been made acquainted with the nature and dignity of his calling, to the capacity of receiving the Idea, and the power of developing it from his own consciousness, and giving it a form peculiar to himself; — he should do all this, if he can. But in every case, and uncon ditionally, he must fill the Student with respect and veneration for the proper calling of the Scholar. The first object of all study, — to lay hold of the Idea from a new and peculiar point of view, is by no means to be given up either by the Student himself, or by the Teacher on his behalf; but it is nevertheless possible that it may not be attained, and both must reconcile themselves beforehand to this possibility. Should this first object of study remain unaccomplished, the Stu dent may still become a useful, worthy, and upright man. But the second object of study, — that he acquire a reverence for the Idea during his efforts to attain it, — that on account of this reverence he forbear from undertaking anything for which he does not know him self to be qualified, — that he consecrate himself to the service of the Idea, at least by permanently cherishing this reverence for what is unattainable by him, and contributing to the extent of his ability to maintain such a reverence among men; — this object is never to be relinquished; for were it not attained, then, through the very fact of his having studied, would his dignity as a man be lost, and he would sink the deeper, in consequence of the height to which he ought to have risen. The attainment by the Student of the first object of study is, to the Academic Teacher, a conditional duty, — conditioned by the possibility of its fulfilment.
The attainment of the second he must ever look upon and acknowledge as his unconditional duty, which he must never deliberately relinquish. It may indeed happen that he cannot accomplish even this, but he must never admit a doubt of its ultimate attainment.
What, then, can the Academic Teacher do for the attainment of this second object? I answer, he can do nothing for it exclusively; he can do nothing else than that which he must do for the first and higher object by itself. In pursuing and attaining the second, he is advancing to the attainment of the first. Would he inculcate upon his pupils reverence for Knowledge? — they will not believe him if he do not himself exhibit in his whole life the deep reverence which he recom mends to them. Would he thoroughly impress them with this reverence? — let him teach it, not in words only, but in deeds; let him be himself the living ex ample, the abiding illustration of the principles which he desires them to accept as the guides of their life. He has described to them the Nature of the Scholar's vocation as a manifestation of the Divine Idea, — he has told them that this Idea entirely pervades the True Scholar, and establishes its peculiar life, in place of his own, within him; — perhaps he has even told them by what precise way he himself, for his part, has to fulfil the purposes of Knowledge, and in what his peculiar calling, as an Academic Teacher, consists. Let him show himself before them in his proper and es sential character, — as devoted to his vocation, — as a perpetual offering before its altar, — and they will learn to comprehend that Knowledge is a sacred thing.
The duties of the Academic Teacher are not indeed changed by this aspect of his vocation; for, as we have said, he can do nothing for the attainment of the last object but what he must have done for the first and higher, by itself; — but his own view of his calling becomes more confirmed and immovable. Although it should not immediately become visible and evident to him that he has attained his peculiar object, — of leading those who are entrusted to his care from mere passive dependence to spontaneous activity, from the dead letter to the living spirit; — yet will he not sup pose that he has laboured in vain. To Academic Study must succeed that peculiar and essential study to which the first is but a preparative. He can never know that he has not roused a powerful determination to this study, — that he has not thrown into the soul some sparks which, though now unapparent, will blaze forth at the proper time. Even in the worst possible event, — that he has not accomplished even so much as this, — his activity has still another object; and if he has done something for it, his labour has not been utterly lost. If he has, at least, upheld, and in some breasts quickened or renewed, the faith that there is something worthy of the reverence of men; that by industry and faithfulness men may elevate themselves to the contemplation of this object of reverence, and in this contemplation become strong and blessed; if some have only had their occupation made holier in their eyes, so that they may approach it with some what less levity than before; if he can venture to hope that some have left his hall, if not precisely with more light, yet with more modesty than they entered it; — then he has not entirely lost the fruit of his exertions.
We said, that the Academic Teacher becomes an example of reverence for Knowledge, by showing him self to be thoroughly and entirely penetrated by, and devoted to, his calling, — an instrument consecrated to its service.
What does this calling demand? Is the Academic Teacher to prepare men for the reception of the Idea? then he must himself know the Idea, have attained it.
