What seekest thou, then, my complaining heart? What is it that excites thee against a system to which my understanding cannot raise the slightest objection?
This it is: — I demand something beyond a mere presentation or conception; something that is, has been, and will be, even if the presentation were not; and which the presentation only records, without producing it, or in the smallest degree changing it. A mere pre sentation I now see to be a deceptive show; my pre sentations must have a meaning beneath them, and if my entire knowledge revealed to me nothing but know ledge, I would be defrauded of my whole life. That there is nothing whatever but my presentations or con ceptions, is, to the natural sense of mankind, a silly and ridiculous conceit which no man can seriously enter tain, and which requires no refutation. To the betterinformed judgment, which knows the deep, and, by mere reasoning, irrefragable grounds for this assertion, it is a prostrating, annihilating thought.
And what is, then, this something lying beyond all presentation, towards which I stretch forward with such ardent longing? What is the power with which it draws me towards it? What is the central point in my soul to which it is attached, and with which only it can be effaced?
" Not merely TO KNOW, but according to thy know ledge TO DO, is thy vocation:" — thus is it loudly pro claimed in the innermost depths of my soul, as soon as I recollect myself for a moment, and turn my ob servation upon myself. " Not for idle contemplation of thyself, not for brooding over devout sensations; — no, for action art thou here; thine action, and thine action alone, determines thy worth."
This voice leads me from presentation, from mere cognition, to something which lies beyond it, and is entirely opposed to it; to something which is greater and higher than all knowledge, and which contains within itself the end and object of all knowledge. When I act, I doubtless know that I act, and how I act; but this knowledge is not the act itself, but only the observation of it. This voice thus announces to me precisely that which I sought; a something lying beyond mere knowledge, and, in its nature, wholly independent of it.
Thus it is, I know it immediately. But having once entered within the domain of speculation, the doubt which has been awakened within me, will secretly endure, and will continue to disturb me. Since I have placed myself in this position, I can obtain no complete satisfaction until everything which I accept is justified before the tribunal of speculation. I have thus to ask myself, — how is it thus? Whence arises that voice in my soul which directs me to something beyond mere presentation and knowledge?
There is within me an impulse to absolute, inde pendent self-activity. Nothing is more insupportable to me, than to be merely by another, for another, and through another; I must be something for myself and by myself alone. This impulse I feel along with the perception of my own existence, it is inseparably united to my consciousness of myself.
I explain this feeling to myself, by reflection; and add to this blind impulse the power of sight, by thought. According to this impulse I must act as an absolutely independent being: — thus I understand and translate the impulse. I must be independent. Who am I? Subject and object in one, — the conscious being and that of which I am conscious, gifted with intuitive knowledge and myself revealed in that intuition, the thinking mind and myself the object of the thought — inseparable, and ever present to each other. As both, must I be what I am, absolutely by myself alone; — by myself originate conceptions, — by myself produce a condition of things lying beyond these conceptions. But how is the latter possible? To nothing I cannot unite any being whatever; from nothing there can never arise something; my objective thought is necessarily mediative only. But any being which is united to another being, does thereby, by means of this other being, become dependent; — it is no longer a primary, original, and genetic, but only a secondary and derived being. I am constrained to unite myself to something; — to another being I cannot unite myself, without losing that independence which is the condition of my own existence.
My conception and origination of a purpose, how ever, is, by its very nature, absolutely free, — producing something out of nothing. To such a conception I must unite my activity, in order that it may be pos sible to regard it as free, and as proceeding absolutely from myself alone.
In the following manner, therefore, do I conceive of my independence as /. I ascribe to myself the power of originating a conception simply because I originate it, of originating this conception simply because I originate this one, — by the absolute sovereignty of my self as an intelligence. I further ascribe to myself the power of manifesting this conception beyond itself by means of an action; — ascribe to myself a real, active power, capable of producing something beyond itself. — a power which is entirely different from the mere power of conception. These conceptions, which are called conceptions of design, or purposes, are not, like the conceptions of mere knowledge, copies of something already given, but rather types of something yet to be produced; the real power lies beyond them, and is in itself independent of them; — it only receives from them its immediate determinations, which are apprehended by knowledge. Such an independent power it is that, in consequence of this impulse, I ascribe to myself.
