by way of reason alone (which first\nbecomes aware with this that it can of itself be practical), an\ninfluence so much more powerful than all other springs [Footnote: I\nhave a letter from the late excellent Sulzer, in which he asks me\nwhat can be the reason that moral instruction, although containing\nmuch that is convincing for the reason, yet accomplishes so little?\nMy answer was postponed in order that I might make it complete. But\nit is simply this, that the teachers themselves have not got their\nown notions clear, and when they endeavour to make up for this by\nraking up motives of moral goodness from every quarter, trying to\nmake their physic right strong, they spoil it. For the commonest\nunderstanding shows that if we imagine, on the one hand, an act of\nhonesty done with steadfast mind, apart from every view to advantage\nof any kind in this world or another, and even under the greatest\ntemptations of necessity or allurement, and, on the other hand, a\nsimilar act which was affected, in however low a degree, by a\nforeign motive, the former leaves far behind and eclipses the\nsecond; it elevates the soul, and inspires the wish to be able to\nact in like manner oneself. Even moderately young children feel this\nimpression, and one should never represent duties to them in any\nother light.] which may be derived from the field of experience,\nthat in the consciousness of its worth, despises the latter, and can by\ndegrees become their master; whereas a mixed ethics, compounded\npartly of motives drawn from feelings and inclinations, and partly also of\nconceptions of reason, must make the mind waver between motives\nwhich cannot be brought under any principle, which lead to good only\nby mere accident, and very often also to evil.\n\nFrom what has been said, it is clear that all moral conceptions have\ntheir seat and origin completely a priori in the reason, and that,\nmoreover, in the commonest reason just as truly as in that which is\nin the highest degree speculative; that they cannot be obtained by\nabstraction from any empirical, and therefore merely contingent\nknowledge; that it is just this purity of their origin that makes\nthem worthy to serve as our supreme practical principle, and that\njust in proportion as we add anything empirical, we detract from\ntheir genuine influence, and from the absolute value of actions;\nthat it is not only of the greatest necessity, in a purely\nspeculative point of view, but is also of the greatest practical\nimportance to derive these notions and laws from pure reason, to\npresent them pure and unmixed, and even to determine the compass of\nthis practical or pure rational knowledge, i. e. to determine the\nwhole faculty of pure practical reason; and, in doing so, we must\nnot make its principles dependent on the particular nature of human\nreason, though in speculative philosophy this may be permitted, or\nmay even at times be necessary; but since moral laws ought to hold\ngood for every rational creature, we must derive them from the\ngeneral concept of a rational being. In this way, although for its\napplication to man morality has need of anthropology, yet, in the\nfirst instance, we must treat it independently as pure philosophy,\ni. e. as metaphysic, complete in itself (a thing which in such\ndistinct branches of science is easily done); knowing well that\nunless we are in possession of this, it would not only be vain to\ndetermine the moral element of duty in right actions for purposes of\nspeculative criticism, but it would be impossible to base morals on\ntheir genuine principles, even for common practical purposes,\nespecially of moral instruction, so as to produce pure moral dispositions,\nand to engraft them on men's minds to the promotion of the greatest\npossible good in the world.\n\nBut in order that in this study we may not merely advance by the\nnatural steps from the common moral judgment (in this case very\nworthy of respect) to the philosophical, as has been already done,\nbut also from a popular philosophy, which goes no further than it\ncan reach by groping with the help of examples, to metaphysic (which\ndoes not allow itself to be checked by anything empirical, and as it\nmust measure the whole extent of this kind of rational knowledge,\ngoes as far as ideal conceptions, where even examples fail us), we\nmust follow and clearly describe the practical faculty of reason,\nfrom the general rules of its determination to the point where the\nnotion of duty springs from it.\n\nEverything in nature works according to laws. Rational beings alone\nhave the faculty of acting according to the conception of laws, that\nis according to principles, i. e., have a will. Since the deduction\nof actions from principles requires reason, the will is nothing but\npractical reason. If reason infallibly determines the will, then the\nactions of such a being which are recognised as objectively\nnecessary are subjectively necessary also, i. e., the will is a\nfaculty to choose that only which reason independent on inclination\nrecognises as practically necessary, i. e., as good. But if reason\nof itself does not sufficiently determine the will, if the latter is\nsubject also to subjective conditions (particular impulses) which do\nnot always coincide with the objective conditions; in a word, if the\nwill does not in itself completely accord with reason (which is\nactually the case with men), then the actions which objectively are\nrecognised as necessary are subjectively contingent, and the\ndetermination of such a will according to objective laws is\nobligation, that is to say, the relation of the objective laws to a\nwill that is not thoroughly good is conceived as the determination\nof the will of a rational being by principles of reason, but which\nthe will from its nature does not of necessity follow.\n\nThe conception of an objective principle, in so far as it is\nobligatory for a will, is called a command (of reason); and the\nformula of the command is called an Imperative.\n\nAll imperatives are expressed by the word OUGHT [or SHALL], and\nthereby indicate the relation of an objective law of reason to a\nwill, which from its subjective constitution is not necessarily\ndetermined by it (an obligation). They say that something would be\ngood to do or to forbear, but they say it to a will which does not\nalways do a thing because it is conceived to be good to do it. That\nis practically GOOD, however, which determines the will by means of\nthe conceptions of reason, and consequently not from subjective\ncauses, but objectively, that is on principles which are valid for\nevery rational being as such. It is distinguished from the PLEASANT,\nas that which influences the will only by means of sensation from\nmerely subjective causes, valid only for the sense of this or that\none, and not as a principle of reason, which holds for every one.\n[Footnote 3: The dependence of the desires on sensations is called\ninclination, and this accordingly always indicates a WANT. The\ndependence of a contingently determinable will on principles of\nreason is called an INTEREST. This therefore is found only in the\ncase of a dependent will, which does not always of itself conform to\nreason; in the Divine will we cannot conceive any interest. But the\nhuman will can also TAKE AN INTEREST in a thing without therefore\nacting FROM INTEREST. The former signifies the PRACTICAL interest in\nthe action, the latter the PATHOLOGICAL in the object of the action.\nThe former indicates only dependence of the will or principles of\nreason in themselves; the second, dependence on principles of reason\nfor the sake of inclination, reason supplying only the practical\nrules how the requirement of the inclination may he satisfied. In\nthe first case the action interests me; in the second the object of\nthe action (because it is pleasant to me), We have seen in the first\nsection that in an action done from duty we must look not to the\ninterest in the object, but only to that in the action itself, and\nin its rational principle (viz. the law).]\n\nA perfectly good will would therefore be equally subject to\nobjective laws (viz. laws of good), but could not be conceived as\nOBLIGED thereby to act lawfully, because of itself from its\nsubjective constitution it can only be determined by the conception\nof good. Therefore no imperatives hold for the Divine will, or in\ngeneral for a HOLY will; OUGHT is here out of place, because the\nvolition is already of itself necessarily in unison with the law.\nTherefore imperatives are only formulae to express the relation of\nobjective laws of all volition to the subjective imperfection of the\nwill of this or that rational being, e. g. the human will.\n\nNow all IMPERATIVES command either HYPOTHETICALLY or CATEGORICALLY.\nThe former represent the practical necessity of a possible action as\nmeans to something else that is willed (or at least which one might\npossibly will). The categorical imperative would be that which\nrepresented an action as necessary of itself without reference to\nanother end, i. e., as objectively necessary.\n\nSince every practical law represents a possible action as good, and\non this account, for a subject who is practically determinable by\nreason, necessary, all imperatives are formulae determining an\naction which is necessary according to the principle of a will good\nin some respects. If now the action is good only as a means TO\nSOMETHING ELSE, then the imperative is HYPOTHETICAL; if it is\nconceived as good IN ITSELF and consequently as being necessarily\nthe principle of a will which of itself conforms to reason, then it\nis CATEGORICAL.\n\nThus the imperative declares what action possible by me would be\ngood, and presents the practical rule in relation to a will which\ndoes not forthwith perform an action simply because it is good,\nwhether because the subject does not always know that it is good, or\nbecause, even if it know this, yet its maxims might be opposed to\nthe objective principles of practical reason.\n\nAccordingly the hypothetical imperative only says that the action is\ngood for some purpose, POSSIBLE or ACTUAL. In the first case it is a\nProblematical, in the second an Assertorial practical principle. The\ncategorical imperative which declares an action to be objectively\nnecessary in itself without reference to any purpose, i. e., without\nany other end, is valid as an Apodictic (practical) principle.\n\nWhatever is possible only by the power of some rational being may\nalso be conceived as a possible purpose of some will; and therefore\nthe principles of action as regards the means necessary to attain\nsome possible purpose are in fact infinitely numerous. All sciences\nhave a practical part, consisting of problems expressing that some\nend is possible for us, and of imperatives directing how it may be\nattained. These may, therefore, be called in general imperatives of\nSkill. Here there is no question whether the end is rational and\ngood, but only what one must do in order to attain it. The precepts\nfor the physician to make his patient thoroughly healthy, and for a\npoisoner to ensure certain death, are of equal value in this\nrespect, that each serves to effect its purpose perfectly. Since in\nearly youth it cannot be known what ends are likely to occur to us\nin the course of life, parents seek to have their children taught a\ngreat many things, and provide for their skill in the use of means\nfor all sorts of arbitrary ends, of none of which can they determine\nwhether it may not perhaps hereafter be an object to their pupil,\nbut which it is at all events possible that he might aim at; and\nthis anxiety is so great that they commonly neglect to form and\ncorrect their judgment on the value of the things which may be\nchosen as ends.\n\nThere is one end, however, which may be assumed to be actually such\nto all rational beings (so far as imperatives apply to them, viz. as\ndependent beings), and therefore, one purpose which they not merely\nMAY have, but which we may with certainty assume that they all\nactually HAVE by a natural necessity, and this is HAPPINESS. The\nhypothetical imperative which expresses the practical necessity of\nan action as means to the advancement of happiness is Assertorial.\nWe are not to present it as necessary for an uncertain and merely\npossible purpose, but for a purpose which we may presuppose with\ncertainty and a priori in every man, because it belongs to his\nbeing. Now skill in the choice of means to his own greatest well-\nbeing may be called prudence [The word prudence is taken in two\nsenses; in the one it may bear the name of knowledge of the world,\nin the other that of private prudence. The former is a man's ability\nto influence others so as to use them for his own purposes. The\nlatter is the sagacity to combine all these purposes for his own\nlasting benefit. This latter is properly that to which the value\neven of the former is reduced, and when a man is prudent in the\nformer sense, but not in the latter, we might better say of him that\nhe is clever and cunning, but, on the whole, imprudent. Compare on\nthe difference between klug and gescheu here alluded to,\nAnthropologie, 45, ed. Schubert, p. no.] in the narrowest sense. And\nthus the imperative which refers to the choice of means to one's own\nhappiness, i. e., the precept of prudence, is still always\nhypothetical; the action is not commanded absolutely, but only as\nmeans to another purpose.\n\nFinally, there is an imperative which commands a certain conduct\nimmediately, without having as its condition any other purpose to be\nattained by it. This imperative is Categorical. It concerns not the\nmatter of the action, or its intended result, but its form and the\nprinciple of which it is itself a result, and what is essentially\ngood in it consists in the mental disposition, let the consequence\nbe what it may. This imperative may be called that of Morality.\n\nThere is a marked distinction also between the volitions on these\nthree sorts of principles in the DISSIMILARITY of the obligation of\nthe will. In order to mark this difference more clearly, I think\nthey would be most suitably named in their order if we said they are\neither RULES of skill, or COUNSELS of prudence, or COMMANDS (LAWS)\nof morality. For it is LAW only that involves the conception of an\nUNCONDITIONAL and objective necessity, which is consequently\nuniversally valid; and commands are laws which must be obeyed, that\nis, must be followed, even in opposition to inclination. COUNSELS,\nindeed, involve necessity, but one which can only hold under a\ncontingent subjective condition, viz. they depend on whether this or\nthat man reckons this or that as part of his happiness; the\ncategorical imperative, on the contrary, is not limited by any\ncondition, and as being absolutely, although practically, necessary,\nmay be quite properly called a command. We might also call the first\nkind of imperatives TECHNICAL (belonging to art), the second\nPRAGMATIC (to welfare), [It seems to me that the proper\nsignification of the word pragmatic may be most accurately defined\nin this way. For sanctions [see Cr. of Pract. Reas., p. 271] are\ncalled pragmatic which flow properly, not from the law of the states\nas necessary enactments, but from precaution for the general\nwelfare. A history is composed pragmatically when it teaches\nprudence, i. e. instructs the world how it can provide for its\ninterests better, or at least as well as the men of former time.];\nthe third MORAL (belonging to free conduct generally, that is, to\nmorals).\n\nNow arises the question, how are all these imperatives possible?\nThis question does not seek to know how we can conceive the\naccomplishment of the action which the imperative ordains, but\nmerely how we can conceive the obligation of the will which the\nimperative expresses. No special explanation is needed to show how\nan imperative of skill is possible. Whoever wills the end, wills\nalso (so far as reason decides his conduct) the means in his power\nwhich are indispensably necessary thereto. This proposition is, as\nregards the volition, analytical; for, in willing an object as my\neffect, there is already thought the causality of myself as an\nacting cause, that is to say, the use of the means; and the\nimperative educes from the conception of volition of an end the\nconception of actions necessary to this end. Synthetical\npropositions must no doubt be employed in denning the means to a\nproposed end; but they do not concern the principle, the act of the\nwill, but the object and its realization. Ex. gr., that in order to\nbisect a line on an unerring principle I must draw from its\nextremities two intersecting arcs; this no doubt is taught by\nmathematics only in synthetical propositions; but if I know that it\nis only by this process that the intended operation can be\nperformed, then to say that if I fully will the operation, I also\nwill the action required for it, is an analytical proposition; for\nit is one and the same thing to conceive something as an effect\nwhich I can produce in a certain way, and to conceive myself as\nacting in this way.\n\nIf it were only equally easy to give a definite conception of\nhappiness, the imperatives of prudence would correspond exactly with\nthose of skill, and would likewise be analytical. For in this case\nas in that, it could be said, whoever wills the end, wills also\n(according to the dictate of reason necessarily) the indispensable\nmeans thereto which are in his power. But, unfortunately, the notion\nof happiness is so indefinite that although every man wishes to\nattain it, yet he never can say definitely and consistently what it\nis that he really wishes and wills. The reason of this is that all\nthe elements which belong to the notion of happiness are altogether\nempirical, i. e. they must be borrowed from experience, and\nnevertheless the idea of happiness requires an absolute whole, a\nmaximum of welfare in my present and all future circumstances. Now\nit is impossible that the most clear-sighted, and at the same time\nmost powerful being (supposed finite), should frame to himself a\ndefinite conception of what he really wills in this. Does he will\nriches, how much anxiety, envy, and snares might he not thereby draw\nupon his shoulders? Does he will knowledge and discernment, perhaps\nit might prove to be only an eye so much the sharper to show him so\nmuch the more fearfully the evils that are now concealed from him,\nand that cannot be avoided, or to impose more wants on his desires,\nwhich already give him concern enough. Would he have long life, who\nguarantees to him that it would not be a long misery? would he at\nleast have health? how often has uneasiness of the body restrained\nfrom excesses into which perfect health would have allowed one to\nfall? and so on. In short he is unable, on any principle, to\ndetermine with certainty what would make him truly happy; because to\ndo so he would need to be omniscient. We cannot therefore act on any\ndefinite principles to secure happiness, but only on empirical\ncounsels, ex. gr. of regimen, frugality, courtesy, reserve, &c.,\nwhich experience teaches do, on the average, most promote well-\nbeing. Hence it follows that the imperatives of prudence do not,\nstrictly speaking, command at all, that is, they cannot present\nactions objectively as practically necessary; that they are rather\nto be regarded as counsels (consilia) than precepts (praecepta) of\nreason, that the problem to determine certainly and universally what\naction would promote the happiness of a rational being is completely\ninsoluble, and consequently no imperative respecting it is possible\nwhich should, in the strict sense, command to do what makes happy;\nbecause happiness is not an ideal of reason but of imagination,\nresting solely on empirical grounds, and it is vain to expect that\nthese should define an action by which one could attain the totality\nof a series of consequences which is really endless. This imperative\nof prudence would however be an analytical proposition if we assume\nthat the means to happiness could be certainly assigned; for it is\ndistinguished from the imperative of skill only by this, that in the\nlatter the end is merely possible, in the former it is given; as\nhowever both only ordain the means to that which we suppose to be\nwilled as an end, it follows that the imperative which ordains the\nwilling of the means to him who wills the end is in both cases\nanalytical. Thus there is no difficulty in regard to the possibility\nof an imperative of this kind either.\n\nOn the other hand the question, how the imperative of morality is\npossible, is undoubtedly one, the only one? demanding a solution, as\nthis is not at all hypothetical, and the objective necessity which\nit presents cannot rest on any hypothesis, as is the case with the\nhypothetical imperatives. Only here we must never leave out of\nconsideration that we cannot make out by any example, in other words\nempirically, whether there is such an imperative at all; but it is\nrather to be feared that all those which seem to be categorical may\nyet be at bottom hypothetical. For instance, when the precept is:\nThou shalt not promise deceitfully; and it is assumed that the\nnecessity of this is not a mere counsel to avoid some other evil, so\nthat it should mean: thou shalt not make a lying promise, lest if it\nbecome known thou shouldst destroy thy credit, but that an action of\nthis kind must be regarded as evil in itself, so that the imperative\nof the prohibition is categorical; then we cannot show with\ncertainty in any example that the will was determined merely by the\nlaw, without any other spring of action, although it may appear to\nbe so. For it is always possible that fear of disgrace, perhaps also\nobscure dread of other dangers, may have a secret influence on the\nwill. Who can prove by experience the non-existence of a cause when\nall that experience tells us is that we do not perceive it? But in\nsuch a case the so-called moral imperative, which as such appears to\nbe categorical and unconditional, would in reality be only a\npragmatic precept, drawing our attention to our own interests, and\nmerely teaching us to take these into consideration.