intermeddling? To do over again that which has been done already, is to do nothing; and no man who pos sesses common honesty and conscientiousness will allow himself to indulge in such idleness. Can the Age, then, furnish him with no occupation which is suited to his powers, that he must thus employ himself in doing what he ought not to do? It is not necessary that he should write an entirely new work in any branch of Knowledge, but only a better work than any hitherto existing. He who cannot do this, should absolutely not write; — it is a crime — a want of ho nesty, to do so, which at the most can only be excused by his thoughtlesness and utter want of any true un derstanding of the vocation which he assumes.
He must express the Idea in language, in a generally intelligible manner, in a perfect form. The Idea must therefore have become in him so clear, living, and independent, that it already clothes itself to him in words; and, penetrating to the innermost spirit of his language, frames from thence a vesture for itself, by its own inherent power. The Idea itself must speak, not the Author. His will, his individuality, his pecu liar method and art, must disappear from his page, so that only the method and art of his Idea may live the highest life which it can attain in his language and in his time. As he is free from the obligation under which the Oral Teacher lies, — to accommodate himself to the capacities of others, — so he has not this apology to plead before himself. He has no specific reader in view, but he himself must mould his reader, and lay down to him the law which he must obey. There may be printed productions addressed only to a certain age and a certain circle; — we shall see afterwards under what conditions such writings may be necessary; but these do not belong to the class of essentially Literary Works of which we now speak, but are printed discourses, — printed because the circle to which they are addressed cannot be brought together.
In order that in this way the Idea may in his per son become master of his language, it is necessary that he shall first have acquired a mastery over that lan guage. The Idea does not rule the language directly, but only through him as possessor of the language. This indispensable mastery of the Author over his language is only acquired by preparatory exercises, long continued and persevered in; which exercises are studies for future works, but are not themselves works, — which the conscientious Scholar writes indeed, but will never allow to be printed. It requires, I say, long and persevering exercise; but, happily, these conditions mutually promote each other; — as the Idea becomes more vivid, language spontaneously appears; and as facility of expression is increased, the Idea flows forth in greater clearness.
These are the first and most necessary conditions of all true Authorship. The Idea itself, — of express ing his Idea in language in the manner which we have described, — is that which lives, and alone lives in him within whom the presentiment has arisen that he may one day send forth a Literary Work; — it is this which animates him in his preparations and studies for that work, as well as in the future com pletion of his design.
By this Idea he is inspired with a dignified and sacred conception of the Literary calling. The work of the Oral Teacher is, in its immediate application, only a work for the time, modified by the degree of culture possessed by those who are entrusted to his care. Only in so far as he can venture to suppose that he is moulding future Teachers worthy of their calling, who, in their turn, will train others for the same task, and so on without end, can he regard himself as work ing for Eternity. But the work of the Author is in itself a work for Eternity. Even should future ages transcend the Knowledge which is revealed in his work, still in that work he "has not recorded his knowledge alone, but also the fixed and settled character of a certain age in its relation to Knowledge; and this will preserve its interest so long as the human race en dures. Independent of all vicissitude and change, his pages speak in every age to all men who are able to realize his thought; and thus continue their in spiring, elevating, and ennobling work, even to the end of time.
The Idea, in this its acknowledged sacredness, moves him, — and it alone moves him. He does not think that he has attained anything, until he has attained all, — until his work stands before him in the purity and perfectness after which he has struggled. Devoid of love for his own person, faithfully devoted to the Idea by which he is continually guided, he recognises with certain glance, and in its true character, every trace of his former nature which remains in his expression of the Idea, and unceasingly strives to free himself from it. So long as he is not conscious of this absolute freedom and purity, he has not attained his object, but still works on. In such an age as we have already described, in which the publication of Knowledge has greatly increased, and has even fallen into the hands of i i some who are better fitted for any other occupation than for this, it may be necessary for him to give some preliminary account of his labours; other modes of communication, too, — that of the Teacher for instance, — may present themselves to him; but he will never put forth these occasional writings for anything else than what they are, — preliminary announcements ad apted to a certain age and certain circumstances; he will never regard them as finished works, destined for immortality.