and be possessed by it; otherwise how could he recog nise in others the capacity for receiving that to which he himself is a stranger? lie must first have culti vated this capacity in himself, and have a distinct and clear consciousness of possessing it; for it can only be recognised by him who truly and immediately possesses it, and the art of acquiring it can only be understood by him who has personally acquired it. He can only cultivate this capacity in men by means of the Idea itself, by presenting it to them, and accustoming them to it, in all its varied forms and applications. The nature of the Idea is peculiar to itself, and differs wholly from all that is merely mechanical in know ledge; — only by its reception can man cultivate the power of receiving it. By the communication of me chanical knowledge man may become versed in such mechanism, but can never be raised to the Idea. It is an obligation from which the Academic Teacher can not be released, that he shall have comprehended the Idea with perfect clearness as Idea; that, in the Idea, he shall have also comprehended the particular branch of Knowledge which he cultivates, and through the Idea have understood the true nature, meaning, and purpose of this branch of Knowledge; — and even his particular science is on no account to be taught merely for its own sake, but because it is a form or aspect of the one Idea; and in order that this form may be tested by the Student, and he be tested by it. If, at the conclusion of his University training, it were found that, even then, the Scholar could not be made to comprehend the true nature of study, then study would altogether disappear from the world, — there would be study no longer; but the number of handi crafts would be increased. He who is not conscious of a living and clear comprehension of the Idea, and is at the same time an upright and honourable man, will forbear to assume the vocation of the Academic Teacher. He will thus show his respect for that voca tion, the nature of which he must have learned in the course of his studies.
The vocation of the Academic Teacher requires him to communicate the Idea, — not as the Author does, abstractly, and in the one perfect conception under which it presents itself to his own mind, — but he must mould, express, and clothe it in an infinite variety of forms, so that he may bring it home, under some one or other of those adventitious vestures, to those by whose present state of culture he must be guided in the exercise of his calling. He must thus possess the Idea, not as a mere abstraction, but in great vitality, power, and flexibility. Above all, he must possess that which we have already described as the creative or artist-talent of the Scholar; namely, a perfect readiness and capacity to recognise, under any circumstances, the first germ of the Idea as it begins to unfold itself; — in each individual case, to discover the most suitable means of aiding it to the attainment of perfect life, and in all cases, to associate it with a kindred form.
The Author may possess only one form for his Idea, — if that form be perfect, he has fulfilled his duty; — the Academic Teacher must possess an infinite multiplicity of forms, — it is not his business to discover the most perfect form, but to find that which is most suitable to particular circumstances. A good Academic Teacher must be capable of being also an excellent Author, if he choose; but it does not follow that, on the other hand, a good Author should also be a good Academic Teacher. Yet this skill and versatility exist in different degrees, and he is not to be entirely ex cluded from the Academic calling who does not possess them in the highest degree.
From this skill which is required of the Academic Teacher in the embodiment of the Idea, there arises another demand upon him, — this, namely, that his mode of communication shall be always new, and bear the mark of fresh life actually present upon it. Only living and present thought can enter other minds and quicken other thought: a dead, worn-out form, let it have been ever so living at a former time, must be called back to life by the power of others as well as its own; — the Author has a right to require this from his readers, but the Academic Teacher, who in this matter is not an Author, has no right to demand it.
The upright and conscientious man, as surely as he accepts this calling, and so long as he continues to practise it, gives himself up entirely to its fulfilment; willing, thinking, desiring nothing else than to be that which, according to his own conviction, he ought to be; and thus shows openly his respect for Know ledge.
For Knowledge, I say, as such, and because it is Knowledge, — for Knowledge in the abstract, — as the Divine Idea, one and homogeneous through all the different forms and modes in which it is revealed. It Hh 3,70 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
is quite possible that a Scholar who has devoted his life to a particular department of knowledge, may en tertain a prepossession in favour of that department, and be apt to esteem it above all others, — either be cause he has accustomed himself to it, or because he thinks that his more distinguished calling may reflect some of its lustre upon himself. "Whatever ability such an one may bring to the cultivation of his own department, he will never present to the unprejudiced spectator the picture of one who reveres Knowledge for its own sake, and will never persuade the acute observer that he does so, whilst he shows less respect for other departments of knowledge which are as es sential as his own. It will only thereby become evi dent that he does not conceive of Knowledge as one perfect whole, — that he does not think of his own department as a portion of this whole, — hence that he does not love his own department as Knowledge, but only as a handicraft; which love for a handicraft may indeed be praiseworthy enough elsewhere, but in the domain of Knowledge excludes him entirely from any right to the name of a Scholar. He who, although labouring in a limited province, actually partakes of True Knowledge, and accepts his own calling as a part thereof, may perhaps have little even historical ac quaintance with other provinces, but he has a general conception of the nature of all others, and will con stantly exhibit an equal reverence for all.