\n\nWe shall therefore have to investigate a priori the possibility of a\ncategorical imperative, as we have not in this case the advantage of\nits reality being given in experience, so that [the elucidation of]\nits possibility should be requisite only for its explanation, not\nfor its establishment. In the mean-time it may be discerned\nbeforehand that the categorical imperative alone has the purport of\na practical law: all the rest may indeed be called principles of the\nwill but not laws, since whatever is only necessary for the\nattainment of some arbitrary purpose may be considered as in itself\ncontingent, and we can at any time be free from the precept if we\ngive up the purpose: on the contrary, the unconditional command\nleaves the will no liberty to choose the opposite; consequently it\nalone carries with it that necessity which we require in a law.\n\nSecondly, in the case of this categorical imperative or law of\nmorality, the difficulty (of discerning its possibility) is a very\nprofound one. It is an a priori synthetical practical proposition;\n[Footnote: I connect the act with the will without presupposing any\ncondition resulting from any inclination, but d priori, and\ntherefore necessarily (though only objectively, i. e. assuming the\nidea of a reason possessing full power over all subjective motives).\nThis is accordingly a practical proposition which does not deduce\nthe willing of an action by mere analysis from another already\npresupposed (for we have not such a perfect will), but connects it\nimmediately with the conception of the will of a rational being, as\nsomething not contained in it.] and as there is so much difficulty\nin discerning the possibility of speculative propositions of this\nkind, it may readily be supposed that the difficulty will be no less\nwith the practical.\n\nIn this problem we will first inquire whether the mere conception of\na categorical imperative may not perhaps supply us also with the\nformula of it, containing the proposition which alone can be a\ncategorical imperative; for even if we know the tenor of such\nabsolute command, yet how it is possible will require further\nspecial and laborious study, which we postpone to the last section.\n\nWhen I conceive a hypothetical imperative in general I do not know\nbeforehand what it will contain until I am given the condition. But\nwhen I conceive a categorical imperative I know at once what it\ncontains. For as the imperative contains besides the law only the\nnecessity that the maxims [Footnote: A MAXIM is a subjective\nprinciple of action, and must be distinguished from the objective\nprinciple, namely, practical law. The former contains the practical\nrule set by reason according to the conditions of the subject (often\nits ignorance or its inclinations), so that it is the principle on\nwhich the subject acts; but the law is the objective principle valid\nfor every rational being, and is the principle on which it ought to\nact that is an imperative.] shall conform to this law, while the law\ncontains no conditions restricting it, there remains nothing but the\ngeneral statement that the maxim of the action should conform to a\nuniversal law, and it is this conformity alone that the imperative\nproperly represents as necessary. [Footnote: I have no doubt that\n\"den\" in the original before \"Imperativ\" is a misprint for \"der,\"\nand have translated accordingly. Mr. Semple has done the same. The\neditions that I have seen agree in reading \"den,\" and M. Barni so\ntranslates. With this reading, it is the conformity that presents\nthe imperative as necessary.]\n\nThere is therefore but one categorical imperative, namely this: Act\nonly on that maxim whereby thou canst at the same time will that it\nshould become a universal law.\n\nNow if all imperatives of duty can be deduced from this one\nimperative as from their principle, then, although it should remain\nundecided whether what is called duty is not merely a vain notion,\nyet at least we shall be able to show what we understand by it and\nwhat this notion means.\n\nSince the universality of the law according to which effects are\nproduced constiutes what is properly called nature in the most\ngeneral sense (as to form), that is the existence of things so far\nas it is determined by general laws, the imperative of duty may be\nexpressed thus: Act as if the maxim of thy action were to become by\nthy will a Universal Law of Nature.\n\nWe will now enumerate a few duties, adopting the usual division of\nthem into duties to ourselves and to others, and into perfect and\nimperfect duties. [Footnote: It must be noted here that I reserve\nthe division of duties for a future metaphysic of morals; so that I\ngive it here only as an arbitrary one (in order to arrange my\nexamples). For the rest, I understand by a perfect duty one that\nadmits no exception in favour of inclination, and then I have not\nmerely external, but also internal perfect duties. This is contrary\nto the use of the word adopted in the schools; but I do not intend\nto justify it here, as it is all one for my purpose whether it is\nadmitted or not. [Perfect duties are usually understood to be those\nwhich can be enforced by external law; imperfect, those which cannot\nbe enforced. They are also called respectively determinate and\nindeterminate, officia juris and officia virtutis.]]\n\nI. A man reduced to despair by a series of misfortunes feels wearied\nof life, but is still so far in possession of his reason that he can\nask himself whether it would not be contrary to his duty to himself\nto take his own life. Now he inquires whether the maxim of his\naction could become a universal law of nature. His maxim is: From\nself-love I adopt it as a principle to shorten my life when its\nlonger duration is likely to bring more evil than satisfaction. It\nis asked then simply whether this principle founded on self-love can\nbecome a universal law of nature. Now we see at once that a system\nof nature of which it should be a law to destroy life by means of\nthe very feeling whose special nature it is to impel to the\nimprovement of life would contradict itself, and therefore could not\nexist as a system of nature; hence that maxim cannot possibly exist\nas a universal law of nature, and consequently would be wholly\ninconsistent with the supreme principle of all duty. [Footnote: On\nsuicide cf. further Metaphysik der Sitten, p. 274.]\n\n2. Another finds himself forced by necessity to borrow money. He\nknows that he will not be able to repay it, but sees also that\nnothing will be lent to him, unless he promises stoutly to repay it\nin a definite time. He desires to make this promise, but he has\nstill so much conscience as to ask himself: Is it not unlawful and\ninconsistent with duty to get out of a difficulty in this way?\nSuppose, however, that he resolves to do so, then the maxim of his\naction would be expressed thus: When I think myself in want of\nmoney, I will borrow money and promise to repay it, although I know\nthat I never can do so. Now this principle of self-love or of one's\nown advantage may perhaps be consistent with my whole future\nwelfare; but the question now is, Is it right? I change then the\nsuggestion of self-love into a universal law, and state the question\nthus: How would it be if my maxim were a universal law? Then I see\nat once that it could never hold as a universal law of nature, but\nwould necessarily contradict itself. For supposing it to be a\nuniversal law that everyone when he thinks himself in a difficulty\nshould be able to promise whatever he pleases, with the purpose of\nnot keeping his promise, the promise itself would become impossible,\nas well as the end that one might have in view in it, since no one\nwould consider that anything was promised to him, but would ridicule\nall such statements as vain pretences.\n\n3. A third finds in himself a talent which with the help of some\nculture might make him a useful man in many respects. But he finds\nhimself in comfortable circumstances, and prefers to indulge in\npleasure rather than to take pains in enlarging and improving his\nhappy natural capacities. He asks, however, whether his maxim of\nneglect of his natural gifts, besides agreeing with his inclination\nto indulgence, agrees also with what is called duty. He sees then\nthat a system of nature could indeed subsist with such a universal\nlaw although men (like the South Sea islanders) should let their\ntalents rust, and resolve to devote their lives merely to idleness,\namusement, and propagation of their species--in a word, to\nenjoyment; but he cannot possibly WILL that this should be a\nuniversal law of nature, or be implanted in us as such by a natural\ninstinct. For, as a rational being, he necessarily wills that his\nfaculties be developed, since they serve him, and have been given\nhim, for all sorts of possible purposes.\n\n4. A fourth, who is in prosperity, while he sees that others have to\ncontend with great wretchedness and that he could help them, thinks:\nWhat concern is it of mine? Let everyone be as happy as heaven\npleases, or as he can make himself; I will take nothing from him nor\neven envy him, only I do not wish to contribute anything to his\nwelfare or to his assistance in distress! Now no doubt if such a\nmode of thinking were a universal law, the human race might very\nwell subsist, and doubtless even better than in a state in which\neveryone talks of sympathy and good-will, or even takes care\noccasionally to put it into practice, but on the other side, also\ncheats when he can, betrays the rights of men, or otherwise violates\nthem. But although it is possible that a universal law of nature\nmight exist in accordance with that maxim, it is impossible to WILL\nthat such a principle should have the universal validity of a law of\nnature. For a will which resolved this would contradict itself,\ninasmuch as many cases might occur in which one would have need of\nthe love and sympathy of others, and in which, by such a law of\nnature, sprung from his own will, he would deprive himself of all\nhope of the aid he desires.\n\nThese are a few of the many actual duties, or at least what we\nregard as such, which obviously fall into two classes on the one\nprinciple that we have laid down. We must be ABLE TO WILL that a\nmaxim of our action should be a universal law. This is the canon of\nthe moral appreciation of the action generally. Some actions are of\nsuch a character that their maxim cannot without contradiction be\neven CONCEIVED as a universal law of nature, far from it being\npossible that we should WILL that it SHOULD be so. In others this\nintrinsic impossibility is not found, but still it is impossible to\nWILL THAT their maxim should be raised to the universality of a law\nof nature, since such a will would contradict itself. It is easily\nseen that the former violate strict or rigorous (inflexible) duty;\nthe latter only laxer (meritorious) duty. Thus it has been\ncompletely shown by these examples how all duties depend as regards\nthe nature of the obligation (not the object of the action) on the\nsame principle.\n\nIf now we attend to ourselves on occasion of any transgression of\nduty, we shall find that we in fact do not will that our maxim\nshould be a universal law, for that is impossible for us; on the\ncontrary we will that the opposite should remain a universal law,\nonly we assume the liberty of making an EXCEPTION in our own favour\nor (just for this time only) in favour of our inclination.\nConsequently if we considered all cases from one and the same point\nof view, namely, that of reason, we should find a contradiction in\nour own will, namely, that a certain principle should be objectively\nnecessary as a universal law, and yet subjectively should not be\nuniversal, but admit of exceptions. As however we at one moment\nregard our action from the point of view of a will wholly conformed\nto reason, and then again look at the same action from the point of\nview of a will affected by inclination, there is not really any\ncontradiction, but an antagonism of inclination to the precept of\nreason, whereby the universality of the principle is changed into a\nmere generality, so that the practical principle of reason shall\nmeet the maxim half way. Now, although this cannot be justified in\nour own impartial judgment, yet it proves that we do really\nrecognise the validity of the categorical imperative and (with all\nrespect for it) only allow ourselves a few exceptions, which we\nthink unimportant and forced from us.\n\nWe have thus established at least this much, that if duty is a\nconception which is to have any import and real legislative\nauthority for our actions, it can only be expressed in categorical,\nand not at all in hypothetical imperatives. We have also, which is\nof great importance, exhibited clearly and definitely for every\npractical application the content of the categorical imperative,\nwhich must contain the principle of all duty if there is such a\nthing at all. We have not yet, however, advanced so far as to prove\na priori that there actually is such an imperative, that there is a\npractical law which commands absolutely of itself, and without any\nother impulse, and that the following of this law is duty.\n\nWith the view of attaining to this it is of extreme importance to\nremember that we must not allow ourselves to think of deducing the\nreality of this principle from the particular attributes of human\nnature. For duty is to be a practical, unconditional necessity of\naction; it must therefore hold for all rational beings (to whom an\nimperative can apply at all) and for this reason only be also a law\nfor all human wills. On the contrary, whatever is deduced from the\nparticular natural characteristics of humanity, from certain\nfeelings and propensions, [Footnote: Kant distinguishes \"Hang\n(propensio)\" from \"Neigung (inclinatio)\" as follows:--\"Hang\" is a\npredisposition to the desire of some enjoyment; in other words, it\nis the subjective possibility of excitement of a certain desire,\nwhich precedes the conception of its object. When the enjoyment has\nbeen experienced, it produces a \"Neigung\" (inclination) to it, which\naccordingly is defined \"habitual sensible desire.\"--Anthropologie,\n72, 79; Religion, p. 31.] nay even, if possible, from any particular\ntendency proper to human reason, and which need not necessarily hold\nfor the will of every rational being; this may indeed supply us with\na maxim, but not with a law; with a subjective principle on which we\nmay have a propension and inclination to act, but not with an\nobjective principle on which we should be enjoined to act, even\nthough all our propensions, inclinations, and natural dispositions\nwere opposed to it. In fact the sublimity and intrinsic dignity of\nthe command in duty are so much the more evident, the less the\nsubjective impulses favour it and the more they oppose it, without\nbeing able in the slightest degree to weaken the obligation of the\nlaw or to distinguish its validity.\n\nHere then we see philosophy brought to a critical position, since it\nhas to be firmly fixed, notwithstanding that it has nothing to\nsupport it either in heaven or earth. Here it must show its purity\nas absolute dictator of its own laws, not the herald of those which\nare whispered to it by an implanted sense or who knows what tutelary\nnature. Although these may be better than nothing, yet they can\nnever afford principles dictated by reason, which must have their\nsource wholly a priori and thence their commanding authority,\nexpecting everything from the supremacy of the law and the due\nrespect for it, nothing from inclination, or else condemning the man\nto self-contempt and inward abhorrence.\n\nThus every empirical element is not only quite incapable of being an\naid to the principle of morality, but is even highly prejudicial to\nthe purity of morals, for the proper and inestimable worth of an\nabsolutely good will consists just in this, that the principle of\naction is free, from all influence of contingent grounds, which\nalone experience can furnish. We cannot too much or too often repeat\nour warning against this lax and even mean habit of thought which\nseeks for its principle amongst empirical motives and laws; for\nhuman reason in its weariness is glad to rest on this pillow, and in\na dream of sweet illusions (in which, instead of Juno, it embraces a\ncloud) it substitutes for morality a bastard patched up from limbs\nof various derivation, which looks like anything one chooses to see\nin it; only not like virtue to one who has once beheld her in her\ntrue form. [Footnote: To behold virtue in her proper form is nothing\nelse but to contemplate morality stripped of all admixture of\nsensible things and of every spurious ornament of reward or self-\nlove. How much she then eclipses everything else that appears\ncharming to the affections, every one may readily perceive with the\nleast exertion of his reason, if it be not wholly spoiled for\nabstraction.]\n\nThe question then is this: Is it a necessary law for all rational\nbeings that they should always judge of their actions by maxims of\nwhich they can themselves will that they should serve as universal\nlaws? If it is so, then it must be connected (altogether a priori)\nwith the very conception of the will of a rational being generally.\nBut in order to discover this connexion we must, however\nreluctantly, take a step into metaphysic, although into a domain of\nit which is distinct from speculative philosophy, namely, the\nmetaphysic of morals. In a practical philosophy, where it is not the\nreasons of what happens that we have to ascertain, but the laws of\nwhat ought to happen, even although it never does, i. e., objective\npractical laws, there it is not necessary to inquire into the\nreasons why anything pleases or displeases, how the pleasure of mere\nsensation differs from taste, and whether the latter is distinct\nfrom a general satisfaction of reason; on what the feeling of\npleasure or pain rests, and how from it desires and inclinations\narise, and from these again maxims by the co-operation of reason:\nfor all this belongs to an empirical psychology, which would\nconstitute the second part of physics, if we regard physics as the\nphilosophy of nature, so far as it is based on empirical laws. But\nhere we are concerned with objective practical laws, and\nconsequently with the relation of the will to itself so far as it is\ndetermined by reason alone, in which case whatever has reference to\nanything empirical is necessarily excluded; since if reason of\nitself alone determines the conduct (and it is the possibility of\nthis that we are now investigating), it must necessarily do so a\npriori.\n\nThe will is conceived as a faculty of determining oneself to action\nin accordance with the conception of certain laws. And such a\nfaculty can be found only in rational beings. Now that which serves\nthe will as the objective ground of its self-determination is the\nend, and if this is assigned by reason alone, it must hold for all\nrational beings. On the other hand, that which merely contains the\nground of possibility of the action of which the effect is the end,\nthis is called the means. The subjective ground of the desire is the\nspring, the objective ground of the volition is the motive; hence\nthe distinction between subjective ends which rest on springs and\nobjective ends which depend on motives valid for every rational\nbeing. Practical principles are formal when they abstract from all\nsubjective ends, they are material when they assume these, and\ntherefore particular springs of action. The ends which a rational\nbeing proposes to himself at pleasure as effects of his actions\n(material ends) are all only relative, for it is only their relation\nto the particular desires of the subject that gives them their\nworth, which therefore cannot furnish principles universal and\nnecessary for all rational beings and for every volition, that is to\nsay practical laws. Hence all these relative ends can give rise only\nto hypothetical imperatives.\n\nSupposing, however, that there were something whose existence has in\nitself an absolute worth, something which, being an end in itself,\ncould be a source of definite laws, then in this and this alone\nwould He the source of a possible categorical imperative, i. e., a\npractical law.\n\nNow I say: man and generally any rational being exists as an end in\nhimself, not merely as a means to be arbitrarily used by this or\nthat will, but in all his actions, whether they concern himself or\nother rational beings, must be always regarded at the same time as\nan end. All objects of the inclinations have only a conditional\nworth, for if the inclinations and the wants founded on them did not\nexist, then their object would be without value. But the\ninclinations themselves being sources of want, are so far from\nhaving an absolute worth for which they should be desired, that on\nthe contrary it must be the universal wish of every rational being\nto be wholly free from them. Thus the worth of any object which is\nto be acquired by our action is always conditional. Beings whose\nexistence depends not on our will but on nature's, have\nnevertheless, if they are irrational beings, only a relative value\nas means, and are therefore called things; rational beings, on the\ncontrary, are called persons, because their very nature points them\nout as ends in themselves, that is as something which must not be\nused merely as means, and so far therefore restricts freedom of\naction (and is an object of respect). These, therefore, are not\nmerely subjective ends whose existence has a worth for us as an\neffect of our action but objective ends, that is things whose\nexistence is an end in itself: an end moreover for which no other\ncan be substituted, which they should subserve merely as means, for\notherwise nothing whatever would possess absolute worth; but if all\nworth were conditioned and therefore contingent, then there would be\nno supreme practical principle of reason whatever.