The Idea alone urges him forward; — nothing else. All personal regards have disappeared from his view. I do not speak of his own person, — of his having entirely forgotten himself in his vocation; — this has been already sufficiently set forth. The personality of others has no more weight with him than his own, when opposed to truth and the Idea. I do not men tion that he will not encroach upon the rights of other Scholars or Authors in their civic or personal relations: that is altogether below his dignity who has to do only with realities: — it is also below the dignity of these discourses to make mention of that. But this I will remark, that he will not allow himself to be restrained, by forbearance towards any person whatever, from demolishing error and establishing truth in its place. The worst insult that can be offered, even to a halfeducated man, is to suppose that he can be offended by the exposure of an error which he has entertained, or the proclamation of a truth which has escaped his notice. From this bold and open profession of truth, as he perceives it, without regard to any man, he will suffer nothing to lead him astray, not even the politely expressed contempt of the so-called fashionable world, which can only conceive of the Literary Vocation by analogy with its own social circles, and would impose the etiquette of the Court upon the conduct of the Scholar.
I here close these Lectures. If a thought of mine have entered into any now present, and shall abide there as a guide to higher truth, perhaps it may sometimes awaken the memory of these lectures and of me, — and only in this way do I desire to live in your re collection.
BY JOHAKCT GOTTLIEB FICHTE.
Kk WHATEVER in the more recent Philosophy can be useful beyond the limits of the schools is intended to form the contents of this work, set forth in that order in which it would naturally present itself to unscientific thought. The more profound arguments by which the subtle objections and extravagances of over-refined minds are to be met, — whatever is but the foundation of other Positive Science, — and lastly, whatever belongs to Pedagogy in its widest sense, that is, to the deliberate and arbitrary Education of the Human Race, — shall remain beyond the limits of our task. These objections are not made by the natural un derstanding; — Positive Science it leaves to Scholars by profession; and the Education of the Human Race, in so far as that depends upon human effort, to its appointed Teachers and Statesmen.
This book is therefore not intended for philosophers by profession, who will find nothing in it that has not been already set forth in other works of the same author. It ought to be intelligible to all readers who are able generally to understand a book at all. To those who only wish to repeat, in somewhat varied order, certain phrases which they have already learned by rote, and who mistake this business of the memory for understanding, it will probably be found unintelligible.
It ought to attract and animate the reader, and to elevate him above the world of sense, to a transcendental region; — at least the author is conscious that he has not entered upon his task without such inspiration. Often, indeed, the fire with which we commence an undertaking disappears during the toil of execution; and thus, at the conclusion of a work, we are in danger of doing ourselves injustice upon this point. In short, whether the author has succeeded in attaining his object or not, can only be determined by the effect which the work shall produce on the readers to whom it is addressed, — and in this the author has no voice.
I must, however, remind my reader that the " I " who speaks in the book is not the author himself, but it is his earnest wish that the reader should himself assume this character, and that he should not rest contented with a mere historical apprehension of what is here said, but really and truly, during reading, hold converse with himself, de liberate, draw conclusions, and form resolutions, like his representative in the book, and, by his own labour and reflection, develope out of his own soul, and build up within himself, that mode of thought the mere picture of which is laid before him in the work.
BOOK FIRST DOUBT.
BOOK I.
DOUBT.
I BELIEVE that I am now tolerably well acquainted with no inconsiderable part of the world that surrounds me, and I have certainly employed sufficient labour and care in the acquisition of this knowledge. I have put faith only in the concurrent testimony of my senses, only in repeated and unvarying experience; — what I have beheld, I have touched — what I have touched, I have analyzed; — I have repeated my ob servations again and again; I have compared the va rious phenomena with each other; and only when I could understand their mutual connexion, when I could explain and deduce the one from the other, and cal culate the result beforehand, and the examination of the result had proved the accuracy of my calculations, have I been satisfied. Therefore I am now as well assured of the accuracy of this part of my knowledge, as of my own existence; I walk with a firm step in these understood spheres of my world, and do actually every moment venture welfare and life itself on the certainty of my convictions.
