Chapter I (1)

The object of this series is to furnish, in as popular a form as possible, a course of discipline for those who are beginning the study of philosophy. Strictly _popular_, in the sense the word is used—i. e. signifying that which holds fast to the ordinary consciousness of men, and does not take flights beyond—I am well aware, no philosophy can be. The nearest approach to it that can be made, consists in starting from the common external views, and drawing them into the speculative, step by step. For this purpose the method of definitions and axioms, with deductions therefrom, as employed by Spinoza, is more appropriate at first, and afterwards a gradual approach to the _Dialectic_, or true philosophic method. In the mathematical method (that of Spinoza just alluded to) the content may be speculative, but its form, never. Hence the student of philosophy needs only to turn his attention to the content at first; when that becomes in a measure familiar, he can then the more readily pass over to the true form of the speculative content, and thus achieve complete insight. A course of discipline in the speculative content, though under an inadequate form, would make a grand preparation for the study of Hegel or Plato; while a study of these, or, in short, of any writers who employ speculative _methods_ in treating speculative _content_—a study of these without previous acquaintance with the content is well nigh fruitless. One needs only to read the comments of translators of Plato upon his speculative passages, or the prevailing verdicts upon Hegel, to be satisfied on this point.

The course that I shall here present will embody my own experience, to a great extent, in the chronological order of its development. Each lesson will endeavor to present an _aperçu_ derived from some great philosopher. Those coming later will presuppose the earlier ones, and frequently throw new light upon them.

As one who undertakes the manufacture of an elegant piece of furniture needs carefully elaborated tools for that end, so must the thinker who wishes to comprehend the universe be equipped with the tools of thought, or else he will come off as poorly as he who should undertake to make a carved mahogany chair with no tools except his teeth and finger nails. What complicated machinery is required to transmute the rough ores into an American watch! And yet how common is the delusion that no elaboration of tools of thought is required to enable the commonest mind to manipulate the highest subjects of investigation. The alchemy that turned base metal into gold is only a symbol of that cunning alchemy of thought that by means of the philosopher’s stone (scientific method) dissolves the base _facts_ of experience into universal truths.

The uninitiated regards the philosophic treatment of a theme as difficult solely by reason of its technical terms. “If I only understood your use of words, I think I should find no difficulty in your thought.” He supposes that under those bizarre terms there lurks only the meaning that he and others put into ordinary phrases. He does not seem to think that the concepts likewise are new. It is just as though an Indian were to say to the carpenter, “I could make as good work as you, if I only had the secret of using my finger-nails and teeth as you do the plane and saw.” Speculative philosophy—it cannot be too early inculcated—does _not_ “conceal under cumbrous terminology views which men ordinarily hold.” The ordinary reflection would say that Being is the ground of thought, while speculative philosophy would say that thought is the ground of Being; whether of other being, or of itself as being—for it is _causa sui_.

Let us now address ourselves to the task of elaborating our technique—the tools of thought—and see what new worlds become accessible through our mental telescopes and microscopes, our analytical scalpels and psychological plummets.

I.—A PRIORI AND A POSTERIORI.

_A priori_, as applied to knowledge, signifies that which belongs to the nature of the mind itself. Knowledge which is before experience, or not dependent on it, is _a priori_.

_A posteriori_ or _empirical_ knowledge is derived from experience.

A criterion to be applied in order to test the application of these categories to any knowledge in question, is to be found in _universality_ and _necessity_. If the truth expressed has universal and necessary validity it must be _a priori_, for it could not have been derived from experience. Of empirical knowledge we can only say: “It is true so far as experience has extended.” Of _a priori_ knowledge, on the contrary, we affirm: “It is universally and necessarily true and no experience of its opposite can possibly occur; from the very nature of things it must be so.”

II.—ANALYTICAL AND SYNTHETICAL.

A judgment which, in the predicate, adds nothing new to the subject, is said to be _analytical_, as e. g. “Horse is an animal;”—the concept “animal” is already contained in that of “horse.”

_Synthetical_ judgments, on the contrary, add in the predicate something new to the conception of the subject, as e. g. “This rose is red,” or “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line;”—in the first judgment we have “red” added to the general concept “rose;” while in the second example we have _straightness_, which is quality, added to _shortest_, which is quantity.

III.—APODEICTICAL.

Omitting the consideration of _a posteriori_ knowledge for the present, let us investigate the _a priori_ in order to learn something of the constitution of the intelligence which knows—always a proper subject for philosophy. Since, moreover, the _a priori analytical_ (“A horse is an animal”) adds nothing to our knowledge, we may confine ourselves, as Kant does, to _a priori synthetical_ knowledge. The axioms of mathematics are of this character. They are universal and necessary in their application, and we know this without making a single practical experiment. “Only one straight line can be drawn between two points,” or the proposition: “The sum of the three angles of a triangle is equal to two right angles,”—these are true in all possible experiences, and hence transcend any actual experience. Take any _a posteriori_ judgment, e. g. “All bodies are heavy,” and we see at once that it implies the restriction, “So far as we have experienced,” or else is a mere analytical judgment. The _universal and necessary_ is sometimes called the _apodeictical_. The conception of the _apodeictical_ lies at the basis of all true philosophical thinking. He who does not distinguish between _apodeictic_ and _contingent_ judgments must pause here until he can do so.