\n\nIf then there is a supreme practical principle or, in respect of the\nhuman will, a categorical imperative, it must be one which, being\ndrawn from the conception of that which is necessarily an end for\nevery one because it is an end in itself, constitutes an objective\nprinciple of will, and can therefore serve as a universal practical\nlaw. The foundation of this principle is: rational nature exists as\nan end in itself. Man necessarily conceives his own existence as\nbeing so; so far then this is a subjective principle of human\nactions. But every other rational being regards its existence\nsimilarly, just on the same rational principle that holds for me:\n[Footnote: This proposition is here stated as a postulate. The\ngrounds of it will be found in the concluding section.] so that it\nis at the same time an objective principle, from which as a supreme\npractical law all laws of the will must be capable of being deduced.\nAccordingly the practical imperative will be as follows: So act as\nto treat humanity, whether in thine own person or in that of any\nother, in every case as an end withal, never as means only. We will\nnow inquire whether this can be practically carried out.\n\nTo abide by the previous examples:\n\nFirstly, under the head of necessary duty to oneself: He who\ncontemplates suicide should ask himself whether his action can be\nconsistent with the idea of humanity as an end in itself. If he\ndestroys himself in order to escape from painful circumstances, he\nuses a person merely as a mean to maintain a tolerable condition up\nto the end of life. But a man is not a thing, that is to say,\nsomething which can be used merely as means, but must in all his\nactions be always considered as an end in himself. I cannot,\ntherefore, dispose in any way of a man in my own person so as to\nmutilate him, to damage or kill him. (It belongs to ethics proper to\ndefine this principle more precisely so as to avoid all\nmisunderstanding, e. g., as to the amputation of the limbs in order\nto preserve myself; as to exposing my life to danger with a view to\npreserve it, &c. This question is therefore omitted here.)\n\nSecondly, as regards necessary duties, or those of strict\nobligation, towards others; he who is thinking of making a lying\npromise to others will see at once that he would be using another\nman merely as a mean, without the latter containing at the same time\nthe end in himself. For he whom I propose by such a promise to use\nfor my own purposes cannot possibly assent to my mode of acting\ntowards him, and therefore cannot himself contain the end of this\naction. This violation of the principle of humanity in other men is\nmore obvious if we take in examples of attacks on the freedom and\nproperty of others. For then it is clear that he who transgresses\nthe rights of men, intends to use the person of others merely as\nmeans, without considering that as rational beings they ought always\nto be esteemed also as ends, that is, as beings who must be capable\nof containing in themselves the end of the very same action.\n[Footnote: Let it not be thought that the common: quod tibi non vis\nfieri, &c., could serve here as the rule or principle. For it is\nonly a deduction from the former, though with several limitations;\nit cannot be a universal law, for it does not contain the principle\nof duties to oneself, nor of the duties of benevolence to others\n(for many a one would gladly consent that others should not benefit\nhim, provided only that he might be excused from showing benevolence\nto them), nor finally that of duties of strict obligation to one\nanother, for on this principle the criminal might argue against the\njudge who punishes him, and so on.]\n\nThirdly, as regards contingent (meritorious) duties to oneself; it\nis not enough that the action does not violate humanity in our own\nperson as an end in itself, it must also harmonise with it. Now\nthere are in humanity capacities of greater perfection which belong\nto the end that nature has in view in regard to humanity in\nourselves as the subject: to neglect these might perhaps be\nconsistent with the maintenance of humanity as an end in itself, but\nnot with the advancement of this end.\n\nFourthly, as regards meritorious duties towards others: the natural\nend which all men have in their own happiness. Now humanity might\nindeed subsist, although no one should contribute anything to the\nhappiness of others, provided he did not intentionally withdraw\nanything from it; but after all, this would only harmonise\nnegatively not positively with humanity as an end in itself, if\neveryone does not also endeavor, as far as in him lies, to forward\nthe ends of others. For the ends of any subject which is an end in\nhimself, ought as far as possible to be my ends also, if that\nconception is to have its full effect with me.\n\nThis principle, that humanity and generally every rational nature is\nan end in itself (which is the supreme limiting condition of every\nman's freedom of action), is not borrowed from experience, firstly,\nbecause it is universal, applying as it does to all rational beings\nwhatever, and experience is not capable of determining anything\nabout them; secondly, because it does not present humanity as an end\nto men (subjectively), that is as an object which men do of\nthemselves actually adopt as an end; but as an objective end, which\nmust as a law constitute the supreme limiting condition of all our\nsubjective ends, let them be what we will; it must therefore spring\nfrom pure, reason. In fact the objective principle of all practical\nlegislation lies (according to the first principle) in the rule and\nits form of universality which makes it capable of being a law (say,\ne. g., a law of nature); but the subjective principle is in the end;\nnow by the second principle the subject of all ends is each rational\nbeing, inasmuch as it is an end in itself. Hence follows the third\npractical principle of the will, which is the ultimate condition of\nits harmony with the universal practical reason, viz.: the idea of\nthe will of every rational being as a universally legislative will.\n\nOn this principle all maxims are rejected which are inconsistent\nwith the will being itself universal legislator. Thus the will is\nnot subject simply to the law, but so subject that it must be\nregarded as itself giving the law, and on this ground only, subject\nto the law (of which it can regard itself as the author).\n\nIn the previous imperatives, namely, that based on the conception of\nthe conformity of actions to general laws, as in a physical system\nof nature, and that based on the universal prerogative of rational\nbeings as ends in themselves--these imperatives just because they\nwere conceived as categorical, excluded from any share in their\nauthority all admixture of any interest as a spring of action; they\nwere however only assumed to be categorical, because such an\nassumption was necessary to explain the conception of duty. But we\ncould not prove independently that there are practical propositions\nwhich command categorically, nor can it be proved in this section;\none thing however could be done, namely, to indicate in the\nimperative itself by some determinate expression, that in the case\nof volition from duty all interest is renounced, which is the\nspecific criterion of categorical as distinguished from hypothetical\nimperatives. This is done in the present (third) formula of the\nprinciple, namely, in the idea of the will of every rational being\nas a universally legislating will.\n\nFor although a will which is subject to laws may be attached to this\nlaw by means of an interest, yet a will which is itself a supreme\nlawgiver so far as it is such cannot possibly depend on any\ninterest, since a will so dependent would itself still need another\nlaw restricting the interest of its self-love by the condition that\nit should be valid as universal law.\n\nThus the principle that every human will is a will which in all its\nmaxims gives universal laws [Footnote: I may be excused from\nadducing examples to elucidate this principle, as those which have\nalready been used to elucidate the categorical imperative and its\nformula would all serve for the like purpose here.] provided it be\notherwise justified, would be very well adapted to be the\ncategorical imperative, in this respect, namely, that just because\nof the idea of universal legislation it is not based on any\ninterest, and therefore it alone among all possible imperatives can\nbe unconditional. Or still better, converting the proposition, if\nthere is a categorical imperative (i.e. a law for the will of every\nrational being), it can only command that everything be done from\nmaxims of one's will regarded as a will which could at the same time\nwill that it should itself give universal laws, for in that case\nonly the practical principle and the imperative which it obeys are\nunconditional, since they cannot be based on any interest.\n\nLooking back now on all previous attempts to discover the principle\nof morality, we need not wonder why they all fail. It was seen that\nman was bound to laws by duty, but it was not observed that the laws\nto which he is subject are only those of his own giving, though at\nthe same time they are universal, and that he is only bound to act\nin conformity with his own will; a will, however, which is designed\nby nature to give universal laws. For when one has conceived man\nonly as subject to a law (no matter what), then this law required\nsome interest, either by way of attraction or constraint, since it\ndid not originate as a law from his own will, but this will was\naccording to a law obliged by something else to act in a certain\nmanner. Now by this necessary consequence all the labour spent in\nfinding a supreme principle of duty was irrevocably lost. For men\nnever elicited duty, but only a necessity of acting from a certain\ninterest. Whether this interest was private or otherwise, in any\ncase the imperative must be conditional, and could not by any means\nbe capable of being a moral command. I will therefore call this the\nprinciple of Autonomy of the will, in contrast with every other\nwhich I accordingly reckon as Heteronomy? [Footnote: Cp. \"Critical\nExamination of Practical Reason,\" p. 184.]\n\nThe conception of every rational being as one which must consider\nitself as giving in all the maxims of its will universal laws, so as\nto judge itself and its actions from this point of view--this\nconception leads to another which depends on it and is very\nfruitful, namely, that of a kingdom of ends.\n\nBy a kingdom I understand the union of different rational beings in\na system by common laws. Now since it is by laws that ends are\ndetermined as regards their universal validity, hence, if we\nabstract from the personal differences of rational beings, and\nlikewise from all the content of their private ends, we shall be\nable to conceive all ends combined in a systematic whole (including\nboth rational beings as ends in themselves, and also the special\nends which each may propose to himself), that is to say, we can\nconceive a kingdom of ends, which on the preceding principles is\npossible.\n\nFor all rational beings come under the law that each of them must\ntreat itself and all others never merely as means, but in every case\nat the same time as ends in themselves. Hence results a systematic\nunion of rational beings by common objective laws, i.e. a kingdom\nwhich may be called a kingdom of ends, since what these laws have in\nview is just the relation of these beings to one another as ends and\nmeans. It is certainly only an ideal.\n\nA rational being belongs as a member to the kingdom of ends when,\nalthough giving universal laws in it, he is also himself subject to\nthese laws. He belongs to it as sovereign when, while giving laws,\nhe is not subject to the will of any other.\n\nA rational being must always regard himself as giving laws either as\nmember or as sovereign in a kingdom of ends which is rendered\npossible by the freedom of will. He cannot, however, maintain the\nlatter position merely by the maxims of his will, but only in case\nhe is a completely independent being without wants and with\nunrestricted power adequate to his will.\n\nMorality consists then in the reference of all action to the\nlegislation which alone can render a kingdom of ends possible. This\nlegislation must be capable of existing in every rational being, and\nof emanating from his will, so that the principle of this will is,\nnever to act on any maxim which could not without contradiction be\nalso a universal law, and accordingly always so to act that the will\ncould at the same time regard itself as giving in its maxims\nuniversal laws. If now the maxims of rational beings are not by\ntheir own nature coincident with this objective principle, then the\nnecessity of acting on it is called practical necessitation, i. e.,\nduty. Duty does not apply to the sovereign in the kingdom of ends,\nbut it does to every member of it and to all in the same degree.\n\nThe practical necessity of acting on this principle, i. e., duty,\ndoes not rest at all on feelings, impulses, or inclinations, but\nsolely on the relation of rational beings to one another, a relation\nin which the will of a rational being must always be regarded as\nlegislative, since otherwise it could not be conceived as an end in\nitself. Reason then refers every maxim of the will, regarding it as\nlegislating universally, to every other will and also to every\naction towards oneself; and this not on account of any other\npractical motive or any future advantage, but from the idea of the\ndignity of a rational being, obeying no law but that which he\nhimself also gives.\n\nIn the kingdom of ends everything has either Value or Dignity.\nWhatever has a value can be replaced by something else which is\nequivalent; whatever, on the other hand, is above all value, and\ntherefore admits of no equivalent, has a dignity.\n\nWhatever has reference to the general inclinations and wants of\nmankind has a market value; whatever, without presupposing a want,\ncorresponds to a certain taste, that is to a satisfaction in the\nmere purposeless play of our faculties, has a fancy value; but that\nwhich constitutes the condition under which alone anything can be an\nend in itself, this has not merely a relative worth, i. e., value,\nbut an intrinsic worth, that is dignity.\n\nNow morality is the condition under which alone a rational being can\nbe an end in himself, since by this alone it is possible that he\nshould be a legislating member in the kingdom of ends. Thus\nmorality, and humanity as capable of it, is that which alone has\ndignity. Skill and diligence in labour have a market value; wit,\nlively imagination, and humour, have fancy value; on the other hand,\nfidelity to promises, benevolence from principle (not from\ninstinct), have an intrinsic worth. Neither nature nor art contains\nanything which in default of these it could put in their place, for\ntheir worth consists not in the effects which spring from them, not\nin the use and advantage which they secure, but in the disposition\nof mind, that is, the maxims of the will which are ready to manifest\nthemselves in such actions, even though they should not have the\ndesired effect. These actions also need no recommendation from any\nsubjective taste or sentiment, that they may be looked on with\nimmediate favour and satisfaction: they need no immediate propension\nor feeling for them; they exhibit the will that performs them as an\nobject of an immediate respect, and nothing but reason is required\nto IMPOSE them on the will; not to FLATTER it into them, which, in\nthe case of duties, would be a contradiction. This estimation\ntherefore shows that the worth of such a disposition is dignity, and\nplaces it infinitely above all value, with which it cannot for a\nmoment be brought into comparison or competition without as it were\nviolating its sanctity.\n\nWhat then is it which justifies virtue or the morally good\ndisposition, in making such lofty claims? It is nothing less than\nthe privilege it secures to the rational being of participating in\nthe giving of universal laws, by which it qualifies him to be a\nmember of a possible kingdom of ends, a privilege to which he was\nalready destined by his own nature as being an end in himself, and\non that account legislating in the kingdom of ends; free as regards\nall laws of physical nature, and obeying those only which he himself\ngives, and by which his maxims can belong to a system of universal\nlaw, to which at the same time he submits himself. For nothing has\nany worth except what the law assigns it. Now the legislation itself\nwhich assigns the worth of everything, must for that very reason\npossess dignity, that is an unconditional incomparable worth, and\nthe word RESPECT alone supplies a becoming expression for the esteem\nwhich a rational being must have for it. AUTONOMY then is the basis\nof the dignity of human and of every rational nature.\n\nThe three modes of presenting the principle of morality that have\nbeen adduced are at bottom only so many formulae of the very same\nlaw, and each of itself involves the other two. There is, however, a\ndifference in them, but it is rather subjectively than objectively\npractical, intended namely to bring an idea of the reason nearer to\nintuition (by means of a certain analogy), and thereby nearer to\nfeeling. All maxims, in fact, have--\n\n1. A FORM, consisting in universality; and in this view the formula\nof the moral imperative is expressed thus, that the maxims must be\nso chosen as if they were to serve as universal laws of nature.\n\n2. A MATTER [Footnote: The reading \"Maxima,\" which is that both of\nRosenkranz and Hartenstein, is obviously an error for \"Materie.\"]\nnamely, an end, and here the formula says that the rational being,\nas it is an end by its own nature and therefore an end in itself,\nmust in every maxim serve as the condition limiting all merely\nrelative and arbitrary ends.\n\n3. A COMPLETE CHARACTERISATION of all maxims by means of that\nformula, namely, that all maxims ought by their own legislation to\nharmonise with a possible kingdom of ends as with a kingdom of\nnature. [Footnote: Teleology considers nature as a kingdom of ends;\nEthics regards a possible kingdom of ends as a kingdom of nature. In\nthe first case, the kingdom of ends is a theoretical idea, adopted\nto explain what actually is. In the latter it is a practical idea,\nadopted to bring about that which is not yet, but which can be\nrealised by our conduct, namely, if it conforms to this idea.] There\nis a progress here in the order of the categories of UNITY of the\nform of the will (its universality), PLURALITY of the matter (the\nobjects, i. e. the ends), and TOTALITY of the system of these. In\nforming our moral JUDGMENT of actions it is better to proceed always\non the strict method, and start from the general formula of the\ncategorical imperative: ACT ACCORDING TO A MAXIM WHICH CAN AT THE\nSAME TIME MAKE ITSELF A UNIVERSAL LAW. If, however, we wish to gain\nan ENTRANCE for the moral law, it is very useful to bring one and\nthe same action under the three specified conceptions, and thereby\nas far as possible to bring it nearer to intuition.\n\nWe can now end where we started at the beginning, namely, with the\nconception of a will unconditionally good. THAT WILL is ABSOLUTELY\nGOOD which cannot be evil, in other words, whose maxim, if made a\nuniversal law, could never contradict itself. This principle then is\nits supreme law: Act always on such a maxim as thou canst at the\nsame time will to be a universal law; this is the sole condition\nunder which a will can never contradict itself; and such an\nimperative is categorical. Since the validity of the will as a\nuniversal law for possible actions is analogous to the universal\nconnexion of the existence of things by general laws, which is the\nformal notion of nature in general, the categorical imperative can\nalso be expressed thus: ACT ON MAXIMS WHICH CAN AT THE SAME TIME\nHAVE FOR THEIR OBJECT THEMSELVES AS UNIVERSAL LAWS OF NATURE. Such\nthen is the formula of an absolutely good will.\n\nRational nature is distinguished from the rest of nature by this,\nthat it sets before itself an end. This end would be the matter of\nevery good will. But since in the idea of a will that is absolutely\ngood without being limited by any condition (of attaining this or\nthat end) we must abstract wholly from every end TO BE EFFECTED\n(since this would make every will only relatively good), it follows\nthat in this case the end must be conceived, not as an end to be\neffected, but as an INDEPENDENTLY existing end. Consequently it is\nconceived only negatively, i.e., as that which we must never act\nagainst, and which, therefore, must never be regarded merely as\nmeans, but must in every volition be esteemed as an end likewise.\nNow this end can be nothing but the subject of all possible ends,\nsince this is also the subject of a possible absolutely good will;\nfor such a will cannot without contradiction be postponed to any\nother object. The principle: So act in regard to every rational\nbeing (thyself and others), that he may always have place in thy\nmaxim as an end in himself, is accordingly essentially identical\nwith this other: Act upon a maxim which, at the same time, involves\nits own universal validity for every rational being. For that in\nusing means for every end I should limit my maxim by the condition\nof its holding good as a law for every subject, this comes to the\nsame thing as that the fundamental principle of all maxims of action\nmust be that the subject of all ends, i. e., the rational being\nhimself, be never employed merely as means, but as the supreme\ncondition restricting the use of all means, that is in every case as\nan end likewise.