But — what am I myself, and what is my vocation?
Superfluous question! It is long since I have re ceived complete instruction upon these points, and it would take much time to repeat all that I have heard, learned, and believed concerning them.
And in what way then have I attained this know ledge, which I have this dim remembrance of pos sessing? Have I, impelled by a burning desire of knowledge, toiled on through uncertainty, doubt, and contradiction? — have I, when anything credible pre sented itself before me, withheld my assent until I had examined and reexamined, sifted and compared it, — until an inward voice proclaimed to me, irresistibly and without the possibility of mistake, — " So is it, as surely as thou livest and art!" — No! I remember no such state of mind. Those instructions were be stowed on me before I sought them, the answers were given before I had put the questions. I heard, for I could not avoid doing so, and what was taught me remained in my memory just as chance had disposed it; — without examination, and without interference, I allowed everything to take its place in my mind.
How then could I persuade myself that I really possessed any knowledge upon these matters? If I know that only of which I am convinced, which I have myself discovered, myself experienced, then I cannot truly say that I possess even the slightest knowledge of my vocation; — I know only what others assert they know about it, and all that I can really be assured of is, that I have heard this or that said upon the subject.
Thus, while I have inquired for myself with the most anxious care, into comparatively trivial matters, 1 have relied wholly on the care and fidelity of others in things of the weightiest importance. I have Hi, a tributed to others an interest in the highest affairs ot humanity, an earnestness and an exactitude which I have by no means discovered in myself. I have es teemed them as indescribably higher than myself.
Whatever truth they really possess, whence can they have obtained it but through their own reflection? And why may not I, by means of the same reflection, discover the same truth, since I too have a being as well as they? How much have I hitherto undervalued and slighted myself!
It shall be no longer thus. From this moment I will enter on my rights, and assume the dignity which belongs to me. Let all foreign aids be cast aside! I will examine for myself. If any secret wishes con cerning the result of my inquiries, any partial leaning towards certain conclusions, should arise within me, I forget and renounce them, and I will accord them no influence over the direction of my thoughts. I will perform my task with firmness and integrity; — I will candidly admit all that I really discover. What I find to be truth, let it sound as it may, shall be welcome to me. I will knoiv. With the same certainty with which I can calculate that this ground will sup port me when I tread on it, that this fire will burn me if I approach too near it, will I know what I am, and what I shall be. And should it prove impossible for me to know this, then I will know this much at least, that I cannot know it. Even to this conclusion of my inquiry will I submit, should it approve itself to me as the truth. I hasten to the fulfilment of my task.
I seize on Nature in her rapid and unrest ing flight, detain her for an instant, and holding the present moment steadily in view, I reflect upon this Nature by means of which my thinking powers have hitherto been developed and trained to those researches that belong to her domain.
I am surrounded by objects which I am compelled to regard as separate, independent, self- subsisting wholes. I behold plants, trees, animals. I ascribe to each individual certain properties and attributes by which I distinguish it from others; to this plant, such a form; to another, another; to this tree, leaves of such a shape; to another, others differing from them.
Every object has its appointed number of attributes, neither more nor less. To every question, whether it is this or that, there is, for any one who is thoroughly acquainted with it, a decisive Yes possible, or a de cisive No, — so that there is an end of all doubt or hesitation on the subject. Everything that exists is something, or it is not this something; — is coloured, or is not coloured; — has a certain colour, or has it not; — may be tasted, or may not; — is tangible, or is not; and so on, ad infinitum.