Let this love of his vocation and of Knowledge be the sole guide of his life, visible to ah1 men; — let him be moved by nothing else; regarding no personal in terest either of himself or of others. Here as elsewhere, I shall say nothing of the common and vulgar desires which may not enter the circle of him who has ap proached and handled the sacred things of Knowledge. I shall not suppose it possible, for instance, that a Priest of Knowledge, who seeks to consecrate other Priests to her service, should avoid saying to them that which they dislike, because they do not hear it willingly, in order that they may continue to hear him willingly. Yet I may perhaps be permitted to men tion one error, not quite so ignoble and vulgar, and to hold up its opposite to your view. In every word uttered by the Academic Teacher in the exercise of his calling, let it be Knowledge that speaks, — let it be his longings to extend her dominion, — let it be his deep love for his hearers, not as his hearers, but as the future ministers of Knowledge: — Knowledge, and these living desires to extend her dominion, let these npeak, not the Teacher. An effort to speak for the mere sake of speaking, — to speak finely for the sake of fine speaking, and that others may know of it, — the disease of word-making, — sounding words, in which nevertheless no idea is audible, — is consistent with no man's dignity, and least of all with that of the Aca demic Teacher, who represents the dignity of Know ledge to future generations.
Let him entirely resign himself to this love of his vocation and of Knowledge. The peculiar nature of his occupation consists in this, — that Knowledge, and especially that side of Knowledge from which he con ceives of the whole, shall continually burst forth from him in new and fairer forms. Let this fresh spiritual youth never grow old within him; let no form become fixed and rigid; let each sunrise bring him new love for his vocation, new joy in its exercise, and larger views of its significance. The Divine Idea is fixed and determined in his mind, — all its individual parts are likewise determined. The particular form of its ex pression for a particular Age may also be determined; but the living movement of its communication is infinite as the growth of the Human Race. Let no one continue in this calling in whom the mode of this communication, although it may have been the most perfect of his Age, begins to grow old and formal, — none in whom the fountain of youth does not still flow on with unimpaired vigour. Let him faithfully trust himself to its current so long as it will bear him forward: when it leaves him, then let him be content to retire from this ever-shifting scene of onward being; — let him separate the dead from the living.
It was a necessary part of the plan which I marked out to you, to treat of the dignity of the Academic Teacher. I hope that in doing so I have exhibited the same strictness with which I have spoken of the other subjects which have fallen under our notice, — without allowing myself to be seduced into any lenity towards it by the consideration that I myself practise the calling of which I have spoken, and that I have practised it even in speaking of it. Whence I have derived this firmness, — on what feeling it rests, — you may inquire at another time; it is sufficient for you now to understand clearly, that Truth, in every possible application of it, still remains true.
( 353 ) To complete our survey of the vocation of the Scholar, we have to-day only to consider that department of it which belongs to the Author.
I have hitherto contented myself with clearly setting forth the True Idea of the different subjects of our inquiry, without casting a single glance at the actual state of things in the present age. It is almost im possible to proceed in this way with the subject which I am to discuss to-day. The Idea of the Author is almost unknown in our age, and something most un worthy usurps its name. This is the peculiar disgrace of the age, — the true source of all its other scientific evils. The inglorious has become glorious, and is encouraged, honoured, and rewarded.
According to the almost universally received opinion, it is a merit and an honour for a man to have printed something merely because he has printed it, and with out any regard to what it is which he has printed, and what may be its result. They, too, lay claim to the highest rank in the republic of letters, who announce the fact that somebody has printed something, and what that something is; or, as the phrase goes, who " review" the works of others. It is almost inexplicable how H h 2 such an absurd opinion could have arisen and taken root, when we consider the subject in its true light.
Thus stands the matter: In the latter half of the past century, Reading took the place of some other amusements which had gone out of fashion. This new luxury demanded, from time to time, new fancy goods; for it is of course quite impossible that one should read over again what one has read already, or those things which our forefathers have read before us; just as it would be altogether unbecoming to appear frequently in fashionable society in the same costume, or to dress according to the notions of one's grandfather. The new want gave birth to a new trade, striving to nourish and enrich itself by purveying the wares now in de mand, — namely, Bookselling. The success of those who first undertook this trade encouraged others to engage in it, until, in our own days, it has come to this, that this mode of obtaining a livelihood is greatly over stocked, and the quantity of these goods produced is much too large in proportion to the consumers. The book-merchant, like the dealer in any other commodity, orders his goods from the manufacturer, solely with the view of bringing them to the market; — at times he also buys uncommissioned goods which have been manufactured only upon speculation; and the Author who writes for the sake of writing is this manufacturer.
It is impossible to conceive why the book-manufacturer should take precedence of any other manufacturer; he ought rather to feel that he is far inferior to any other manufacturer, inasmuch as the luxury to which he ministers is more pernicious than any other. That he find a merchant for his wares may indeed be useful and profitable to him, but how it should be an honour is not readily discoverable. Surely no value can be set upon the judgment of the publisher, which is only a judgment on the saleableness or unsaleableness of the goods.