\n\nIt follows incontestably that, to whatever laws any rational being\nmay be subject, he being an end in himself must be able to regard\nhimself as also legislating universally in respect of these same\nlaws, since it is just this fitness of his maxims for universal\nlegislation that distinguishes him as an end in himself; also it\nfollows that this implies his dignity (prerogative) above all mere\nphysical beings, that he must always take his maxims from the point\nof view which regards himself, and likewise every other rational\nbeing, as lawgiving beings (on which account they are called\npersons). In this way a world of rational beings (mundus\nintelligibilis) is possible as a kingdom of ends, and this by virtue\nof the legislation proper to all persons as members. Therefore every\nrational being must so act as if he were by his maxims in every case\na legislating member in the universal kingdom of ends. The formal\nprinciple of these maxims is: So act as if thy maxim were to serve\nlikewise as the universal law (of all rational beings). A kingdom of\nends is thus only possible on the analogy of a kingdom of nature,\nthe former however only by maxims, that is self-imposed rules, the\nlatter only by the laws of efficient causes acting under\nnecessitation from without. Nevertheless, although the system of\nnature is looked upon as a machine, yet so far as it has reference\nto rational beings as its ends, it is given on this account the name\nof a kingdom of nature. Now such a kingdom of ends would be actually\nrealised by means of maxims conforming to the canon which the\ncategorical imperative prescribes to all rational beings, IF THEY\nWERE UNIVERSALLY FOLLOWED. But although a rational being, even if he\npunctually follows this maxim himself, cannot reckon upon all others\nbeing therefore true to the same, nor expect that the kingdom of\nnature and its orderly arrangements shall be in harmony with him as\na fitting member, so as to form a kingdom of ends to which he\nhimself contributes, that is to say, that it shall favour his\nexpectation of happiness, still that law: Act according to the\nmaxims of a member of a merely possible kingdom of ends legislating\nin it universally, remains in its full force, inasmuch as it\ncommands categorically. And it is just in this that the paradox\nlies; that the mere dignity of a man as a rational creature, without\nany other end or advantage to be attained thereby, in other words,\nrespect for a mere idea, should yet serve as an inflexible precept\nof the will, and that it is precisely in this independence of the\nmaxim on all such springs of action that its sublimity consists; and\nit is this that makes every rational subject worthy to be a\nlegislative member in the kingdom of ends: for otherwise he would\nhave to be conceived only as subject to the physical law of his\nwants. And although we should suppose the kingdom of nature and the\nkingdom of ends to be united under one sovereign, so that the latter\nkingdom thereby ceased to be a mere idea and acquired true reality,\nthen it would no doubt gain the accession of a strong spring, but by\nno means any increase of its intrinsic worth. For this sole absolute\nlawgiver must, notwithstanding this, be always conceived as\nestimating the worth of rational beings only by their disinterested\nbehaviour, as prescribed to themselves from that idea [the dignity\nof man] alone. The essence of things is not altered by their\nexternal relations, and that which abstracting from these, alone\nconstitutes the absolute worth of man, is also that by which he must\nbe judged, whoever the judge may be, and even by the Supreme Being.\nMORALITY then is the relation of actions to the autonomy of the\nwill, that is, to the potential universal legislation by its maxims.\nAn action that is consistent with the autonomy of the will is\nPERMITTED; one that does not agree therewith is FORBIDDEN. A will\nwhose maxims necessarily coincide with the laws of autonomy is a\nHOLY will, good absolutely. The dependence of a will not absolutely\ngood on the principle of autonomy (moral necessitation) is\nobligation. This then cannot be applied to a holy being. The\nobjective necessity of actions from obligation is called DUTY.\n\nFrom what has just been said, it is easy to see how it happens that\nalthough the conception of duty implies subjection to the law, we\nyet ascribe a certain DIGNITY and sublimity to the person who\nfulfills all his duties. There is not, indeed, any sublimity in him,\nso far as he is subject to the moral law; but inasmuch as in regard\nto that very law he is like-wise a legislator, and on that account\nalone subject to it, he has sublimity. We have also shown above that\nneither fear nor inclination, but simply respect for the law, is the\nspring which can give actions a moral worth. Our own will, so far as\nwe suppose it to act only under the condition that its maxims are\npotentially universal laws, this ideal will which is possible to us\nis the proper object of respect, and the dignity of humanity\nconsists just in this capacity of being universally legislative,\nthough with the condition that it is itself subject to this same\nlegislation.\n\nThe Autonomy of the Will as the Supreme Principle of Morality\n\nAutonomy of the will is that property of it by which it is a law to\nitself (independently on any property of the objects of volition).\nThe principle of autonomy then is: Always so to choose that the same\nvolition shall comprehend the maxims of our choice as a universal\nlaw. We cannot prove that this practical rule is an imperative,\ni.e., that the will of every rational being is necessarily bound to\nit as a condition, by a mere analysis of the conceptions which occur\nin it, since it is a synthetical proposition; we must advance beyond\nthe cognition of the objects to a critical examination of the\nsubject, that is of the pure practical reason, for this synthetic\nproposition which commands apodictically must be capable of being\ncognised wholly a priori. This matter, however, does not belong to\nthe present section. But that the principle of autonomy in question\nis the sole principle of morals can be readily shown by mere\nanalysis of the conceptions of morality. For by this analysis we\nfind that its principle must be a categorical imperative, and that\nwhat this commands is neither more nor less than this very autonomy.\n\nHeteronomy of the Will as the Source of all spurious Principles of\nMorality\n\nIf the will seeks the law which is to determine it anywhere else\nthan in the fitness of its maxims to be universal laws of its own\ndictation, consequently if it goes out of itself and seeks this law\nin the character of any of its objects, there always results\nHETERONOMY. The will in that case does not give itself the law, but\nit is given by the object through its relation to the will. This\nrelation whether it rests on inclination or on conceptions of reason\nonly admits of hypothetical imperatives: I ought to do something\nBECAUSE _I_ WISH FOR SOMETHING ELSE. On the contrary, the moral, and\ntherefore categorical, imperative says: I ought to do so and so,\neven though I should not wish for anything else. Ex. gr., the former\nsays: I ought not to lie if I would retain my reputation; the latter\nsays: I ought not to lie although it should not bring me the least\ndiscredit. The latter therefore must so far abstract from all\nobjects that they shall have no INFLUENCE on the will, in order that\npractical reason (will) may not be restricted to administering an\ninterest not belonging to it, but may simply show its own commanding\nauthority as the supreme legislation. Thus, ex. gr., I ought to\nendeavour to promote the happiness of others, not as if its\nrealization involved any concern of mine (whether by immediate\ninclination or by any satisfaction indirectly gained through\nreason), but simply because a maxim which excludes it cannot be\ncomprehended as a universal law [Footnote: I read allgemeines\ninstead of allgemeinem.] in one and the same volition.\n\nClassification of all Principles of Morality which can be founded on\nthe Conception of Heteronomy.\n\nHere as elsewhere human reason in its pure use, so long as it was\nnot critically examined, has first tried all possible wrong ways\nbefore it succeeded in finding the one true way.\n\nAll principles which can be taken from this point of view are either\nEMPIRICAL or RATIONAL. The FORMER, drawn from the principle of\nHAPPINESS, are built on physical or moral feelings; the LATTER,\ndrawn from the principle of PERFECTION, are built either on the\nrational conception of perfection as a possible effect, or on that\nof an independent perfection (the will of God) as the determining\ncause of our will.\n\nEMPIRICAL PRINCIPLES are wholly incapable of serving as a foundation\nfor moral laws. For the universality with which these should hold\nfor all rational beings without distinction, the unconditional\npractical necessity which is thereby imposed on them, is lost when\ntheir foundation is taken from the PARTICULAR CONSTITUTION OF HUMAN\nNATURE, or the accidental circumstances in which it is placed. The\nprinciple of PRIVATE HAPPINESS, however, is the most objectionable,\nnot merely because it is false, and experience contradicts the\nsupposition that prosperity is always proportioned to good conduct,\nnor yet merely because it contributes nothing to the establishment\nof morality--since it is quite a different thing to make a\nprosperous man and a good man, or to make one prudent and sharp-\nsighted for his own interests, and to make him virtuous--but because\nthe springs it provides for morality are such as rather undermine it\nand destroy its sublimity, since they put the motives to virtue and\nto vice in the same class, and only teach us to make a better\ncalculation, the specific difference between virtue and vice being\nentirely extinguished. On the other hand, as to moral feeling, this\nsupposed special sense [Footnote: I class the principle of moral\nfeeling under that of happiness, because every empirical interest\npromises to contribute to our well-being by the agreeableness that a\nthing affords, whether it be immediately and without a view to\nprofit, or whether profit be regarded. We must likewise, with\nHutcheson, class the principle of sympathy with the happiness of\nothers under his assumed moral sense.] the appeal to it is indeed\nsuperficial when those who cannot THINK believe that FEELING will\nhelp them out, even in what concerns general laws: and besides,\nfeelings which naturally differ infinitely in degree cannot furnish\na uniform standard of good and evil, nor has anyone a right to form\njudgments for others by his own feelings: nevertheless this moral\nfeeling is nearer to morality and its dignity in this respect, that\nit pays virtue the honour of ascribing to her IMMEDIATELY the\nsatisfaction and esteem we have for her, and does not, as it were,\ntell her to her face that we are not attached to her by her beauty\nbut by profit.\n\nAmongst the RATIONAL principles of morality, the ontological\nconception of PERFECTION, notwithstanding its defects, is better\nthan the theological conception which derives morality from a Divine\nabsolutely perfect will. The former is, no doubt, empty and\nindefinite, and consequently useless for finding in the boundless\nfield of possible reality the greatest amount suitable for us;\nmoreover, in attempting to distinguish specifically the reality of\nwhich we are now speaking from every other, it inevitably tends to\nturn in a circle, and cannot avoid tacitly presupposing the morality\nwhich it is to explain; it is nevertheless preferable to the\ntheological view, first, because we have no intuition of the Divine\nperfection, and can only deduce it from our own conceptions, the\nmost important of which is that of morality, and our explanation\nwould thus be involved in a gross circle; and, in the next place, if\nwe avoid this, the only notion of the Divine will remaining to us is\na conception made up of the attributes of desire of glory and\ndominion, combined with the awful conceptions of might and\nvengeance, and any system of morals erected on this foundation would\nbe directly opposed to morality.\n\nHowever, if I had to choose between the notion of the moral sense\nand that of perfection in general (two systems which at least do not\nweaken morality, although they are totally incapable of serving as\nits foundation), then I should decide for the latter, because it at\nleast withdraws the decision of the question from the sensibility\nand brings it to the court of pure reason; and although even here it\ndecides nothing, it at all events preserves the indefinite idea (of\na will good in itself) free from corruption, until it shall be more\nprecisely defined.\n\nFor the rest I think I may be excused here from a detailed\nrefutation of all these doctrines; that would only be superfluous\nlabour, since it is so easy, and is probably so well seen even by\nthose whose office requires them to decide for one of these theories\n(because their hearers would not tolerate suspension of judgment).\nBut what interests us more here is to know that the prime foundation\nof morality laid down by all these principles is nothing but\nheteronomy of the will, and for this reason they must necessarily\nmiss their aim.\n\nIn every case where an object of the will has to be supposed in\norder that the rule may be prescribed which is to determine the\nwill, there the rule is simply heteronomy; the imperative is\nconditional, namely, IF or BECAUSE one wishes for this object, one\nshould act so and so: hence it can never command morally, that is\ncategorically. Whether the object determines the will by means of\ninclination, as in the principle of private happiness, or by means\nof reason directed to objects of our possible volition generally, as\nin the principle of perfection, in either case the will never\ndetermines itself IMMEDIATELY by the conception of the action, but\nonly by the influence which the foreseen effect of the action has on\nthe will; _I_ OUGHT TO DO SOMETHING, ON THIS ACCOUNT, BECAUSE _I_\nWISH FOR SOMETHING ELSE; and here there must be yet another law\nassumed in me as its subject, by which I necessarily will this other\nthing, and this law again requires an imperative to restrict this\nmaxim. For the influence which the conception of an object within\nthe reach of our faculties can exercise on the will of the subject\nin consequence of its natural properties, depends on the nature of\nthe subject, either the sensibility (inclination and taste), or the\nunderstanding and reason, the employment of which is by the peculiar\nconstitution of their nature attended with satisfaction. It follows\nthat the law would be, properly speaking, given by nature, and as\nsuch, it must be known and proved by experience, and would\nconsequently be contingent, and therefore incapable of being an\napodictic practical rule, such as the moral rule must be. Not only\nso, but it is INEVITABLY ONLY HETERONOMY; the will does not give\nitself the law, but it is given by a foreign impulse by means of a\nparticular natural constitution of the subject adapted to receive\nit. An absolutely good will, then, the principle of which must be a\ncategorical imperative, will be indeterminate as regards all\nobjects, and will contain merely the FORM OF VOLITION generally, and\nthat as autonomy, that is to say, the capability of the maxims of\nevery good will to make themselves a universal law, is itself the\nonly law which the will of every rational being imposes on itself,\nwithout needing to assume any spring or interest as a foundation.\n\nHOW SUCH A SYNTHETICAL PRACTICAL a priori PROPOSITION IS POSSIBLE\nand why it is necessary, is a problem whose solution does not lie\nwithin the bounds of the metaphysic of morals; and we have not here\naffirmed its truth, much less professed to have a proof of it in our\npower. We simply showed by the development of the universally\nreceived notion of morality that an autonomy of the will is\ninevitably connected with it, or rather is its foundation. Whoever\nthen holds morality to be anything real, and not a chimerical idea\nwithout any truth, must likewise admit the principle of it that is\nhere assigned. This section then, like the first, was merely\nanalytical. Now to prove that morality is no creation of the brain,\nwhich it cannot be if the categorical imperative and with it the\nautonomy of the will is true, and as an a priori principle\nabsolutely necessary, this supposes the POSSIBILITY OF A SYNTHETIC\nUSE OF PURE PRACTICAL REASON, which however we cannot venture on\nwithout first giving a critical examination of this faculty of\nreason. In the concluding section we shall give the principle\noutlines of this critical examination as far as is sufficient for\nour purpose.\n\n\n\n\nTHIRD SECTION\n\nTRANSITION FROM THE METAPHYSIC OF MORALS TO THE CRITIQUE OF PURE\nPRACTICAL REASOH\n\n\nThe Concept of Freedom is the Key that explains the Autonomy of the\nWill\n\nThe WILL is a kind of causality belonging to living beings in so far\nas they are rational, and FREEDOM would be this property of such\ncausality that it can be efficient, independently on foreign causes\nDETERMINING it; just as PHYSICAL NECESSITY is the property that the\ncausality of all irrational beings has of being determined to\nactivity by the influence of foreign causes.\n\nThe preceding definition of freedom is NEGATIVE, and therefore\nunfruitful for the discovery of its essence; but it leads to a\nPOSITIVE conception which is so much the more full and fruitful\nSince the conception of causality involves that of laws, according\nto which, by something that we call cause, something else, namely,\nthe effect, must be produced [laid down]; [Footnote: (Gesetzt.-There\nis in the original a play on the etymology of Gesetz, which does not\nadmit of reproduction in English. It must be confessed that without\nit the statement is not self-evident.)] hence, although freedom is\nnot a property of the will depending on physical laws, yet it is not\nfor that reason lawless; on the contrary it must be a causality\nacting according to immutable laws, but of a peculiar kind;\notherwise a free will would be an absurdity. Physical necessity is a\nheteronomy of the efficient causes, for every effect is possible\nonly according to this law, that something else determines the\nefficient cause to exert its causality. What else then can freedom\nof the will be but autonomy, that is the property of the will to be\na law to itself? But the proposition: The will is in every action a\nlaw to itself, only expresses the principle, to act on no other\nmaxim than that which can also have as an object itself as a\nuniversal law. Now this is precisely the formula of the categorical\nimperative and is the principle of morality, so that a free will and\na will subject to moral laws are one and the same.\n\nOn the hypothesis then of freedom of the will, morality together\nwith its principle follows from it by mere analysis of the\nconception. However the latter is still a synthetic proposition;\nviz., an absolutely good will is that whose maxim can always include\nitself regarded as a universal law; for this property of its maxim\ncan never be discovered by analysing the conception of an absolutely\ngood will. Now such synthetic propositions are only possible in this\nway: that the two cognitions are connected together by their union\nwith a third in which they are both to be found. The POSITIVE\nconcept of freedom furnishes this third cognition, which cannot, as\nwith physical causes, be the nature of the sensible world (in the\nconcept of which we find conjoined the concept of something in\nrelation as cause to SOMETHING ELSE as effect). We cannot now at\nonce show what this third is to which freedom points us, and of\nwhich we have an idea a priori, nor can we make intelligible how the\nconcept of freedom is shown to be legitimate from principles of pure\npractical reason, and with it the possibility of a categorical\nimperative; but some further preparation is required.\n\nFreedom must be presupposed as a Property of the Will of all\nRational Beings\n\nIt is not enough to predicate freedom of our own will, from whatever\nreason, if we have not sufficient grounds for predicating the same\nof all rational beings. For as morality serves as a law for us only\nbecause we are RATIONAL BEINGS, it must also hold for all rational\nbeings; and as it must be deduced simply from the property of\nfreedom, it must be shown that freedom also is a property of all\nrational beings. It is not enough then to prove it from certain\nsupposed experiences of human nature (which indeed is quite\nimpossible, and it can only be shown a priori), but we must show\nthat it belongs to the activity of all rational beings endowed with\na will. Now I say every being that cannot act except UNDER THE IDEA\nOF FREEDOM is just for that reason in a practical point of view\nreally free, that is to say, all laws which are inseparably\nconnected with freedom have the same force for him as if his will\nhad been shown to be free in itself by a proof theoretically\nconclusive. [Footnote: I adopt this method of assuming freedom\nmerely AS AN IDEA which rational beings suppose in their actions, in\norder to avoid the necessity of proving it in its theoretical aspect\nalso. The former is sufficient for my purpose; for even though the\nspeculative proof should not be made out, yet a being that cannot\nact except with the idea of freedom is bound by the same laws that\nwould oblige a being who was actually free. Thus we can escape here\nfrom the onus which presses on the theory. (Compare Butler's\ntreatment of the question of liberty in his \"Analogy,\" part I., ch.