Every object possesses each of these attributes in a definite degree. Let a measure be given for any par ticular attribute which is capable of being applied to the object; then we may discover the exact extent of that attribute, which it neither exceeds nor falls short of. I measure the height of this tree; it is defined, and it is not a single line higher or lower than it is. I consider the green of its leaves; it is a definite green, not the smallest shade darker or lighter, fresher or more faded than it is; although I may have neither measure nor expression for these qualities. I turn my eye to this plant; it is at a -definite stage of growth between its budding and its maturity, not in the small est degree nearer or more remote from either than it is. Everything that exists is determined throughout; it is what it is. and nothing else.
Not that I am unable to conceive of an object as floating unattached between opposite determinations. I do certainly conceive of indefinite objects; for more than half of my thoughts consist of such conceptions. I think of a tree in general. Has this tree fruit or not, leaves or not; and if so, what is their number? — to what order of trees does it belong? — how large is it? — and so on. All these questions remain unan swered, and my thought is undetermined in these re spects; for I did not propose to myself the thought of any particular tree, but of a tree generally. But I deny actual existence to such a tree in thus leaving it undefined. Everything that actually exists has its determinate number of all the possible attributes of actual existence, and each of these in a determinate measure, as surely as it actually exists, although I may admit my inability thoroughly to exhaust all the properties of any one object, or to apply to them any standard of measurement.
But Nature pursues her course of ceaseless change, and while I yet speak of the moment which I sought to detain before me, it is gone, and all is changed; and in like manner, before I had fixed my observation upon it, all was otherwise. It had not always been as it was when I observed it: — it had become so.
Why then, and from what cause, had it become precisely this which I beheld? Why had Nature, amid the infinite variety of possible forms, assumed in this moment precisely these and no others?
For this reason, that they were preceded by those precisely which did precede them, and no others; and because the present could arise out of those and out of no other possible conditions. Had anything in the preceding moment been in the smallest degree different from what it was, then in the present moment some thing would have been different from what it is. And from what cause were all things in that preceding moment precisely such as they were? For this reason, that in the moment preceding that, they were such as they were. And this moment again was dependent on its predecessor, and that on another, and so on without limit. In like manner will Nature, in the succeeding moment, be necessarily determined to the particular forms which it will then assume — for this reason, that in the present moment it is determined exactly as it is; and were anything in the present moment in the smallest degree different from what it is, then in the succeeding moment something would necessarily be different from what it will be. And in the moment following that, all things will be precisely as they will be, because in the immediately previous moment they will be as they will be; and so will its successor pro ceed forth from it, and another from that, and so on for ever.
Nature proceeds throughout the whole infinite series of her possible determinations without outward in centive; and the succession of these changes is not arbitrary, but follows strict and unalterable laws. Whatever exists in Nature, necessarily exists as it does exist; and it is absolutely impossible that it could be otherwise. I enter within an unbroken chain of phe nomena, in which every link is determined by that which has preceded it, and in its turn determines the next; so that, were I able to trace backward the causes through which alone any given moment could have come into actual existence, and to follow out the con sequences which must necessarily flow from it, I should then be able, at that moment, and by means of thought alone, to discover all possible conditions of the universe, both past and future; — past, by interpreting the given moment; future, by foreseeing its results. Every part contains the whole, for only through the whole is each part what it is, but through the whole it is necessarily what it is.
What is it then which I have thus discovered? If I review my acquisitions as a whole, I find their substance to be this: — that in every stage of progress an ante cedent is necessarily supposed, from which and through which alone the present has arisen; in every condition Ll a previous condition, in every existence another ex istence; and that from nothing, nothing whatever can proceed.
Let me pause here a little, and develope whatever is contained in this principle, until it become perfectly clear to me! For it may be that on my clear insight into this point may depend the whole success of my future inquiry.