Amid this bustle and pressure of the literary trade, a happy thought struck some one; — this, namely, out of all the books which were printed, to make one' periodical book, so that the reader of this book might be spared the trouble of reading any other. It was fortunate that this last purpose was not completely successful, and that everybody did not take to reading this book exclusively, since then no others would have been purchased, and consequently no others printed; so that this book too, being constantly dependent upon other books for the possibility of its own existence, must likewise have remained unprinted.
He who undertook such a work, which is commonly called a Literary Journal, Literary Gazette, &c. &c., had the advantage of seeing his work increase by the charitable contributions of many anonymous indivi duals, and of thus earning honour and profit by the labour of others. To veil his own poverty of ideas, he pretended to pass judgment on the authors whom he quoted, — a shallow pretence to the thinker who looks below the surface. For either the book is — as most books are at present — a bad book, only printed that there might be one more book in the world; and in this case it never ought to have been written, and is a nullity, and consequently the judgment upon it is a nullity also; — or, the book is a true Literary Work, such as we shall hereafter describe; and then it is the result of a whole powerful life devoted to Art or Science, and so would require another whole life as 3o6 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
powerful as the first to be employed in its judgment. On such a work it is not altogether possible to pass a final judgment in a couple of sheets, within a quarter or half year after its appearance. How can it be any honour to contribute to such collections, when true talent will, on the contrary, be always more disposed to execute a connected work upon a plan originated and drawn out by itself, than to allow the current of its thoughts to be interrupted by every accident of the day, until that interruption is broken by some new occurrence? The disposition continually to watch the thoughts of others, and on these thoughts, please God, to hang our own attempts at thinking, — is a certain sign of immaturity and of a weak and dependent mind. Or does the honour consist in this, — that the con ductors of such works should consider us capable of filling the office of judge, and actually make it over to us? Their opinion goes no deeper in reality than that of a common unlettered printer, — of the saleableness or unsaleablencss of the goods, and of the outward reputation which may thereby accrue to their critical establishment.
I am not unaware that what I have now said may seem very paradoxical. All of us who are connected in any way with Knowledge, which in this connexion may be termed Literature, grow up in the notion that literary industry is a blessing, — an advantage, — an ho nourable distinction of our cultivated and philosophical age; and but few have power to see through its sup posed advantages, and resolve them into their essential nothingness. The only apparent reason which can be adduced in defence of such perverted industry is, in my opinion, this: — that thereby an extensive literary public is kept alive, roused to attention, and, as it were, held together; so that, should anything of real value and importance be brought before it, this public shall be found already existing, and not have to be first called together. But I answer, that, in the first place, the means appear much too extensive for the end contemplated, — it seems too great a sacrifice that many generations should spend their time upon nothing, in order that some future generation may be enabled to occupy itself with something; — and further, it is by no means true that a public is only kept alive by this perverse activity; it is at the same time per verted, vitiated, and ruined for the appreciation of anything truly valuable. Much that is excellent has made its appearance in our age, — I shall only instance the Kantian Philosophy, — but this very activity of the literary market has destroyed, perverted, and de graded it, so that its spirit has fled, and now only a ghost of it stalks about, which no one can venerate.
The Literary History of our own day shows the real thinker how writing for writing's sake may be honoured and applauded. A few Authors only excepted, our Literary Men have in their own writings borne worse testimony against themselves than any one else could have given against them; and no even moderately well-disposed person would be inclined to consider the writers of our day so shallow, perverse, and spiritless, as the majority show themselves in their works. The only way to retain any respect for the age, any desire to influence it, is this, — to assume that those who proclaim their opinions aloud are inferior men, and that only among those who keep silence some may be found who are capable of teaching better things.
Thus, when I speak of the Literary Vocation, it is not the Literary Trade of the age which I mean, but something quite other than that.
I have already set forth the Idea of the Author when distinguishing it from that of the Oral Teacher of Progressive Scholars. Both have to express and communicate the Idea in language: the latter, for particular individuals, by whose capacity for receiving it he must be guided; the former, without regard to any individual, and in the most perfect form which can be given to it in his age.
The Author must embody the Idea, — he must there fore be a partaker of the Idea. All Literary Works are either works of Art or of Science. Whatever may be the subject of a work of the first class, it is evident that since it has no direct significance of its own, and thus teaches the reader nothing, it can only awaken the Idea itself within him, and furnish it with a fitting embodiment; otherwise it would be but an empty play of words, and have no real meaning. Whatever may be the subject of a scientific work, the Author of such a work must not conceive of Knowledge in a mere historical fashion, and only as received from others; but he must for himself have spiritually penetrated to the Idea of Knowledge on some one of its sides, and produce it in a self-creative, new, and hitherto un known form. If he be but a link in the chain of his torical tradition, and can do no more than hand down to others the knowledge which he himself has received, and only in the form in which it already exists in some work whence he has obtained it, — then let him leave others in peace to draw from this fountain whence he also has drawn. What need is there of his officious