\nvi.)] Now I affirm that we must attribute to every rational being\nwhich has a will that it has also the idea of freedom and acts\nentirely under this idea. For in such a being we conceive a reason\nthat is practical, that is, has causality in reference to its\nobjects. Now we cannot possibly conceive a reason consciously\nreceiving a bias from any other quarter with respect to its\njudgments, for then the subject would ascribe the determination of\nits judgment not to its own reason, but to an impulse. It must\nregard itself as the author of its principles independent on foreign\ninfluences. Consequently as practical reason or as the will of a\nrational being it must regard itself as free, that is to say, the\nwill of such a being cannot be a will of its own except under the\nidea of freedom. This idea must therefore in a practical point of\nview be ascribed to every rational being.\n\nOf the Interest attaching to the Ideas of Morality\n\nWe have finally reduced the definite conception of morality to the\nidea of freedom. This latter, however, we could not prove to be\nactually a property of ourselves or of human nature; only we saw\nthat it must be presupposed if we would conceive a being as rational\nand conscious of its causality in respect of its actions, i. e., as\nendowed with a will; and so we find that on just the same grounds we\nmust ascribe to every being endowed with reason and will this\nattribute of determining itself to action under the idea of its\nfreedom.\n\nNow it resulted also from the presupposition of this idea that we\nbecame aware of a law that the subjective principles of action,\ni.e., maxims, must always be so assumed that they can also hold as\nobjective, that is, universal principles, and so serve as universal\nlaws of our own dictation. But why then should I subject myself to\nthis principle and that simply as a rational being, thus also\nsubjecting to it all other beings endowed with reason? I will allow\nthat no interest urges me to this, for that would not give a\ncategorical imperative, but I must take an interest in it and\ndiscern how this comes to pass; for this \"I ought\" is properly an \"I\nwould,\" valid for every rational being, provided only that reason\ndetermined his actions without any hindrance. But for beings that\nare in addition affected as we are by springs of a different kind,\nnamely, sensibility, and in whose case that is not always done which\nreason alone would do, for these that necessity is expressed only as\nan \"ought,\" and the subjective necessity is different from the\nobjective.\n\nIt seems then as if the moral law, that is, the principle of\nautonomy of the will, were properly speaking only presupposed in the\nidea of freedom, and as if we could not prove its reality and\nobjective necessity independently. In that case we should still have\ngained something considerable by at least determining the true\nprinciple more exactly than had previously been done; but as regards\nits validity and the practical necessity of subjecting oneself to\nit, we should not have advanced a step. For if we were asked why the\nuniversal validity of our maxim as a law must be the condition\nrestricting our actions, and on what we ground the worth which we\nassign to this manner of acting--a worth so great that there cannot\nbe any higher interest; and if we were asked further how it happens\nthat it is by this alone a man believes he feels his own personal\nworth, in comparison with which that of an agreeable or disagreeable\ncondition is to be regarded as nothing, to these questions we could\ngive no satisfactory answer.\n\nWe find indeed sometimes that we can take an interest [Footnote:\n\"Interest\" means a spring of the will, in so far as this spring is\npresented by Reason. See note, p. 391.] in a personal quality which\ndoes not involve any interest of external condition, provided this\nquality makes us capable of participating in the condition in case\nreason were to effect the allotment; that is to say, the mere being\nworthy of happiness can interest of itself even without the motive\nof participating in this happiness. This judgment, however, is in\nfact only the effect of the importance of the moral law which we\nbefore presupposed (when by the idea of freedom we detach ourselves\nfrom every empirical interest); but that we ought to detach\nourselves from these interests, i. e., to consider ourselves as free\nin action and yet as subject to certain laws, so as to find a worth\nsimply in our own person whiph can compensate us for the loss of\neverything that give worth to our condition; this we are not yet\nable to discern in this way, nor do we see how it is possible so to\nact--in other words, whence the moral law derives its obligation.\n\nIt must be freely admitted that there is a sort of circle here from\nwhich it seems impossible to escape. In the order of efficient\ncauses we assume ourselves free, in order that in the order of ends\nwe may conceive ourselves as subject to moral laws: and we\nafterwards conceive ourselves as subject to these laws, bjecause we\nhave attributed to ourselves freedom of will: for freedom and self-\nlegislation of will are both autonomy, and therefore are reciprocal\nconceptions, and for this very reason one must not be used to\nexplain the other or give the reason of it, but at most only for\nlogical purposes to reduce apparently different notions of the same\nobject to one single concept (as we reduce different fractions of\nthe same value to the lowest terms).\n\nOne resource retrains to us, namely, to inquire whether we do not\noccupy different points of view when by means of freedom we think\nourselves as causes efficient a priori, and when we form our\nconception of ourselves from our actions as effects which we see\nbefore our eyes.\n\nIt is a remark which needs no subtle reflection to make, but which\nwe may assume that even the commonest understanding can make,\nalthough it be after its fashion by an obscure discernment of\njudgment which it calls feeling, that all the \"ideas\" [Footnote: The\ncommon understanding being here spoken of, I use the word \"idea\" in\nits popular sense.] that comes to us involuntarily (as those of the\nsenses) do not enable us to know objects otherwise than as they\naffect us; so that what they may be in themselves remains unknown to\nus, and consequently that as regards \"ideas\" of this kind even with\nthe closest attention and clearness that the understanding can apply\nto them, we can by them only attain to the knowledge of appearances,\nnever to that of things in themselves. As soon as this distinction\nhas once been made (perhaps merely in consequence of the difference\nobserved between the ideas given us from without, and in which we\nare passive, and those that we produce simply from ourselves, and in\nwhich we show our own activity), then it follows of itself that we\nmust admit and assume behind the appearance something else that is\nnot an appearance, namely, the things in themselves; although we\nmust admit that as they can never be known to us except as they\naffect us, we can come no nearer to them, nor can we ever know what\nthey are in themselves. This must furnish a distinction, however\ncrude, between a world of sense and the world of understanding, of\nwhich the former may be different according to the difference of the\nsensuous impressions in--various observers, while the second which\nis its basis always remains the same. Even as to himself, a man\ncannot pretend to know what he is in himself from the knowledge he\nhas by internal sensation. For as he does not as it were create\nhimself, and does not come by the conception of himself a priori but\nempirically, it naturally follows that he can obtain his knowledge\neven of himself only by the inner sense, and consequently only\nthrough the appearances of his nature and the way in which his\nconsciousness is affected. At the same time beyond these\ncharacteristics of his own subject, made up of mere appearances, he\nmust necessarily suppose something else as their basis, namely, his\nego, whatever its characteristics in itself may be. Thus in respect\nto mere perception and receptivity of sensations he must reckon\nhimself as belonging to the world of sense, but in respect of\nwhatever there may be of pure activity in him (that which reaches\nconsciousness immediately and not through affecting the senses) he\nmust reckon himself as belonging to the intellectual world, of\nwhich, however, he has no further knowledge. To such a conclusion\nthe reflecting man must come with respect ito all the things which\ncan be presented to him: it is probably to be met with even in\npersons of the commonest understanding, who, as is well known, are\nvery much inclined to suppose behind the objects of the senses\nsomething else invisible and acting of itself. They spoil it,\nhowever, by presently sensualizing this invisible again; that is to\nsay, wanting to make it an object of intuition, so that they do not\nbecome a whit the wiser.\n\nNow man really finds in himself a faculty by which he distinguishes\nhimself from everything else, even from himself as affected by\nobjects, and that is Reason. This being pure spontaneity is even\nelevated above the understanding. For although the latter is a\nspontaneity and does not, like sense, merely contain intuitions that\narise when we are affected by things (and are therefore passive),\nyet it cannot produce from its activity any other conceptions than\nthose which merely serve to bring the intuitions of sense under\nrulesf and thereby to unite them in one consciousness, and without\nthis use of the sensibility it could not think at all; whereas, on\nthe contrary, Reason shows so pure a spontaneity in the case of what\nI call Ideas [Ideal Conceptions] that it thereby far transcends\neverything that the sensibility can give it, and exhibits its most\nimportant function in distinguishing the world of sense from that of\nunderstanding, and thereby prescribing the limits of the\nunderstanding itself.\n\nFor this reason a rational being must regard himself qua\nintelligence (not from the side of his lower faculties) as belonging\nnot to the world of sense, but to that of understanding; hence he\nhas two points of view from which he can regard himself, and\nrecognise laws of the exercise of his faculties, and consequently of\nall his actions: first, so far as he belongs to the world of sense,\nhe finds himself subject to laws of nature (heteronomy); secondly,\nas belonging to the intelligible world, under laws which being\nindependent on nature have their foundation not in experience but in\nreason alone.\n\nAs a rational being, and consequently belonging to the intelligible\nworld, man can never conceive the causality of his own will\notherwise than on condition of the idea of freedom. for independence\non the determining causes of the sensible world (an independence\nwhich Reason must always ascribe to itself) is freedom. Now the idea\nof freedom is inseparably connected with the conception of autonomy,\nand this again with the universal principle of morality which is\nideally the foundation of all actions of rational beings, just as\nthe law of nature is of all phenomena.\n\nNow the suspicion is removed which we raised above, that there was a\nlatent circle involved in our reasoning from freedom to autonomy,\nand from this to the moral law, viz.: that we laid down the idea of\nfreedom because of the moral law only that we might afterwards in\nturn infer the latter from freedom and that consequently we could\nassign no reason at all for this law, but could only [present]\n[Footnote: The verb is wanting in the original.] it as a petitio\nprincipii which well disposed minds would gladly concede to us, but\nwhich we could never put forward as a provable proposition. For now\nwe see that when we conceive ourselves as free we transfer ourselves\ninto the--world of understanding as members of it, and recognise the\nautonomy of the will with its consequence, morality; whereas, if we\nconceive ourselves as under obligation we consider ourselves as\nbelonging to the world of sense, and at the same time to the world\nof understanding.\n\nHow is a Categorical Imperative Possible?\n\nEvery rational being reckons himself qua intelligence as belonging\nto the world of understanding, and it is simply as an efficient\ncause belonging to that world that he calls his causality a will. On\nthe other side he is also conscious of himself as a part of the\nworld of sense in which his actions which are mere appearances\n[phenomena] of that causality are displayed; we cannot, however,\ndiscern how they are possible from this causality which we do not\nknow; but instead of that, these actions as belonging to the\nsensible world must be viewed as determined by other phenomena,\nnamely,--desires and inclinations. If therefore I were only a member\nof the world of understanding, then all my actions would perfectly\nconform to the principle of autonomy of the pure will; if I were\nonly a part of the world of sense they would necessarily be assumed\nto conform wholly to the natural law of desires and inclinations, in\nother words, to the heteronomy of nature. (The former would rest on\nmorality as the supreme principle, the latter on happiness.), Since,\nhowever, the world of understanding contains the foundation of the\nworld of sense, and consequently of its laws alsof and accordingly\ngives the law to my will (which belongs wholly to the world of\nunderstanding) directly, and must be conceived as doing so, it\nfollows that, although on the one side I must regard myself as a\nbeing belonging to the world of sense, yet on the other side I must\nrecognise myself as subject as an intelligence to the law of the\nworld of understanding, i. e., to reason, which contains this law in\nthe idea of freedom, and therefore as subject to the autonomy of the\nwill: consequently I must regard the laws of the world of\nunderstanding as imperatives for me, and the actions which conform\nto them as duties.\n\nAnd thus what makes categorical imperatives possible is this, that\nthe idea of freedom makes me a member of an intelligible world, in\nconsequence of which if I were nothing else all my actions would\nalways conform to the autonomy of the will; but as I at the same\ntime intuite myself as a member of the world of sense, they ought so\nto conform, and this categorical \"ought\" implies a synthetic a\npriori proposition, inasmuch as besides my will as affected by\nsensible desires there is added further the idea of the same will\nbut as belonging to the world of the understanding, pure and\npractical of itself, which contains the supreme condition according\nto Reason of the former will; precisely as to the intuitions of\nsense there are added concepts of the understanding which of\nthemselves signify nothing but regular form in general, and in this\nway synthetic a priori propositions become possible, on which all\nknowledge of physical nature rests.\n\nThe practical use of common human reason confirms this reasoning.\nThere is no one, not even the most consummate villain, provided only\nthat he is otherwise accustomed to the use of reason, who, when we\nset before him examples of tionesty of purposea of steadfastness in\nfollowing good maxims, of sympathy and general benevolence (even\ncombined with great sacrifices of advantages and comfort), does not\nwish that he might also possess these qualities. Only on account of\nhis inclinations and impulses he cannot attain this in himself, but\nat the same time he wishes to be free from such inclinations which\nare burdensome to himself. He proves by this that he transfers\nhimself in thought with a will free from the impulses of--the\nsensibility into an order of things wholly different from that of\nhis desires in the field of the sensibility; since he cannot expect\nto obtain by that wish any gratification of his desires, nor any\nposition which would satisfy any of his actual or supposable\ninclinations (for this would destroy the pre-eminence of the very\nidea which wrests that wish from him): he can only expect a greater\nintrinsic worth of his own person. This better person, however, he\nimagines himself to be when he transfers himself to the point of\nview of a member of the world of the understanding, to which he is\ninvoluntarily forced by the idea of freedom, i. e., of independence\non determining causes of the world of sense; and from this point of\nview he is conscious of a good will, which by his own confession\nconstitutes the law for the bad will that he possesses as a member\nof the world of sense-a law whose authority he recognises while\ntransgressing it. What he morally \"ought\" is then what he\nnecessarily \"would\" as a member of the world of the understanding,\nand is conceived by him as an \"ought\" only inasmuch as he likewise\nconsiders himself as a member of the world of sense.\n\nOn the Extreme Limits of all Practical Philosophy\n\nAll men attribute to themselves freedom of will. Hence come all\njudgments upon actions as being such as ought to have been done,\nalthough they have not been done. However, this freedom is not a\nconception of experience, nor can it be so, since it still remains,\neven though experience shows the contrary of what on supposition of\nfreedom are conceived as its necessary consequences. On the other\nside it is equally necessary that everything that takes place should\nbe fixedly determined according to laws of nature. This necessity of\nnature is likewise tot an empirical conception, just for this\nreason, that it involves the motion of necessity and consequently of\na priori cognition. But this conception of a system of nature is\nconfirmed by experience, and it must even be inevitably presupposed\nif experience itself is to be possible, that is, a connected\nknowledge of the objects of sense resting on general laws. Therefore\nfreedom is only an Idea [Ideal Conception] of Reason, and its\nobjective reality in itself is doubtful, while nature is a concept\nof the understanding which proves, and must necessarily prove, its\nreality in examples of experience.\n\nThere arises from this a dialectic of Reason, since the freedom\nattributed to the will appears to contradict the necessity of\nnature, and placed between these two ways Reason for speculative\npurposes finds the road of physical necessity much more beaten and\nmore appropriate than that of freedom; yet for practical purposes\nthe narrow footpath of freedom is the only one on which it is\npossible to make use of reason in our conduct; hence it is just as\nimpossible for the subtlest philosophy as for the commonest reason\nof men to argue away freedom. Philosophy must then assume that no\nreal contradiction will be found between freedom and physical\nnecessity of the same human actions, for it cannot give up the\nconception of nature any more than that of freedom.\n\nNevertheless, even though we should never be able to comprehend how\nfreedom is possible, we must at least remove this apparent\ncontradiction in a convincing manner. For if the thought of freedom\ncontradicts either itself or nature, which is equally necessary, it\nmust in competition with physical necessity be entirely given up.\n\nIt would, however, be impossible to escape this contradiction if the\nthinking subject, which seems to itself free, conceived itself in\nthe same sense or in the very same relation when it calls itself\nfree as when in respect of the same action it assumes itself to be\nsubject to the law of nature. Hence it is an indispensable problem\nof speculative philosophy to show that its illusion respecting the\ncontradiction rests on this, that we think of man in a different\nsense and relation when we call him free, and when we regard him as\nsubject to the laws of nature as being part and parcel of nature. It\nmust, therefore, show that not only can both these very well co-\nexist, but that both must be thought as necessarily united in the\nsame subject, since otherwise no reason could be given why we should\nburden reason with an idea which, though it may possibly without\ncontradiction be reconciled with another that is sufficiently\nestablished, yet entangles us in a perplexity which sorely\nembarrasses Reason in its theoretic employment. This duty, however,\nbelongs only to speculative philosophy, in order that it may clear\nthe way for practical philosophy. The philosopher then has no option\nwhether he will remove the apparent contradiction or leave it\nuntouched; for in fhe latter case the theory respecting this would\nbe bonum vacans into the possession of which the fatalist would have\na right to enter, and chase all morality out of its supposed domain\nas occupying it without title.\n\nWe cannot, however, as yet say that we are touching the bounds of\npractical philosophy. For the settlement of that controversy does\nnot belong to it; it only demands from speculative reason $hat it\nshould put an end to the discord in which it entangles itself in\ntheoretical questions, so that practical reason may have rest and\nsecurity from external attacks which might make the ground debatable\non which it desires to build.\n\nThe claims to freedom of will made even by common reason are founded\non the consciousness and the admitted supposition that reason is\nindependent on merely subjectively determined causes which together\nConstitute what belongs to sensation only, and which consequently\ncome under the general designation of sensibility. Man considering\nhimself in this way as an intelligence, places himself thereby in a\ndifferent order of things and in a relation to determining grounds\nof a wholly different kind when on the one hand he thinks of himself\nas an intelligence endowed with a will, and consequently with\ncausality, and when on the other he perceives himself as a\nphenomenon in the world of sense (as he really is also), and affirms\nthat his causality is subject to external determination according to\nlaws of nature. [Footnote: The punctuation of the original gives the\nfollowing sense: \"Submits his causality, as regards its external\ndetermination, to laws of nature.\" have ventured to make what\nappears to be a necessary correction, by simply removing a comma.]