Why, and from what cause, I had asked, are the determinate forms of objects precisely such as they are at this moment. I assumed without farther proof, and without the slightest inquiry, as an absolute, immediate, certain and unalterable truth, that they had a cause; — that not through themselves, but through something which lay beyond them, they had attained existence and reality. I found their existence insufficient to ac count for itself, and I was compelled to assume another existence beyond them, as a necessary condition of theirs. But why did I find the existence of these qualities and determinations insufficient for itself? why did I find it to be an incomplete existence? What was there in it which betrayed to me its insufficiency? This, without doubt: — that, in the first place, these qualities do not exist in and for themselves, — they are qualities of something else, attributes of a substance, forms of something formed; and the supposition of such a substance, of a something which shall support these attributes, — of a substratum for them, to use the phraseology of the Schools, — is a necessary condi tion of the conceivableness of such qualities. Further, before I can attribute a definite quality to such a sub stratum, I must suppose for it a condition of repose, and of cessation from change, — a pause in its existence.
BOOK I. DOUBT. 37<J BOOK I. DOUBT. 37<J Were I to admit it to be in a state of transition, then there could be no definite determination, but merely an endless series of changes from one state to another. The state of determination in a thing is thus a state and expression of mere passivity; and a state of mere passivity is in itself an incomplete existence. Such passivity itself demands an activity to which it may be referred, by which it can be explained, and through which it first becomes conceivable; — or, as it is usually expressed, — which contains within it the ground of this passivity.
What I found myself compelled to suppose was thus by no means that the various and successive determi nations of ^Nature themselves produce each other, — that the present determination annihilates itself, and, in the next moment, when it no longer exists, produces another, which is different from itself and not con tained in it, to fill its place: — this is wholly incon ceivable. The determination produces neither itself nor anything else.
What I found myself compelled to assume in order to account for the gradual origin and the changes of those determinations, was an active power, peculiar to the object, and constituting its essential nature.
And how, then, do I conceive of this power? — what is its nature, and the modes of its manifestation? This only, — that under these definite conditions it produces by its own energy, certainly and infallibly, this definite effect, and no other.
The principle of activity, of independent arising and becoming, dwells in itself alone, and in nothing beyond itself, as surely as it is a power; — a power is not impelled or set in motion; it sets itself in motion.
The cause of its having developed itself precisely in this manner and no other, lies partly in itself, because it is this particular power and no other, and partly in the circumstances under which it developes itself. Both these, — the inward determination of a power by itself, and its outward determination by circum stances, — must be united in order to produce a change. The latter, — the circumstances, the passive condition of things, — can of itself produce no change, for it contains within it the opposite of all change, — inert existence. The former, — the power, — is wholly de termined, for only on this condition is it conceivable; but its determination is completed only through the circumstances under which it is developed. I can con ceive of a power, it can have an existence for me, only in so far as I can perceive an effect proceeding from it; an inactive power, — which should yet be a power and not an inert thing, — is wholly inconceivable. Every effect, however, is determined, — and since the effect is but the expression, but another mode of the activity itself, — the active power is determined in its activity, and the ground of this determination lies partly in itself, because it can only be conceived of as a parti cular and definite power; partly out of itself, because its own determination can only be conceived of as con ditioned by something else.
A flower has sprung out of the earth, and I infer from thence a formative power in Nature. Such a formative power exists for me only so far as this flower and others, plants, and animals exist for me: — I can de scribe this power only through its effects, and it is to me no more than the producing cause of such effects, — the generative principle of flowers, plants, animals, and organic forms in general. I will go further, and maintain that a flower, and this particular flower, could arise in this place only in so far as all other circum stances united to make it possible. But by the union of all these circumstances for its possibility, the actual existence of the flower is in no measure explained to me; and for this I am still compelled to assume a par ticular, spontaneous, and original power in Nature, and indeed a flower-producing power; for another power of Nature might, under the same circumstances, have produced something entirely different. — I have thus attained to the following view of the Universe.
AVhen I contemplate all things as one whole, one Nature, there is but one power, — when I regard them as separate existences, there are many powers — which develope themselves according to their inward laws, and pass through all the possible forms of which they are capable; and all objects in Nature are but those powers under certain determinate forms. The manifestations of every individual power of Nature are determined, become what they are, partly by its own essential cha racter, and partly through the manifestations of all the other powers of Nature with which it is connected; but it is connected with them all — for Nature is one connected whole. They are, therefore, unalterably de termined, — while its essential character remains what it is, and while it continues to manifest itself under these particular circumstances, its manifestations must necessarily be what they are, — and it is absolutely impossible that they should be in the smallest degree different from what they are.