Here then, it appears, is the point to which the consciousness of all reality unites itself; — the real efficiency of my conception, and the real power of action which, in consequence of it, I am compelled to ascribe to myself, is this point. Let it be as it may with the reality of a sensible world beyond me; I possess reality and comprehend it, — it lies within my own being, it is native to myself.
I conceive this, my real power of action, in thought, but I do not create it by thought. The immediate feeling of my impulse to independent activity lies at the foundation of this thought; the thought does no more than pourtray this feeling, and accept it in its own form, — the form of thought. This procedure may, I think, be vindicated before the tribunal of speculation.
What! Shall I, once more, knowingly and inten tionally deceive myself? This procedure can by no means be justified before that strict tribunal.
I feel within me an impulse and an effort towards outward activity; this appears to be true, and to be the only truth which belongs to the matter. Since it is I who feel this impulse, and since I cannot pass be yond myself, either with my whole consciousness, or in particular with my capacity of sensation, — since this / itself is the last point at which I feel this impulse, there fore it certainly appears to me as an impulse founded in myself, to an activity also founded in myself. Might it not be however that this impulse, although unperceivcd by me, is in reality the impulse of a foreign power invisible to me, and that notion of independence merely a delusion, arising from my sphere of vision being limited to myself alone? I have no reason to as sume this, but just as little reason to deny it. I must confess that I absolutely know nothing, and can know nothing, about it.
Do I then indeed feel that real power of free action, which, strangely enough, I ascribe to myself without knowing anything of it? By no means; — it is merely the determinable element, which, by the well-known T t laws of thought whereby all capacities and all powers arise, we are compelled to add in imagination to the determinate element — the real action, which itself is, in like manner, only an assumption.
Is that procession, from the mere conception to an imaginary realization of it, anything more than the usual and well-known procedure of all objective thought, which always strives to be, not mere thought, but something more? By what dishonesty can this pro cedure be made of more value here than in any other case? — can it possess any deeper significance, when to the conception of a thought it adds a realization of this thought, than when to the conception of this table it adds an actual and present table? " The conception of a purpose, a particular determination of events in me, appears in a double shape, — partly as subjective — a Thought; partly as objective — an Action." What reason, which would not unquestionably itself stand in need of a genetic deduction, could I adduce against this explanation?
I say that I feel this impulse: — it is therefore I my self who say so, and think so while I say it? Do I then really feel, or only think that I feel? Is not all which I call feeling only a presentation produced by my objec tive process of thought, and indeed the first transition point of all objectivity? And then again, do I really think, or do I merely think that I think? And do I think that I really think, or merely that I possess the idea of thinking? What can hinder speculation from raising such questions, and continuing to raise them without end? What can I answer, and where is there a point at which I can command such ques tionings to cease? I know, and must admit, that each definite act of consciousness may be made the subject of reflection, and a new consciousness of the first con sciousness may thus be created; and that thereby the immediate consciousness is raised a step higher, and the first consciousness darkened and made doubtful; and that to this ladder there is no highest step. I know that all scepticism rests upon this process, and that the system which has so violently prostrated me is founded on the adoption and the clear consciousness of it.
I know that if I am not merely to play another per plexing game with this system, but intend really and practically to adopt it, I must refuse obedience to that voice within me. I cannot will to act, for according to that system I cannot knoiu whether I can really act or not: — I can never believe that I truly act; that which seems to be my action must appear to me as entirely without meaning, as a mere delusive picture. All earnestness and all interest is withdrawn from my life; and life, as well as thought, is transformed into a mere play, which proceeds from nothing and tends to nothing.
Shall I then refuse obedience to that inward voice? I will not do so. I will freely accept the vocation which this impulse assigns to me, and in this resolution I will lay hold at once of thought, in all its reality and truthfulness, and on the reality of all things which are pre- supposed therein. I will restrict myself to the position of natural thought in which this impulse places me, and cast from me all those over-refined and subtile inquiries which alone could make me doubtful of its truth.