\nNow he soon becomes aware that both can hold good, nay, must hold\ngood at the same time. For there is not the smallest contradiction\nin saying that a thing in appearance (belonging to the world of\nsense) is subject to certain laws, on which the very same as a thing\nor being in itself is independent; and that he must conceive and\nthink of himself in this twofold way, rests as to the first on the\nconsciousness of himself as an object affected through the senses,\nand as to the second on the consciousness of himself as an\nintelligence, i. e., as independent on sensible impressions in the\nemployment of his reason (in other words as belonging to the world\nof understanding).\n\nHence it comes to pass that man claims the possession of a will\nwhich takes no account of anything that comes under the head of\ndesires and inclinations, and on the contrary conceives actions as\npossible to him, nay, even as necessary, which can only be done by\ndisregarding all desires and sensible inclinations. The causality of\nsuch actions [Footnote: M. Barni translates as if he read desselben\ninstead of derselben, \"the causality of this will.\" So also Mr.\nSemple.] lies in him as an intelligence and in the laws of effects\nand actions [which depend] on the principles of an intelligible\nworld, of which indeed he knows nothing more than that in it pure\nreason alone independent on sensibility gives the law; moreover\nsince it is only in that world, as an intelligence, that he is his\nproper self (being as man only the appearance of himself) those laws\napply to him directly and categorically, so that the incitements of\ninclinations and appetites (in other words the whole nature of the\nworld of sense) cannot impair the laws of his volition as an\nintelligence. Nay, he does not even hold himself responsible for the\nformer or ascribe them to his proper self, i. e., his will: he only\nascribes to his will any indulgence which he might yield them if he\nallowed them to influence his maxims to the prejudice of the\nrational laws of the will.\n\nWhen practical Reason thinks itself into a world of understanding it\ndoes not thereby transcend its own limits, as it would if it tried\nto enter it by intuition or sensation. The former is only a negative\nthought in respect of the world of sense, which does not give any\nlaws to reason in determining the will, and is positive only in this\nsingle point that this freedom as a negative characteristic is at\nthe same time conjoined with a (positive) faculty and even with a\ncausality of reason, which we designate a will, namely, a faculty of\nso acting that the principle of the actions shall conform to the\nessential character of a rational motive, i. e., the condition that\nthe maxim have universal validity as a law. But were it to borrow an\nobject of will, that is, a motive, from the world of understanding,\nthen it would overstep its bounds and pretend to be acquainted with\nsomething of which it knows nothing. The conception of a world of\nthe understanding is then only a point of view which Reason finds\nitself compelled to take outside the appearances in order to\nconceive itself as practical, which would not be possible if the\ninfluences of the sensibility had a determining power on man, but\nwhich is necessary unless he is to be denied the consciousness of\nhimself as an intelligence, and consequently as a rational cause,\nenergizing by reason, that is, operating freely. This thought\ncertainly involves the idea of an order and a system of laws\ndifferent from that of the mechanism of nature which belongs to the\nsensible world, and it makes the conception of an intelligible world\nnecessary (that is to say, the whole system of rational beings as\nthings in themselves). But it does not in the least authorize us to\nthink of it further than as to its formal condition only, that is,\nthe universality of the maxims of the will as laws, and consequently\nthe autonomy of the latter, which alone is consistent with its\nfreedom; whereas, on the contrary, all laws that refer to a definite\nobject give heteronomy, which only belongs to laws of nature, and\ncan only apply to the sensible world.\n\nBut Reason would overstep all its bounds if it undertook to explain\nhow pure reason can be practical, which would be exactly the same\nproblem as to explain how freedom is possible.\n\nFor we can explain nothing but that which we can reduce to laws, the\nobject of which can be given in some possible experience. But\nfreedom is a mere Idea [Ideal Conception], the objective reality of\nwhich can in no wise be shown according to laws of nature, and\nconsequently not in any possible experience; and for this reason it\ncan never be comprehended or understood, because we cannot support\nit by any sort of example or analogy. It holds good only as a\nnecessary hypothesis of reason in a being that believes itself\nconscious of a will, that is, of a faculty distinct from mere desire\n(namely, a faculty of determining itself to action as an\nintelligence), in other words, by laws of reason independently on\nnatural instincts. Now where determination according to laws of\nnature ceases, there all explanation ceases also, and nothing\nremains but defence, i. e. the removal of the objections of those\nwho pretend to have seen deeper into the nature of things, and\nthereupon boldly declare freedom impossible. We can only point out\nto them that the supposed contradiction that they have discovered in\nit arises only from this, that in order to be able to apply the law\nof nature to human actions, they must necessarily consider man as an\nappearance: then when we demand of them that they should also think\nof him qua intelligence as a thing in itself, they still persist in\nconsidering him in this respect also as an appearance. In this view\nit would no doubt be a contradiction to suppose the causality of the\nsame subject (that is, his will) to be withdrawn from all the\nnatural laws of the sensible world. But this contradiction\ndisappears, if they would only bethink themselves and admit, as is\nreasonable, that behind the appearances there must also lie at their\nroot (although hidden) the things in themselves, and that we cannot\nexpect the laws of these to be the same as those that govern their\nappearances.\n\nThe subjective impossibility of explaining the freedom of the will\nis identical with the impossibility of discovering and explaining an\ninterest [Footnote: Interest is that by which reason becomes\npractical, i. e., a cause determining the will. Hence we say of\nrational beings only that they take an interest in a thing;\nirrational beings only feel sensual appetites. Reason takes a direct\ninterest in action then only when the universal validity of its\nmaxims is alone sufficient to determine the will. Such an interest\nalone is pure. But if it can determine the will only by means of\nanother object of desire or on the suggestion of a particular\nfeeling of the subject, then Reason takes only an indirect interest\nin the action, and as Reason by itself without experience cannot\ndiscover either objects of the will or a Special feeling actuating\nit, this latter interest would only be empirical, and not a pure\nrational interest. The logical interest of Reason (namely, to extend\nits insight) is never direct, but presupposes purposes for which\nreason is employed.] which man can take in the moral law.\nNevertheless he does actually take an interest in it, the basis of\nwhich in us we call the moral feeling, which some have falsely\nassigned as the standard of our moral judgment, whereas it must\nrather be viewed as the subjective effect that the law exercises on\nthe will, the objective principle of which is furnished by Reason\nalone.\n\nIn order indeed that a rational being who is also affected through\nthe senses should will what Reason alone directs such beings that\nthey ought to will, it is no doubt requisite that reason should have\na power to infuse a feeling of pleasure or satisfaction in the\nfulfilment of duty, that is to say, that it should have a causality\nby which it determines the sensibility according to its own\nprinciples. But it is quite impossible to discern, i. e., to make it\nintelligible a priori, how a mere thought, which itself contains\nnothing sensible, can itself produce a sensation of pleasure or\npain; for this is a particular kind of causality of which as of\nevery other causality we can determine nothing whatever a priori, we\nmust only consult experience about it. But as this cannot supply us\nwith any relation of cause and effect except between two objects of\nexperience, whereas in this case, although indeed the effect\nproduced lies within experience, yet the cause is supposed to be\npure reason acting through mere ideas which offer no object to\nexperience, it follows that for us men it is quite impossible to\nexplain how and why the universality of the maxim as a law, that is,\nmorality, interests. This only is certain, that it is not because it\ninterests us that it has validity for us (for that would be\nheteronomy and dependence of practical reason on sensibility,\nnamely, on a feeling as its principle, in which case it could never\ngive moral laws), but that it interests us because it is valid for\nus as men, inasmuch as it had its source in our will as\nintelligences, in other words in our proper self, and what belongs\nto mere appearance is necessarily subordinated by reason to the\nnature of the thing in itself.\n\nThe question then: How a categorical imperative is possible can be\nanswered to this extent that we can assign the only hypothesis on\nwhich it is possible, namely, the idea of freedom; and we can also\ndiscern the necessity of this hypothesis, and this is sufficient for\nthe practical exercise of reason, that is, for the conviction of the\nvalidity of this imperative, and hence of the moral law; but how\nthis hypothesis itself is possible can never be discerned by any\nhuman reason. On the hypothesis, however, that the will of an\nintelligence is free, its autonomy, as the essential formal\ncondition of its determination, is a necessary consequence.\nMoreover, this freedom of will is not merely quite possible as a\nhypothesis (not involving any contradiction to the principle of\nphysical necessity in the connexion of the phenomena of the sensible\nworld) as speculative philosophy can show: but further, a rational\nbeing who is conscious of a causality [Footnote: Reading \"einer\" for\n\"seiner.\"] through reason, that is to say, of a will (distinct from\ndesires), must of necessity make it practically, that is, in idea,\nthe condition of all his voluntary actions. But to explain how pure\nreason can be of itself practical without the aid of any spring of\naction that could be derived from any other source, i. e. how the\nmere principle of the universal validity of all its maxims as laws\n(which would certainly be the form of a pure practical reason) can\nof itself supply a spring, without any matter (object) of the will\nin which one could antecedently take any interest; and how it can\nproduce an interest which would be called purely moral; or in other\nwords, how pure reason can be practical--to explain this is beyond\nthe power of human reason, and all the labour and pains of seeking\nan explanation of it are lost.\n\nIt is just the same as if I sought to find out how freedom itself is\npossible as the causality of a will. For then I quit the ground of\nphilosophical explanation, and I have no other to go upon. I might\nindeed revel in the world of intelligences which still remains to\nme, but although I have an idea of it which is well founded, yet I\nhave not the least knowledge of it, nor can I ever attain to such\nknowledge with all the efforts of my natural faculty of reason. It\nsignifies only a something that remains over when I have eliminated\neverything belonging to the world of sense from the actuating\nprinciples of my will, serving merely to keep in bounds the\nprinciple of motives taken from the field of sensibility; fixing its\nlimits and showing that it does not contain all in all within\nitself, but that there is more beyond it; but this something more I\nknow no further. Of pure reason which frames this ideal, there\nremains after the abstraction of all matter, i. e., knowledge of\nobjects, nothing but the form, namely, the practical law of the\nuniversality of the maxims, and in conformity with this the\nconception of reason in reference to a pure world of understanding\nas a possible efficient cause, that is a cause determining the will.\nThere must here be a total absence of springs; unless this idea of\nan intelligible world is itself the spring, or that in which reason\nprimarily takes an interest; but to make this intelligible is\nprecisely the problem that we cannot solve.\n\nHere now is the extreme limit of all moral inquiry, and it is of\ngreat importance to determine it even on this account, in order that\nreason may not on the one hand, to the prejudice of morals, seek\nabout in the world of sense for the supreme motive and an interest\ncomprehensible but empirical; and on the other hand, that it may not\nimpotently flap its wings without being able to move in the (for it)\nempty space of transcendent concepts which we call the intelligible\nworld, and so lose itself amidst chimeras. For the rest, the idea of\na pure world of understanding as a system of all intelligences, and\nto which we ourselves as tational beings belong (although we are\nlikewise on the other side members of the sensible world), this\nremains always a useful and legitimate idea for the purposes of\nrational belief, although all knowledge stops at its threshold,\nuseful, namely, to produce in us a lively interest in the moral law\nby means of the noble ideal of a universal kingdom of ends in\nthemselves (rational beings), to which we can belong as members then\nonly when we carefully conduct ourselves according to the maxims of\nfreedom as if they were laws of nature.\n\nConcluding Remark\n\nThe speculative employment of reason with respect to nature leads to\nthe absolute necessity of some supreme cause of the world: the\npractical employment of reason with a view to freedom leads also to\nabsolute necessity, but only of the laws of the actions of a\nrational being as such. Now it is an essential principle of reason,\nhowever employed, to push its knowledge to a consciousness of its\nnecessity (without which it would not be rational knowledge). It is\nhowever an equally essential restriction of the same reason that it\ncan neither discern the necessity of what is or what happens, nor of\nwhat ought to happen, unless a condition is supposed on which it is\nor happens or ought to happen. In this way, however, by the constant\ninquiry for the condition, the satisfaction of reason is only\nfurther and further postponed. Hence it unceasingly seeks the\nunconditionally necessary, and finds itself forced to assume it,\nalthough without any means of making it comprehensible to itself,\nhappy enough if only it can discover a conception which agrees with\nthis assumption. It is therefore no fault in our deduction of the\nsupreme principle of morality, but an objection that should be made\nto human reason in general, that it cannot enable us to conceive the\nabsolute necessity of an unconditional practical law (such as the\ncategorical imperative must be). It cannot be blamed for refusing to\nexplain this necessity by a condition, that is to say, by means of\nsome interest assumed as a basis, since the law would then cease to\nbe a moral law, i. e. a supreme law of freedom. And thus while we do\nnot comprehend the practical unconditional necessity of the moral\nimperative, we yet comprehend its incomprehensibility, and this is\nall that can be fairly demanded of a philosophy which strives to\ncarry its principles up to the very limit of human reason.\n\n\n\n\nBYRON AND GOETHE\n\nBY GIUSEPPE MAZZINI\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\n\nGiuseppe Mazzini, the great political idealist of the Italian\nstruggle for independence, was born at Genoa, June 22, 1805. His\nfaith in democracy and his enthusiasm for a free Italy he inherited\nfrom his parents; and while still a student in the University of\nGenoa he gathered round him a circle of youths who shared his\ndreams. At the age of twenty-two he joined the secret society of the\nCarbonari, and was sent on a mission to Tuscany, where he was\nentrapped and arrested. On his release, he set about the formation,\namong the Italian exiles in Marseilles, of the Society of Young\nItaly, which had for its aim the establishment of a free and united\nItalian republic. His activities led to a decree for his banishment\nfrom France, but he succeeded in outwitting the spies of the\nGovernment and going on with his work. The conspiracy for a national\nrising planned by Young Italy was discovered, many of the leaders\nwere executed, and Mazsini himself condemned to death.\n\nAlmost at once, however, he resumed operations, working this time\nfrom Geneva; but another abortive expedition led to his expulsion\nfrom Switzerland. He found refuge, but at first hardly a livelihood,\nin London, where he continued his propaganda by means of his pen. He\nwent back to Italy when the revolution of 1848 broke out, and fought\nfiercely but in vain against the French, when they besieged Rome and\nended the Roman Republic in 1849.\n\nDefeated and broken, he returned to England, where he remained till\ncalled to Italy by the insurrection of 1857. He worked with\nGaribaldi for some time; but the kingdom established under Victor\nEmmanuel by Cavour and Garibaldi was far from the ideal Italy for\nwhich Mazsini had striven. The last years of his life were spent\nmainly in London, but at the end he returned to Italy, where he died\non March 10,1872. Hardly has any age seen a political martyr of a\npurer or nobler type.\n\nMassini's essay on Byron and Goethe is more than literary criticism,\nfor it exhibits that philosophical quality which gives so remarkable\na unity to the writings of Massini, whether literary, social, or\npolitical.\n\n\n\n\nBYRON AND GOETHE\n\nI stood one day in a Swiss village at the foot of the Jura, and\nwatched the coming of the storm. Heavy black clouds, their edges\npurpled by the setting sun, were rapidly covering the loveliest sky\nin Europe, save that of Italy. Thunder growled in the distance, and\ngusts of biting wind were driving huge drops of rain over the\nthirsty plain. Looking upwards, I beheld a large Alpine falcon, now\nrising, now sinking, as he floated bravely in the very midst of the\nstorm and I could almost fancy that he strove to battle with it. At\nevery fresh peal of thunder, the noble bird bounded higher aloft, as\nif in answering defiance. I followed him with my eyes for a long\ntime, until he disappeared in the east. On the ground, about fifty\npaces beneath me, stood a stork; perfectly tranquil and impassive in\nthe midst of the warring elements. Twice or thrice she turned her\nhead towards the quarter from whence the wind came, with an\nindescribable air of half indifferent curiosity; but at length she\ndrew up one of her long sinewy legs, hid her head beneath her wing,\nand calmly composed herself to sleep.\n\nI thought of Byron and Goethe; of the stormy sky that overhung both;\nof the tempest-tossed existence, the lifelong struggle, of the one,\nand the calm of the other; and of the two mighty sources of poetry\nexhausted and closed by them.\n\nByron and Goethe--the two names that predominate, and, come what\nmay, ever will predominate, over our every recollection of the fifty\nyears that have passed away. They rule; the master-minds, I might\nalmost say the tyrants, of a whole period of poetry; brilliant, yet\nsad; glorious in youth and daring, yet cankered by the worm in the\nbud, despair. They are the two representative poets of two great\nschools; and around them we are compelled to group all the lesser\nminds which contributed to render the era illustrious. The qualities\nwhich adorn and distinguish their works are to be found, although\nmore thinly scattered, in other poets their contemporaries; still\ntheirs are the names that involuntarily rise to our lips whenever we\nseek to characterize the tendencies of the age in which they lived.\nTheir genius pursued different, even opposite routes; and yet very\nrarely do our thoughts turn to either without evoking the image of\nthe other, as a sort of necessary complement to the first. The eyes\nof Europe were fixed upon the pair, as the spectators gaze on two\nmighty wrestlers in the same arena; and they, like noble and\ngenerous adversaries, admired, praised, and held out the hand to\neach other. Many poets have followed in their footsteps; none have\nbeen so popular. Others have found judges and critics who have\nappreciated them calmly and impartially; not so they: for them there\nhave been only enthusiasts or enemies, wreaths or stones; and when\nthey vanished into the vast night that envelops and transforms alike\nmen and things--silence reigned around their tombs. Little by\nlittle, poetry had passed away from our world, and it seemed as if\ntheir last sigh had extinguished the sacred flame.\n\nA reaction has now commenced; good, in so far as it reveals a desire\nfor and promise of new life; evil, in so far as it betrays narrow\nviews, a tendency to injustice towards departed genius, and the\nabsence of any fixed rule or principle to guide our appreciation of\nthe past. Human judgment, like Luther's drunken peasant, when saved\nfrom falling on one side, too often topples over on the other. The\nreaction against Goethe, in his own country especially, which was\ncourageously and justly begun by Menzel during his lifetime, has\nbeen carried to exaggeration since his death. Certain social\nopinions, to which I myself belong, but which, although founded on a\nsacred principle, should not be allowed to interfere with the\nimpartiality of our judgment, have weighed heavily in the balance;\nand many young, ardent, and enthusiastic minds of our day have\nreiterated with Bonne that Goethe is the worst of despots; the\ncancer of the German body.