In every moment of her duration Nature is one connected whole; in every moment each individual Ll2 part must be what it is, because all the others are what they are; and you could not remove a single grain of sand from its place, without thereby, although perhaps imperceptibly to you, altering something throughout all parts of the immeasurable whole. But every moment of this duration is determined by all past moments, and will determine all future moments; and you can not conceive even the position of a grain of sand other than it is in the Present, without being compelled to conceive the whole indefinite Past to have been other than what it has been, and the whole indefinite Future other than what it will be. Make the experiment, for instance, with this grain of quick- sand. Suppose it to lie some few paces further inland than it does: — then must the storm-wind that drove it in from the sea have been stronger than it actually was; — then must the preceding state of the weather, by which this wind was occasioned, and its degree of strength determined, have been different from what it actually was; and the previous state by which this particular weather was determined, — and so on; and thus you have, without stay or limit, a wholly different temperature of the air from that which really existed, and a different consti tution of the bodies which possess an influence over this temperature, and over which, on the other hand, it exercises such an influence. On the fruitfulness or unfruitfulness of countries, and through that, or even directly, on the duration of human life, — this tempe rature exercises a most decided influence. How can you know, — since it is not permitted us to penetrate the arcana of Nature, and it is therefore allowable to speak of possibilities, — how can you know, that in such a state of weather as may have been necessary to carry this grain of sand a few paces further inland, some one of your forefathers might not have perished from hunger, or cold, or heat, before begetting that son from whom you are descended; and that thus you might never have been at all, and all that you have ever done, and all that you ever hope to do in this world, must have been obstructed, in order that a gram of sand might he in a different place?
I myself, with all that I call mine, am a link jnjhis chain of the rigid necessity of Mature. Therewas^a.. time — so others tell me who were then alive, and I am compelled by reasoning to admit such a time of which I have no immediate consciousness, — there was a time in which I was not, and a moment in which I began to be. I then only existed for others, — not yet for myself. Since then, my self, my self-consciousness, has gradually unfolded itself, and I have discovered in my self certain capacities and faculties, wants and natural desires. I am a definite creature, which came into being at a certain time.
I have not come into being by my own power. It would be the highest absurdity to suppose that I was before I came into existence, in order to bring myself into existence. I have, then, been called into being by another power beyond myself. And by what power but the universal power of Nature, since I too am a part of Nature? The time at which my existence com menced, and the attributes with which I came into being, were determined by this universal power of Nature; and all the forms under which these inborn attributes have since manifested themselves, and will manifest themselves as long as I have a being, are de termined by the same power. It was impossible that, instead of me, another should have come into existence; — it is impossible that this being, once here, should at any moment of its existence be other than what it is and will be.
That my successive states of being have been accom panied by consciousness, and that some of them, such as thoughts, resolutions, and the like, appear to be nothing but varied modes of consciousness, need not perplex my reasonings. It is the natural constitution of the plant to develope itself, of the animal to move, of man to think, — all after fixed laws. Why should I hesitate to acknowledge the last as an original power of Nature, as well as the first and second? Nothing could hinder me from doing so, but surprise; thought being assuredly a far higher and more subtle operation of Nature, than the formation of a plant or the proper motion of an animal. But how can I accord to such a feeling any influence whatever upon the calm con clusions of reason? I cannot indeed explain how the power of Nature can produce thought; but can I better explain its operation in the formation of a plant, or in the motion of an animal? To attempt to deduce thought from any mere combination of matter, is an extravagance into which I shall not fall; but can I then explain from it even the formation of the simplest moss? Those original powers of Nature cannot be explained, for it is only by them that we can ex plain everything which is susceptible of explanation. Thought exists, — its existence is absolute and inde pendent; just as the formative power of Nature exists absolutely and independently. It is in Nature; for the