I understand thee now, sublime Spirit! I have found the organ by which to apprehend this reality, and, with this, probably all other reality. Knowledge is not this organ: — no knowledge can be its own foundation, its own proof; every knowledge pre- supposes another higher knowledge on which it is founded, and to this ascent there is no end. It is FAITH, that voluntary acquiescence in the view which is naturally presented to us, because only through this view we can fulfil our vocation; — this it is, which first lends a sanction to knowledge, and raises to certainty and conviction that which without it might be mere delusion. It is not knowledge, but a resolution of the will to admit the validity of knowledge.
Let me hold fast for ever by this doctrine, which is no mere verbal distinction, but a true and deep one, bearing with it the most important consequences for my whole existence and character. All my conviction is but faith; and it proceeds from the character, not from the understanding. Knowing this, I will enter upon no disputation, because I foresee that thereby nothing can be gained; I will not suffer myself to be perplexed by it, for the source of my conviction lies higher than all disputation; I will not suffer myself to entertain the desire of pressing this conviction on others by reasoning, and I will not be surprised if such an un dertaking should fail. I have adopted my mode of thinking first of all for myself, not for others, and be fore myself only will I justify it. He who possesses the honest, upright purpose of which I am conscious, will also attain a similar conviction; but without that, this conviction can in no way be attained. Now that I know this, I also know from what point all culture of myself and others must proceed; from the will, not from the understanding. If the former be only fixedly and honestly directed towards the Good, the latter will \ of itself apprehend the True. Should the latter only be exercised, whilst the former remains neglected, there can arise nothing whatever but a dexterity in groping after vain and empty refinements, throughout the ab solute void inane. Now that I know this, I am able to confute all false knowledge that may rise in opposi tion to my faith. I know that every pretended truth, produced by mere speculative thought, and not founded upon faith, is assuredly false and surreptitious; for mere knowledge, thus produced, leads only to the con viction that we can know nothing. I know that such false knowledge never can discover anything but what it has previously placed in its premises through faith, from which it probably draws conclusions which arc wholly false. Now that I know this, I possess the touchstone of all truth and of all conviction. Con science alone is the root of all truth: whatever is opposed to conscience, or stands in the way of the fulfilment of her behests, is assuredly false; and it is impossible for me to arrive at a conviction of its truth, even if I should be unable to discover the fallacies by which it is produced.
So has it been with all men who have ever seen the light of this world. Without being conscious of it. they apprehend all the reality which has an existence for them, through faith alone; and this faith forces it self on them simultaneously with their existence; — it is born with them. How could it be otherwise? If in mere knowledge, in mere perception and reflection, there is no ground for regarding our mental presenta tions as more than mere pictures which necessarily pass before our view, why do we yet regard all of them as more than this, and assume, as their foundation, T t 2 T t 2 something which exists independently of all presenta tion? If we all possess the capacity and the instinct to proceed beyond our first natural view of things, why do so few actually go beyond it, and why do we even defend ourselves, with a sort of bitterness, from every motive by which others try to persuade us to this course? What is it which holds us confined within this first natural belief? Not inferences of reason, for there are none such; it is the interest we have in a reality which we desire to produce;• — the good, absolutely for its own sake, — the common and sensuous, for the sake of the enjoyment they afford. No one who lives can divest himself of this interest, and just as little can he cast off the faith which this interest brings with it. We are all born in faith; — he who is blind, follows blindly the secret and irresistible impulse; he who sees, follows by sight, and believes because he resolves to believe.
What unity and completeness does this view pre sent! — what dignity does it confer on human nature! Our thought is not founded on itself alone, indepen dently of our impulses and affections; — man does not consist of two independent and separate elements; he is absolutely one. All our thought is founded on our impulses; — as a man's affections are, so is his know ledge. These impulses compel us to a certain mode of thought only so long as we do not perceive the con straint; the constraint vanishes the moment it is per ceived; and it is then no longer the impulse by itself, but we ourselves, according to our impulse, who form our own system of thought.
But I shall open my eyes; shall learn thoroughly to know myself; shall discover that constraint; — this is my vocation. I shall thus, and under that supposition I shall necessarily, form my own mode of thought. Then shall I stand absolutely independent, thoroughly equipt and perfected through my own act and deed. The primitive source of all my other thought and of my life itself, that from which everything proceeds which can have an existence in me, for me, or through me, the innermost spirit of my spirit, — is no longer a foreign power, but it is, in the strictest possible sense, the product of my own will. I am wholly my own creation. I might have followed blindly the leading of my spiritual nature. But I would not be a work of Mature but of myself, and I have become so even by means of this resolution. By endless subtilties I might have made the natural conviction of my own mind dark and doubtful. But I have accepted it with freedom, simply because I resolved to accept it. I have chosen the system which I have now adopted with settled purpose and deliberation from among other possible modes of thought, because I have recognised in it the only one consistent with my dignity and my vocation. With freedom and consciousness I have returned to the point at which JVaturc had left me. I accept that which she announces; — but I do not accept it because I must; I believe it 'because I will.