\n\nThe English reaction against Byron--I do not speak of that mixture\nof cant and stupidity which denies the poet his place in Westminster\nAbbey, but of literary reaction--has shown itself still more\nunreasoning. I have met with adorers of Shelley who denied the\npoetic genius of Byron; others who seriously compared his poems with\nthose of Sir Walter Scott. One very much overrated critic writes\nthat \"Byron makes man after his own image, and woman after his own\nheart; the one is a capricious tyrant, the other a yielding slave.\"\nThe first forgot the verses in which their favorite hailed\n\n    \"The pilgrim of eternity, whose fame\n     Over his living head like Heaven is bent;\"\n     [Footnote: Adonais.]\n\nthe second, that after the appearance of \"The Giaour\" and \"Childe\nHarold,\" Sir Walter Scott renounced writing poetry. [Footnote:\nLockhart.] The last forgot that while he was quietly writing\ncriticisms, Byron was dying for new-born liberty in Greece. All\njudged, too many in each country still judge, the two poets, Byron\nand Goethe, after an absolute type of the beautiful, the true, or\nthe false, which they had formed in their own minds; without regard\nto the state of social relations as they were or are; without any\ntrue conception of the destiny or mission of poetry, or of the law\nby which it, and every other artistic manifestation of human life,\nis governed.\n\nThere is no absolute type on earth: the absolute exists in the\nDivine Idea alone; the gradual comprehension of which man is\ndestined to attain; although its complete realization is impossible\non earth; earthly life being but one stage of the eternal evolution\nof life, manifested in thought and action; strengthened by all the\nachievements of the past, and advancing from age to age towards a\nless imperfect expression of that idea. Our earthly life is one\nphase of the eternal aspiration of the soul towards progress, which\nis our law ascending in increasing power and purity from the finite\ntowards the infinite; from the real towards the Ideal; from that\nwhich is, towards that which is to come. In the immense storehouse\nof the past evolutions of life constituted by universal tradition,\nand in the prophetic instinct brooding in the depths of the human\nsoul, does poetry seek inspiration. It changes with the times, for\nit is their expression; it is transformed with society, for--\nconsciously or unconsciously--it sings the lay of Humanity;\nalthough, according to the individual bias or circumstances of the\nsinger, it assumes the hues of the present, or of the future in\ncourse of elaboration, and foreseen by the inspiration of genius. It\nsings now a dirge and now a cradle song; it initiates or sums up.\n\nByron and Goethe summed up. Was it a defect in them? No; it was the\nlaw of the times, and yet society at the present day, twenty years\nafter they have ceased to sing, assumes to condemn them for having\nbeen born too soon. Happy indeed are the poets whom God raises up at\nthe commencement of an era, under the rays of the rising sun. A\nseries of generations will lovingly repeat their verses, and\nattribute to them the new life which they did but foresee in the\ngerm.\n\nByron and Goethe summed up. This is at once the philosophical\nexplanation of their works, and the secret of their popularity. The\nspirit of an entire epoch of the European world became incarnate in\nthem ere its decease, even as--in the political sphere--the spirit\nof Greece and Rome became incarnate before death in Caesar and\nAlexander. They were the poetic expression of that principle, of\nwhich England was the economic, France the political, and Germany\nthe philosophic expression: the last formula, effort, and result of\na society founded on the principle of individuality. That epoch, the\nmission of which had been, first through the labors of Greek\nphilosophy, and afterwards through Christianity, to rehabilitate,\nemancipate, and develop individual man--appears to have concentrated\nin them, in Fichte, in Adam Smith, and in the French school des\ndrolls de l'homme, its whole energy and power, in order fully to\nrepresent and express all that it had achieved for mankind. It was\nmuch; but it was not the whole; and therefore it was doomed to pass\naway. The epoch of individuality was deemed near the goal; when low\nimmense horizons were revealed; vast unknown lands in whose\nuntrodden forests the principle of individuality was an insufficient\nguide. By the long and painful labors of that epoch the human\nunknown quantity had been disengaged from the various quantities of\ndifferent nature by which it had been surrounded; but only to be\nleft weak, isolated, and recoiling in terror from the solitude in\nwhich it stood. The political schools of the epoch had proclaimed\nthe sole basis of civil organization to be the right to liberty and\nequality (liberty for all), but they had encountered social anarchy\nby the way. The philosophy of the epoch had asserted the sovereignty\nof the human Ego, and had ended in the mere adoration of fact, in\nHegelian immobility. The Economy of the epoch imagined it had\norganized free competition, while it had but organized the\noppression of the weak by the strong; of labor by capital; of\npoverty by wealth. The Poetry of the epoch had represented\nindividuality in its every phase; had translated in sentiment what\nscience had theoretically demonstrated; and it had encountered the\nvoid. But as society at last discovered that the destinies of the\nrace were not contained in a mere problem of liberty, but rather in\nthe harmonization of liberty with association--so did poetry\ndiscover that the life it had hitherto drawn from individuality\nalone was doomed to perish for want of aliment; and that its future\nexistence depended on enlarging and transforming its sphere. Both\nsociety and poetry uttered a cry of despair: the death-agony of a\nform of society produced the agitation we have seen constantly\nincreasing in Europe since 1815: the death-agony of a form of poetry\nevoked Byron and Goethe. I believe this point of view to be the only\none that can lead us to a useful and impartial appreciation of these\ntwo great spirits.\n\nThere are two forms of individuality; the expressions of its\ninternal and external, or--as the Germans would say--of its\nsubjective and objective life. Byron was the poet of the first,\nGoethe of the last. In Byron the Ego is revealed in all its pride of\npower, freedom, and desire, in the uncontrolled plenitude of all its\nfaculties; inhaling existence at every pore, eager to seize \"the\nlife of life.\" The world around him neither rules nor tempers him.\nThe Byronian Ego aspires to rule it; but solely for dominion's sake,\nto exercise upon it the Titanic force of his will. Accurately\nspeaking, he cannot be said to derive from it either color, tone, or\nimage; for it is he who colors; he who sings; he whose image is\neverywhere reflected and reproduced. His poetry emanates from his\nown soul; to be thence diffused upon things external; he holds his\nstate in the centre of the universe, and from thence projects the\nlight radiating from the depths of his own mind; as scorching and\nintense as the concentrated solar ray. Hence that terrible unity\nwhich only the superficial reader could mistake for monotony.\n\nByron appears at the close of one epoch, and before the dawn of the\nother; in the midst of a community based upon an aristocracy which\nhas outlived the vigor of its prime; surrounded by a Europe\ncontaining nothing grand, unless it be Napoleon on one side and Pitt\non the other, genius degraded to minister to egotism; intellect\nbound to the service of the past. No seer exists to foretell the\nfuture: belief is extinct; there is only its pretence: prayer is no\nmore; there is only a movement of the lips at a fixed day or hour,\nfor the sake of the family, or what is called the people; love is no\nmore; desire has taken its place; the holy warfare of ideas is\nabandoned; the conflict is that of interests. The worship of great\nthoughts has passed away. That which is, raises the tattered banner\nof some corpse-like traditions; that which would be, hoists only the\nstandard of physical wants, of material appetites: around him are\nruins, beyond him the desert; the horizon is a blank. A long cry of\nsuffering and indignation bursts from the heart of Byron: he is\nanswered by anathemas. He departs; he hurries through Europe in\nsearch of an ideal to adore; he traverses it distracted,\npalpitating, like Mazeppa on the wild horse; borne onwards by a\nfierce desire; the wolves of envy and calumny follow in pursuit. He\nvisits Greece; he visits Italy; if anywhere a lingering spark of the\nsacred fire, a ray of divine poetry, is preserved, it must be there.\nNothing. A glorious past, a degraded present; none of life's poetry;\nno movement, save that of the sufferer turning on his couch to\nrelieve his pain. Byron, from the solitude of his exile, turns his\neyes again towards England; he sings. What does he sing? What\nsprings from the mysterious and unique conception which rules, one\nwould say in spite of himself, over all that escapes him in his\nsleepless vigil? The funeral hymn, the death-song, the epitaph of\nthe aristocratic idea; we discovered it, we Continentalists; not his\nown countrymen. He takes his types from amongst those privileged by\nstrength, beauty, and individual power. They are grand, poetical,\nheroic, but solitary; they hold no communion with the world around\nthem, unless it be to rule, over it; they defy alike the good and\nevil principle; they \"will bend to neither.\" In life and in death\n\"they stand upon their strength;\" they resist every power, for their\nown is all their, own; it was purchased by\n\n     \"Superior science--penance--daring-\n     And length of watching-strength of mind--and skill\n     In knowledge of our fathers.\"\n\nEach of them is the personification, slightly modified, of a single\ntype, a single idea--the individual; free, but nothing more than\nfree; such as the epoch now closing has made him; Faust, but without\nthe compact which submits him to the enemy; for the heroes of Byron\nmake no such compact. Cain kneels not to Arimanes; and Manfred,\nabout to die, exclaims:\n\n     \"The mind, which is immortal, makes itself\n      Requital for its good and evil thoughts-\n      Is its own origin of ill, and end-\n      And its own place and time, its innate sense,\n      When stripped of this mortality, derives\n      No color from the fleeting things without,\n      But is absorbed in sufferance or in joy;\n      Born from the knowledge of its own desert.\"\n\nThey have no kindred: they live from their own life only they\nrepulse humanity, and regard the crowd with disdain. Each of them\nsays: \"I have faith in myself\"; never, \"I have faith in ourselves.\"\nThey all aspire to power or to happiness. The one and the other\nalike escape them; for they bear within them, untold, unacknowledged\neven to themselves, the presentiment of a life that mere liberty can\nnever give them. Free they are; iron souls in iron frames, they\nclimb the Alps of the physical world as well as the Alps of thought;\nstill is their visage stamped with a gloomy and ineffaceable\nsadness; still is their soul-whether, as in Cain and Manfred, it\nplunge into the abyss of the infinite, \"intoxicated with eternity,\"\nor scour the vast plain and boundless ocean with the Corsair and\nGiaour--haunted by a secret and sleepless dread. It seems as if they\nwere doomed to drag the broken links of the chain they have burst\nasunder, riveted to their feet. Not only in the petty society\nagainst which they rebel does their soul feel fettered and\nrestrained; but even in the world of the spirit. Neither is it to\nthe enmity of society that they succumb; but under the assaults of\nthis nameless anguish; under the corroding action of potent\nfaculties \"inferior still to their desires and their conceptions\";\nunder the deception that comes from within. What can they do with\nthe liberty so painfully won? On whom, on what, expend the exuberant\nvitality within them? They are alone; this is the secret of their\nwretchedness and impotence. They \"thirst for good\"--Cain has said it\nfor them all--but cannot achieve it; for they have no mission, no\nbelief, no comprehension even of the world around them. They have\nnever realized the conception of Humanity in the multitudes that\nhave preceded, surround, and will follow after them; never thought\non their own place between the past and future; on the continuity of\nlabor that unites all the generations into one whole; on the common\nend and aim, only to be realized by the common effort; on the\nspiritual post-sepulchral life even on earth of the individual,\nthrough the thoughts he transmits to his fellows; and, it may be--\nwhen he lives devoted and dies. in faith--through the guardian\nagency he is allowed to exercise over the loved ones left on earth.\n\nGifted with a liberty they know not how to use; with a power and\nenergy they know not how to apply; with a life whose purpose and aim\nthey comprehend not; they drag through their useless and convulsed\nexistence. Byron destroys them one after the other, as if he were\nthe executioner of a sentence decreed in heaven. They fall unwept,\nlike a withered leaf into the stream of time.\n\n     \"Nor earth nor sky shall yield a single tear,\n     Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall,\n     Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all.\"\n\nThey die, as they have lived, alone; and a popular malediction\nhovers round their solitary tombs.\n\nThis, for those who can read with the soul's eyes, is what Byron\nsings; or rather what humanity sings through him. The emptiness of\nthe life and death of solitary individuality has never been so\npowerfully and efficaciously summed up as in the pages of Byron. The\ncrowd do not comprehend him: they listen; fascinated for an instant;\nthen repent, and avenge their momentary transport by calumniating\nand insulting the poet. His intuition of the death of a form of\nsociety they call wounded self-love; his sorrow for all is\nmisinterpreted as cowardly egotism. They credit not the traces of\nprofound suffering revealed by his lineaments; they credit not the\npresentiment of a new life which from time to time escapes his\ntrembling lips; they believe not in the despairing embrace in which\nhe grasps the material universe--stars, lakes, alps, and sea--and\nidentifies himself with it, and through it with God, of whom--to him\nat least--it is a symbol. They do, however, take careful count of\nsome unhappy moments, in which, wearied out by the emptiness of\nlife, he has raised--with remorse I am sure--the cup of ignoble\npleasures to his lips, believing he might find forgetfulness there.\nHow many times have not his accusers drained this cup, without\nredeeming the sin by a single virtue; without--I will not say\nbearing--but without having even the capacity of appreciating the\nburden which weighed on Byron! And did he not himself dash into\nfragments the ignoble cup, so soon as he beheld something worthy the\ndevotion of his life?\n\nGoethe--individuality in its objective life--having, like Byron, a\nsense of the falsehood and evil of the world round him-followed\nexactly the opposite path. After having--he, too, in his youth--\nuttered a cry of anguish in his Werther; after having laid bare the\nproblem of the epoch in all its terrific nudity, in Faust; he\nthought he had done enough, and refused to occupy himself with its\nsolution. It is possible that the impulse of rebellion against\nsocial wrong and evil which burst forth for an instant in Werther\nmay long have held his soul in secret travail; but that he despaired\nof the task of reforming it as beyond his powers. He himself\nremarked in his later years, when commenting on the exclamation made\nby a Frenchman on first seeing him: \"That is the face of a man who\nhas suffered much\": that he should rather have said: \"That is the\nface of a man who has struggled energetically;\" but of this there\nremains no trace in his works. Whilst Byron writhed and suffered\nunder the sense of the wrong and evil around him, he attained the\ncalm--I cannot say of victory--but of indifference. In Byron the man\nalways ruled, and even at times, overcame the artist: the man was\ncompletely lost in the artist in Goethe. In him there was no\nsubjective life; no unity springing either from heart or head.\nGoethe is an intelligence that receives, elaborates, and reproduces\nthe poetry affluent to him from all external objects: from all\npoints of the circumference; to him as centre. He dwells aloft\nalone; a mighty watcher in the midst of creation. His curious\nscrutiny investigates, with equal penetration and equal interest,\nthe depths of the ocean and the calyx of the floweret. Whether he\nstudies the rose exhaling its Eastern perfume to the sky, or the\nocean casting its countless wrecks upon the shore, the brow of the\npoet remains equally calm: to him they are but two forms of the\nbeautiful; two subjects for art.\n\nGoethe has been called a pantheist. I know not in what sense critics\napply this vague and often ill-understood word to him. There is a\nmaterialistic pantheism and a spiritual pantheism; the pantheism of\nSpinoza and that of Giordano Bruno; of St. Paul; and of many others-\n-all different. But there is no poetic pantheism possible, save on\nthe condition of embracing the whole world of phenomena in one\nunique conception: of feeling and comprehending the life of the\nuniverse in its divine unity. There is nothing of this in Goethe.\nThere is pantheism in some parts of Wordsworth; in the third canto\nof \"Childe Harold,\" and in much of Shelley; but there is none in the\nmost admirable compositions of Goethe; wherein life, though\nadmirably comprehended and reproduced in each of its successive\nmanifestations, is never understood as a whole. Goethe is the poet\nof details, not of unity; of analysis, not of synthesis. None so\nable to investigate details; to set off and embellish minute and\napparently trifling points; none throw so beautiful a light on\nseparate parts; but the connecting link escapes him. His works\nresemble a magnificent encyclopaedia, unclassified. He has felt\neverything but he has never felt the whole. Happy in detecting a ray\nof the beautiful upon the humblest blade of grass gemmed with dew;\nhappy in seizing the poetic elements of an incident the most prosaic\nin appearance--he was incapable of tracing all to a common source,\nand recomposing the grand ascending scale in which, to quote a\nbeautiful expression of Herder's \"every creature is a numerator of\nthe grand denominator, Nature.\" How, indeed, should he comprehend\nthese things, he who had no place in his works or in his poet's\nheart for humanity, by the light of which conception only can the\ntrue worth of sublunary things be determined? \"Religion and\npolitics,\" [Footnote: Goethe and his Contemporaries.] said he, \"are\na troubled element for art. I have always kept myself aloof from\nthem as much as possible.\" Questions of life and death for the\nmillions were agitated around him; Germany re-echoed to the war\nsongs of Korner; Fichte, at the close of one of his lectures, seized\nhis musket, and joined the volunteers who were hastening (alas! what\nhave not the Kings made of that magnificent outburst of\nnationality!) to fight the battles of their fatherland. The ancient\nsoil of Germany thrilled beneath their tread; he, an artist, looked\non unmoved; his heart knew no responsive throb to the emotion that\nshook his country; his genius, utterly passive, drew apart from the\ncurrent that swept away entire races. He witnessed the French\nRevolution in all its terrible grandeur, and saw the old world\ncrumble beneath its strokes; and while all the best and purest\nspirits of Germany, who had mistaken the death-agony of the old\nworld for the birth-throes of a new, were wringing their hands at\nthe spectacle of dissolution, he saw in it only the subject of a\nfarce. He beheld the glory and the fall of Napoleon; he witnessed\nthe reaction of down-trodden nationalities--sublime prologue of the\ngrand epopee of the peoples destined sooner or later to be unfolded-\n-and remained a cold spectator. He had neither learned to esteem\nmen, to better them, nor even to suffer with them. If we except the\nbeautiful type of Berlichingen, a poetic inspiration of his youth,\nman, as the creature of thought and action; the artificer of the\nfuture, so nobly sketched by Schiller in his dramas, has no\nrepresentative in his works. He has carried something--of this\nnonchalance even into the manner in which his heroes conceive love.\nGoethe's altar is spread with the choicest flowers, the most\nexquisite perfumes, the first-fruits of nature; but the Priest is\nwanting. In his work of second creation--for it cannot be denied\nthat such it was--he has gone through the vast circle of living and\nvisible things; but stopped short before the seventh day. God\nwithdrew from him before that time; and the creatures the poet has\nevoked wander within the circle, dumb and prayerless; awaiting until\nthe man shall come to give them a name, and appoint them to a\ndestination.\n\nNo, Goethe is not the poet of Pantheism; he is a polytheist in his\nmethod as an artist; the pagan poet of modern times. His world is,\nabove all things, the world of forms: a multiplied Olympus. The\nMosaic heaven and the Christian are veiled to him. Like the pagans,\nhe parcels out Nature into fragments, and makes of each a divinity;\nlike them, he worships the sensuous rather than the ideal; he looks,\ntouches, and listens far more than he feels. And what care and labor\nare bestowed upon the plastic portion of his art! what importance is\ngiven--I will not say to the objects themselves--but to the external\nrepresentation of objects! Has he not somewhere said that \"the\nbeautiful is the result of happy position?\"[Footnote: In the Kunst\nund Alterthum, I think.]