The exalted vocation of my understanding fills me with reverence. It is no longer the deceptive mirror which reflects a series of empty pictures, proceeding from nothing and tending to nothing; it is bestowed upon me for a great purpose. Its cultivation for this purpose is entrusted to me; it is placed in my hands, and at my hands it will be required. — It is placed in my hands. I know immediately, — and here my faith accepts the testimony of my consciousness without farther criticism, — I know that I am not placed under the necessity of allowing my thoughts to float about without direction or purpose, but that I can voluntarily arouse and direct my attention to one object, turn it away again towards another; — know that it is neither a blind necessity which compels me to a certain mode of thought, nor an empty chance which runs riot with my thoughts; but that it is I who think, and that I can think of that whereof I determine to think. Thus by reflection I have discovered something more; I have discovered that I myself, by my own act alone, produce my whole system of thought, and the particular view which I take of truth in general; since it remains with me either to deprive myself of all sense of truth by means of over-refinement, or to yield myself to this view with faithful obedience. My whole mode of thought, and the cultivation which my understanding receives, as well as the objects to which I direct it, depend entirely on myself. True insight is merit; — the perversion of my capacity for knowledge, thought lessness, obscurity, error, and unbelief, are guilt.
There is but one point towards which I have un ceasingly to direct all my attention, — namely, what I ought to do, and how I may most suitably fulfil the obligation which binds me to do it. All my thoughts must have a bearing on my actions, and must be cap able of being considered as means, however remote, to this end; otherwise they are an idle and aimless show, a mere waste of time and strength, and the perversion of a noble power, which is entrusted to me for a very different end.
I dare hope, I dare surely promise myself, to follow out this undertaking with good results. The Nature on which I have to act is not a foreign element, called into existence without reference to me, into which I cannot penetrate. It is moulded by my own laws of thought, and must be in harmony with them; it must be thoroughly transparent, knowable and penetrable to me, even to its inmost recesses. In all its pheno mena it expresses nothing but the connexions and relations of my own being to myself, and as surely as I may hope to know myself, so surely may I expect to comprehend it. Let me seek only that which I ought to seek, and I shall find; let me ask only that which I ought to ask, and I shall receive an answer.
I.
I.
That voice within my soul in which I believe, and on account of which I believe in every other thing to which I attach credence, does not merely command me to act in general. This is impossible; all these general principles are formed only through my own voluntary observation and reflection, applied to many individual facts; but never in themselves express any fact what ever. This voice of my conscience announces to me precisely what I ought to do, and what leave undone, in every particular situation of life; it accompanies me, if I will but listen to it with attention, through all the events of my life, and never refuses me my reward where I am called upon to act. It carries with it immediate conviction, and irresistibly compels my assent to its behests: — it is impossible for me to contend against it.
To listen to it, to obey it honestly and unreservedly, without fear or equivocation, — this is my true vocation, the whole end and purpose of my existence. My life ceases to be an empty play without truth or signifi cance. There is something that must absolutely be done for its own sake alone; — that which conscience demands of me in this particular situation of life it is mine to do, for this only am I here; — to know it, I have understanding; to perform it, I have power. Through this edict of conscience alone, truth and reality are in troduced into my conceptions. I cannot refuse them my attention and my obedience without thereby sur rendering the very purpose of my own existence.
Hence I cannot withhold my belief from the reality which they announce, without at the same time re nouncing my vocation. It is absolutely true, without farther proof or confirmation, — nay, it is the first truth, and the foundation of all other truth and certainty, that this voice must be obeyed; and therefore every thing becomes to me true and certain, the truth and certainty of which is assumed in the possibility of such an obedience.
There appear before me in space, certain pheno mena, to which I transfer the idea of myself; — I con ceive of them as beings like myself. Speculation, when carried out to its last results, has indeed taught me, or would teach me, that these supposed rational beings out of myself are but the products of my own presentative power; that, according to certain laws of my thought, I am compelled to represent out of myself my conception of myself; and that, according to the same laws, I can only transfer this conception to certain definite intuitions. But the voice of my conscience thus speaks: — " Whatever these beings may be in and for themselves, thou shall act towards them as self-existent, free, substantive beings, wholly independent of thee.
Assume it as already known, that they can give a pur pose to their own being wholly by themselves, and quite independently of thee; never interrupt the accomplish ment of this purpose, but rather further it to the utmost of thy power. Honour their freedom, lovingly take up their purposes as if they were thine own." Thus ought I to act: — by this course of action ought all my thought to be guided, — nay, it shall and must neces sarily be so, if I have resolved to obey the voice of my conscience. I shall therefore always regard these beings as in possession of an existence for themselves wholly independent of mine, as capable of forming and carrying out their own purposes; — from this point of view, I shall never be able to regard them otherwise, and my previous speculations shall vanish from before me like an empty dream. — I think of them as beings like myself, I have said; but strictly speaking, it is not mere thought by which they are first presented to me as such. It is by the voice of my conscience, — the command: — " Here set a limit to thy freedom; here recognise and reverence purposes which are not thine own." This it is which is first translated into the thought, " Here, certainly and truly, are beings like myself, free and independent." To view them other wise, I must in action renounce, and in speculation disregard, the voice of my conscience.
Other phenomena present themselves before me which I I do not regard as beings like myself, but as things irrational. Speculation finds no difficulty in showing how the conception of such things is developed solely from my own presentative faculty, and its necessary modes of activity. But I apprehend these things, also, through want, desire, and enjoyment. Not by the mental conception, but by hunger, thirst, and their satisfaction, does anything become for me food and drink. I am necessitated to believe in the reality of that which threatens my sensuous existence, or in that which alone is able to maintain it. Conscience enters the field in order that it may at once sanctify and re strain this natural impulse. " Thou shalt maintain, ex ercise, and strengthen thyself and thy physical powers, for they have been counted upon in the plans of reason.
But thou canst only maintain them by using them in a legitimate manner, comformable to the inward nature of such things. There are also, besides thee, many other beings like thyself, whose powers have been counted upon like thine own, and can only be maintained in the same way as thine own. Concede to them the same privilege that has been allowed to thee. Respect what belongs to them, as their possession; — use what belongs to thee, legitimately as thine own." Thus ought I to act, — according to this course of action must I think. I am compelled to regard these things as standing under their own natural laws, independent of, though perceivable by, me; and therefore to ascribe to them an independent existence. I am compelled to believe in such laws; the task of investigating them is set before me, and that empty speculation vanishes like a mist when the genial sun appears.
In short, there is for me absolutely no such thing as an existence which has no relation to myself, and which I contemplate merely for the sake of contem plating it; — whatever has an existence for me, has it only through its relation to myself. But there is, in the highest sense, only one relation to me possible, all others are but subordinate forms of this: — my vocation to moral activity. My world is the object and sphere of my duties, and absolutely nothing more; there is no other world for me, and no other qualities of my world than what are implied in this; — my whole united capa city, all finite capacity, is insufficient to comprehend any other. Whatever possesses an existence for me, can bring its existence and reality into contact with me only through this relation, and only through this relation do I comprehend it: — for any other existence than this I have no organ whatever.
To the question, whether, in deed and in fact, such a world exists as that which I represent to myself, I can give no answer more fundamental, more raised above all doubt, than this: — I have, most certainly and truly, these determinate duties, which announce themselves to me as duties towards certain objects, to be fulfilled by means of certain materials; — duties which I cannot otherwise conceive of, and cannot otherwise fulfil, than within such a world as I represent to my self. Even to one who had never meditated on his own moral vocation, if there could be such a one, or who, if he had given it some general consideration, had, at least, never entertained the slightest purpose of fulfil ling it at any time within an indefinite futurity, — even for him, his sensuous world, and his belief in its reality, arises in no other manner than from his ideas of a mo ral world. If he do not apprehend it by the thought u u 486 THE VOCATION OF MAX.