\n\nUnder this definition is concealed an entire system of poetic\nmaterialism, substituted for the worship of the ideal; involving a\nwhole series of consequences, the logical result of which was to\nlead Goethe to indifference, that moral suicide of some of the\nnoblest energies of genius. The absolute concentration of every\nfaculty of observation on each of the objects to be represented,\nwithout relation to the ensemble; the entire avoidance of every\ninfluence likely to modify the view taken of that object, became in\nhis hands one of the most effective means of art. The poet, in his\neyes, was neither the rushing stream a hundred times broken on its\ncourse, that it may carry fertility to the surrounding country; nor\nthe brilliant flame, consuming itself in the light it sheds around\nwhile ascending to heaven; but rather the placid lake, reflecting\nalike the tranquil landscape and the thunder-cloud; its own surface\nthe while unruffled even by the lightest breeze. A serene and\npassive calm with the absolute clearness and distinctness of\nsuccessive impressions, in each of which he was for the time wholly\nabsorbed, are the peculiar characteristics of Goethe. \"I allow the\nobjects I desire to comprehend, to act tranquilly upon me,\" said he;\n\"I then observe the impression I have received from them, and I\nendeavor to render it faithfully.\" Goethe has here portrayed his\nevery feature to perfection. He was in life such as Madame Von Arnim\nproposed to represent him after death; a venerable old man, with a\nserene, almost radiant countenance; clothed in an antique robe,\nholding a lyre resting on his knees, and listening to the harmonies\ndrawn from it either by the hand of a genius, or the breath of the\nwinds. The last chords wafted his soul to the East; to the land of\ninactive contemplation. It was time: Europe had become too agitated\nfor him.\n\nSuch were Byron and Goethe in their general characteristics; both\ngreat poets; very different, and yet, complete as is the contrast\nbetween them, and widely apart as are the paths they pursue,\narriving at the same point. Life and death, character and poetry,\neverything is unlike in the two, and yet the one is the complement\nof the other. Both are the children of fatality--for it is\nespecially at the close of epochs that the providential law which\ndirects the generations assumes towards individuals the semblance of\nfatality--and compelled by it unconsciously to work out a great\nmission. Goethe contemplates the world in parts, and delivers the\nimpressions they make upon him, one by one, as occasion presents\nthem. Byron looks upon the world from a single comprehensive point\nof view; from the height of which he modifies in his own soul the\nimpressions produced by external objects, as they pass before him.\nGoethe successively absorbs his own individuality in each of the\nobjects he reproduces. Byron stamps every object he portrays with\nhis own individuality. To Goethe, nature is the symphony; to Byron\nit is the prelude. She furnishes to the one the entire subject; to\nthe other the occasion only of his verse. The one executes her\nharmonies; the other composes on the theme she has suggested. Goethe\nbetter exgresses lives; Byron life. The one is most vast; the other\nmore deep. The first searches everywhere for the beautiful, and\nloves, above all things, harmony and repose; the other seeks the\nsublime, and adores action and force. Characters, such as Coriolanus\nor Luther, disturbed Goethe. I know not if, in his numerous pieces\nof criticism, he has ever spoken of Dante; but assuredly he must\nhave shared the antipathy felt for him by Sir Walter Scott; and\nalthough he would undoubtedly have sufficiently respected his genius\nto admit him into his Pantheon, yet he would certainly have drawn a\nveil between his mental eye and the grand but sombre figure of the\nexiled seer, who dreamed of the future empire of the world for his\ncountry, and of the world's harmonious development under her\nguidance. Byron loved and drew inspiration from Dante. He also loved\nWashington and Franklin, and followed, with all the sympathies of a\nsoul athirst for action, the meteor-like career of the greatest\ngenius of action our age has produced, Napoleon; feeling indignant--\nperhaps mistakenly--that he did not die in the struggle.\n\nWhen travelling in that second fatherland of all poetic souls--\nItaly--the poets still pursued divergent routes; the one experienced\nsensations; the other emotions; the one occupied himself especially\nwith nature; the other with the greatness dead, the living wrongs,\nthe human memories. [Footnote: The contrast between the two poets is\nnowhere more strikingly displayed than by the manner in which they\nwere affected by the sight of Rome. In Goethe's Elegies and in his\nTravels in Italy we find the impressions of the artist only. He did\nnot understand Rome. The eternal synthesis that, from the heights of\nthe Capitol and St. Peter, is gradually unfolded in ever-widening\ncircles, embracing first a nation and then Europe, as it will\nultimately embrace humanity, remained unrevealed to him; he saw only\nthe inner circle of paganism; the least prolific, as well as least\nindigenous. One might fancy that he caught a glimpse of it for an\ninstant, when he wrote: \"History is read here far otherwise than in\nany other spot in the universe; elsewhere we read it from without to\nwithin; here one seems to read it from within to without; \"but if\nso, he soon lost sight of it again, and became absorbed in external\nnature.\" Whether we halt or advance, we discover a landscape ever\nrenewing itself in a thousand fashions. We have palaces and ruins;\ngardens and solitudes: the horizon lengthens in the distance, or\nsuddenly contracts; huts and stables, columns and triumphal arches,\nall lie pell-mell, and often so close that we might find room for\nall on the same sheet of paper.\"\n\nAt Rome Byron forgot passions, sorrows, his own individuality, all,\nin the presence of a great idea; witness this utterance of a soul\nborn for devotedhess:--\n\n    \"O Rome! my country! city of the soul!\n       The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,\n      Lone mother of dead empires! and control\n       In their shut breasts their petty misery.\"\n\nWhen at last he came to a recollection of himself and his position,\nit was with a hope for the world (stanza 98) and a pardon for his\nenemies. From the fourth canto of Childe Harold, the daughter of\nByron might learn more of the true spirit of her father than from\nall the reports she may have heard, and all the many volumes that\nhave been written upon him.]\n\nAnd yet, notwithstanding all the contrasts, which I have only hinted\nat, but which might be far more elaborately displayed by extracts\nfrom their works; they arrived--Goethe, the poet of individuality in\nits objective life--at the egotism of indifference; Byron--the poet\nof individuality an its subjective life--at the egotism (I say it\nwith regret, but it, too, is egotism) of despair: a double sentence\nupon the epoch which it was their mission to represent and to close!\n\nBoth of them--I am not speaking of their purely literary merits,\nincontestable and universally acknowledged--the one by the spirit of\nresistance that breathes through all his creations; the other by the\nspirit of sceptical irony that pervades his works, and by the\nindependent sovereignty attributed to art over all social relations-\n-greatly aided the cause of intellectual emancipation, and awakened\nin men's minds the sentiment of liberty. Both of them--the one,\ndirectly, by the implacable war he waged against the vices and\nabsurdities of the privileged classes, and indirectly, by investing\nhis heroes with all the most brilliant qualities of the despot, and\nthen dashing them to pieces as if in anger;--the other, by the\npoetic rehabilitation of forms the most modest, and objects the most\ninsignificant, as well as by the importance attributed to details--\ncombated aristocratic prejudices, and developed in men's minds the\nsentiment of equality. And having by their artistic excellence\nexhausted both forms of the poetry of individuality, they have\ncompleted the cycle cf its poets; thereby reducing all followers in\nthe same sphere to the subaltern position of imitators, and creating\nthe necessity of a new order of poetry; teaching us to recognize a\nwant where before we felt only a desire. Together they have laid an\nera in the tomb; covering it with a pall that none may lift; and, as\nif to proclaim its death to the young generation, the poetry of\nGoethe has written its history, while that of Byron has graven its\nepitaph.\n\nAnd now farewell to Goethe; farewell to Byron! farewell to the\nsorrows that crush but sanctify not--to the poetic flame that\nillumines but warms not--to the ironical philosophy that dissects\nwithout reconstructing--to all poetry which, in an age where there\nis so much to do, teaches us inactive contemplation; or which, in a\nworld where there is so much need of devotedness, would instil\ndespair. Farewell to all types of power without an aim; to all\npersonifications of the solitary individuality which seeks an aim to\nfind it not, and knows not how to apply the life stirring within it;\nto all egotistic joys and griefs:\n\n    \"Bastards of the soul;\n     O'erweening slips of idleness: weeds--no more-\n     Self-springing here and there from the rank soil;\n     O'erflowings of the lust of that same mind\n     Whose proper issue and determinate end,\n     When wedded to the love of things divine,\n     Is peace, complacency, and happiness.\"\n\nFarewell, a long farewell to the past! The dawn of the future is\nannounced to such as can read its signs, and we owe ourselves wholly\nto it.\n\nThe duality of the Middle Ages, after having struggled for centuries\nunder the banners of emperor and pope; after having left its trace\nand borne its fruit in every branch of intellectual development; has\nreascended to heaven--its mission accomplished--in the twin flames\nof poesy called Goethe and Byron. Two hitherto distinct formulae of\nlife became incarnate in these two men. Byron is isolated man,\nrepresenting only the internal aspect of life; Goethe isolated man,\nrepresenting only the external.\n\nHigher than these two incomplete existences; at the point of\nintersection between the two aspirations towards a heaven they were\nunable to reach, will be revealed the poetry of the future; of\nhumanity; potent in new harmony, unity, and life.\n\nBut because, in our own day, we are beginning, though vaguely, to\nforesee this new social poetry, which will soothe the suffering soul\nby teaching it to rise towards God through humanity; because we now\nstand on the threshold of a new epoch, which, but for them, we\nshould not have reached; shall we decry those who were unable to do\nmore for us than cast their giant forms into the gulf that held us\nall doubting and dismayed on the other side? From the earliest times\nhas genius been made the scapegoat of the generations. Society has\nnever lacked men who have contented themselves with reproaching the\nChattertons of their day with not being patterns of self-devotion,\ninstead of physical or moral suicides; without ever asking\nthemselves whether they had, during their lifetime, endeavored to\nplace aught within the reach of such but doubt and destitution. I\nfeel the necessity of protesting earnestly against the reaction set\non foot by certain thinkers against the mighty-souled, which serves\nas a cloak for the cavilling spirit of mediocrity. There is\nsomething hard, repulsive, and ungrateful in the destructive\ninstinct which so often forgets what has been done by the great men\nwho preceded us, to demand of them merely an account of what more\nmight have been done. Is the pillow of scepticism so soft to genius\nas to justify the conclusion that it is from egotism only that at\ntimes it rests its fevered brow thereon? Are we so free from the\nevil reflected in their verse as to have a right to condemn their\nmemory? That evil was not introduced into the world by them. They\nsaw it, felt it, respired it; it was around, about, on every side of\nthem, and they were its greatest victims. How could they avoid\nreproducing it in their works? It is not by deposing Goethe or Byron\nthat we shall destroy either sceptical or anarchical indifference\namongst us. It is by becoming believers and organizers ourselves. If\nwe are such, we need fear nothing. As is the public, so will be the\npoet. If we revere enthusiasm, the fatherland, and humanity; if our\nhearts are pure, and our souls steadfast and patient, the genius\ninspired to interpret our aspirations, and bear to heaven our ideas\nand our sufferings, will not be wanting. Let these statues stand.\nThe noble monuments of feudal times create no desire to return to\nthe days of selfdom.\n\nBut I shall be told, there are imitators. I know it too well; but\nwhat lasting influence can be exerted on social life by those who\nhave no real life of their own? They will but flutter in the void,\nso long as void there be. On the day when the living shall arise to\ntake the place of the dead, they will vanish like ghosts at cock-\ncrow. Shall we never be sufficiently firm in our own faith to dare\nto show fitting reverence for the grand typical figures of an\nanterior age? It would be idle to speak of social art at all, or of\nthe comprehension of humanity, if we could not raise altars to the\nnew gods, without overthrowing the old. Those only should dare to\nutter the sacred name of progress, whose souls possess intelligence\nenough to comprehend the past, and whose hearts possess sufficient\npoetic religion to reverence its greatness. The temple of the true\nbeliever is not the chapel of a sect; it is a vast Pantheon, in\nwhich the glorious images of Goethe and Byron will hold their\nhonored place, long after Goetheism and Byronism shall have ceased\nto be.\n\nWhen, purified alike from imitation and distrust, men learn to pay\nrighteous reverence to the mighty fallen, I know not whether Goethe\nwill obtain more of their admiration as an artist, but I am certain\nthat Byron will inspire them with more love, both as man and poet--a\nlove increased even by the fact of the great injustice hitherto\nshown to him. While Goethe held himself aloof from us, and from the\nheight of his Olympian calm seemed to smile with disdain at our\ndesires, our struggles, and our sufferings--Byron wandered through\nthe world, sad, gloomy, and unquiet; wounded, and bearing the arrow\nin the wound. Solitary and unfortunate in his infancy; unfortunate\nin his first love, and still more terribly so in his ill-advised\nmarriage; attacked and calumniated both in his acts and intentions\nwithout inquiry or defence; harassed by pecuniary difficulties;\nforced to quit his country, home, and child; friendless--we have\nseen it too clearly since his death--pursued even on the Continent\nby a thousand absurd and infamous falsehoods, and by the cold\nmalignity of a world that twisted even his sorrows into a crime; he\nyet, in the midst of inevitable reaction, preserved his love for his\nsister and his Ada; his compassion for misfortune; his fidelity to\nthe affections of his childhood and youth, from Lord Clare to his\nold servant Murray, and his nurse Mary Gray. He was generous with\nhis money to all whom he could help or serve, from his literary\nfriends down to the wretched libeller Ashe. Though impelled by the\ntemper of his genius, by the period in which he lived, and by that\nfatality of his mission to which I have alluded, towards a poetic\nindividualism, the inevitable incompleteness of which I have\nendeavored to explain, he by no means set it up as a standard. That\nhe presaged the future with the prevision of genius is proved by his\ndefinition of poetry in his journal--a definition hitherto\nmisunderstood, but yet the best I know: \"Poetry is the feeling of a\nformer world and of a future.\" Poet as he was, he preferred activity\nfor good, to all that his art could do. Surrounded by slaves and\ntheir oppressors; a traveller in countries where even remembrance\nseemed extinct; never did he desert the cause of the peoples; never\nwas he false to human sympathies. A witness of the progress of the\nRestoration, and the triumph of the principles of the Holy Alliance,\nhe never swerved from his courageous opposition; he preserved and\npublicly proclaimed his faith in the rights of the peoples and in\nthe final\n\n     [Footnote:\n     Yet, Freedom! yet, thy banner torn, but flying,\n       Streams, like the thunder-storm, against the wind:\n     Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying,\n       The loudest still the tempest leaves behind.\n       The tree hath lost its blossomes, and the rind,\n     Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth,\n       But the sap lasts--and still the seed we find\n     Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North,\n     So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.\"]\n\ntriumph of liberty. The following passage from his journal is the\nvery abstract of the law governing the efforts of the true party of\nprogress at the present day: \"Onwards! it is now the time to act;\nand what signifies self, if a single spark of that which would be\nworthy of the past [Footnote: Written in Italy.] can be bequeathed\nunquenchably to the future? It is not one man, nor a million, but\nthe SPIRIT of liberty which must be spread. The waves which dash on\nthe shore are, one by one, broken; but yet the OCEAN conquers\nnevertheless. It overwhelms the armada; it wears the rock; and if\nthe Neptunians are to be believed, it has not only destroyed but\nmade a world.\" At Naples, in the Romagna, wherever he saw a spark of\nnoble life stirring, he was ready for any exertion; or danger, to\nblow it into a flame. He stigmatized baseness, hypocrisy, and\ninjustice, whencesoever they sprang.\n\nThus lived Byron, ceaselessly tempest-tossed between the ills of the\npresent and his yearnings after the future; often unequal; sometimes\nsceptical; but always suffering--often most so when he seemed to\nlaugh;\n\n     [Footnote:\n     \"And if I laugh at any mortal thing,\n       'Tis that I may not weep.\"]\n      and always loving, even\n       when he seemed to curse.\n\nNever did \"the eternal spirit of the chainless mind\" make a brighter\napparition amongst us. He seems at times a transformation of that\nimmortal Prometheus, of whom he has written so nobly; whose cry of\nagony, yet of futurity, sounded above the cradle of the European\nworld; and whose grand and mysterious form, transfigured by time,\nreappears from age to age, between the entombment of one epoch and\nthe accession of another; to wail forth the lament of genius,\ntortured by the presentment of things it will not see realized in\nits time. Byron, too, had the \"firm will\" and the \"deep sense;\" he,\ntoo, made of his \"death a victory.\" When he heard the cry of\nnationality and liberty burst forth in the land he had loved and\nsung in early youth, he broke his harp and set forth. While the\nCHRISTIAN Powers were protocolizing or worse--while the CHRISTIAN\nnations were doling forth the alms of a few piles of ball in aid of\nthe CROSS struggling with the Crescent; he, the poet, and pretended\nsceptic, hastened to throw his fortune, his genius, and his life at\nthe feet of the first people that had arisen in the name of the\nnationality and liberty he loved.\n\nI know no more beautiful symbol of the future destiny and mission of\nart than the death of Byron in Greece. The holy alliance of poetry\nwith the cause of the peoples; the union--still so rare--of thought\nand action--which alone completes the human Word, and is destined to\nemancipate the world; the grand solidarity of all nations in the\nconquest of the rights ordained by God for all his children, and in\nthe accomplishment of that mission for which alone such rights\nexist--all that is now the religion and the hope of the party of\nprogress throughout Europe, is gloriously typified in this image,\nwhich we, barbarians that we are, have already forgotten.\n\nThe day will come when democracy will remember all that it owes to\nByron. England, too, will, I hope, one day remember the mission--so\nentirely English, yet hitherto overlooked by her--which Byron\nfulfilled on the Continent; the European role given by him to\nEnglish literature, and the appreciation and sympathy for England\nwhich he awakened amongst us.\n\nBefore he came, all that was known of English literature was the\nFrench translation of Shakespeare, and the anathema hurled by\nVoltaire against the \"intoxicated barbarian.\" It is since Byron that\nwe Continentalists have learned to study Shakespeare and other\nEnglish writers. From him dates the sympathy of all the true-hearted\namongst us for this land of liberty, whose true vocation he so\nworthily represented among the oppressed. He led the genius of\nBritain on a pilgrimage throughout all Europe.\n\nEngland will one day feel how ill it is--not for Byron but for\nherself--that the foreigner who lands upon her shores should search\nin vain in that temple which should be her national Pantheon, for\nthe poet beloved and admired by all the nations of Europe, and for\nwhose death Greece and Italy wept as it had been that of the noblest\nof their own sons.\n\nIn these few pages--unfortunately very hasty--my aim has been, not\nso much to criticise either Goethe or Byron, for which both time and\nspace are wanting, as to suggest, and if possible lead, English\ncriticism upon a broader, more impartial, and more useful path than\nthe one generally followed. Certain travellers of the eleventh\ncentury relate that they saw at Teneriffe a prodigiously lofty tree,\nwhich, from its immense extent of foliage, collected all the vapors\nof the atmosphere; to discharge them, when its branches were shaken,\nin a shower of pure and refreshing water. Genius is like this tree,\nand the mission of criticism should be to shake the branches. At the\npresent day it more resembles a savage striving to hew down the\nnoble tree to the roots.","title":"Literary and Philosophical Essays: French, German and Italian","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":152419}