IV. SPACE AND TIME.

In order to give a more exhaustive application to our technique, let us seek the universal conditions of experience. The mathematical truths that we quoted relate to Space, and similar ones relate to Time. No experience would be possible without presupposing Time and Space as its logical condition. Indeed, we should never conceive our sensations to have an origin outside of ourselves and in distinct objects, unless we had the conception of Space _a priori_ by which to render it possible. Instead, therefore, of our being able to generalize particular experiences, and collect therefrom the idea of Space and Time in general, we must have added the idea of Space and Time to our sensation before it could possibly become an experience at all. This becomes more clear when we recur to the _apodeictic_ nature of Space and Time. Time and Space are thought as _infinites_, i. e. they can only be limited by themselves, and hence are universally continuous. But no such conception as _infinite_ can be derived analytically from an object of experience, for it does not contain it. All objects of experience must be _within_ Time and Space, and not _vice versa_. All that is limited in extent and duration presupposes Time and Space as its logical condition, and this we know, not from the senses but from the constitution of Reason itself. “The third side of a triangle is less than the sum of the two other sides.” This we never measured, and yet we are certain that we cannot be mistaken about it. It is so in all triangles, present, past, future, actual, or possible. If this was an inference _a posteriori_, we could only say: “It has been found to be so in all cases that have been measured and reported to us.”

V. MIND.

Mind has a certain _a priori_ constitution; this is our inference. It must be so, or else we could never have any experience whatever. It is the only way in which the possibility of _apodeictic_ knowledge can be accounted for. What I do not get from without I must get from within, if I have it at all. Mind, it would seem from this, cannot be, according to its nature, a finite affair—a thing with properties. Were it limited in Time or Space, it could never (without transcending itself) conceive Time and Space as universally continuous or infinite. Mind is not within Time and Space, it is as universal and necessary as the _apodeictic_ judgments it forms, and hence it is the substantial essence of all that exists. Time and Space are the logical conditions of finite existences, and Mind is the logical condition of Time and Space. Hence it is ridiculous to speak of _my_ mind and _your_ mind, for mind is rather the universal substrate of all individuality than owned by any particular individual.

These results are so startling to the one who first begins to think, that he is tempted to reject the whole. If he does not do this, but scrutinizes the whole fabric keenly, he will discover what he supposes to be fallacies. We cannot anticipate the answer to his objections here, for his objections arise from his inability to distinguish between his imagination and his thinking and this must be treated of in the next chapter. Here, we can only interpose an earnest request to the reader to persevere and thoroughly refute the whole argument before he leaves it. But this is only one and the most elementary position from which the philosophic traveller sees the Eternal Verities. Every perfect analysis—no matter what the subject be—will bring us to the same result, though the degrees of concreteness will vary,—some leaving the solution in an abstract and vague form,—others again arriving at a complete and satisfactory view of the matter in detail.

SEED LIFE.
BY E. V.

Ah! woe for the endless stirring,
The hunger for air and light,
The fire of the blazing noonday
Wrapped round in a chilling night!

The muffled throb of an instinct
That is kin to the mystic To Be;
Strong muscles, cut with their fetters,
As they writhe with claim to be free.

A voice that cries out in the silence,
And is choked in a stifling air;
Arms full of an endless reaching,
While the “Nay” stands everywhere.

The burning of conscious selfhood,
That fights with pitiless fate!
God grant that deliverance stay not,
Till it come at last too late;

Till the crushed out instinct waver,
And fainter and fainter grow,
And by suicide, through unusing,
Seek freedom from its woe.

Oh! despair of constant losing
The life that is clutched in vain!
Is it death or a joyous growing
That shall put an end to pain?

A DIALOGUE ON IMMORTALITY.
BY ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER.
(Translated from the German, by Chas. L. Bernays.)

_Philalethes._—I could tell you that, after your death, you will be what you were previous to your birth; I could tell you that we are never born, and that we only seem to die—that we have always been precisely the same that we are now, and that we shall always remain the same—that _Time_ is the apparatus which prevents us from being aware of all this; I could tell you that our consciousness stands always in the centre of _Time_—never on one of its termini; and that any one among us, therefore, has the immovable centre of the whole infinite _Time_ in himself. I then could tell you that those who, by that knowledge, are assured that the present time always originates in ourselves, can never doubt the indestructibility of their own essence.

_Thrasymachus._—All of that is too long and too ambiguous for me. Tell me, briefly, what I shall be after death.

_Phil._—All and nothing.

_Thras._—There we are! Instead of a solution to the problem you give me a contradiction; that is an old trick.

_Phil._—To answer transcendental questions in language that is only made for immanent perceptions, may in fact lead us into contradictions.

_Thras._—What do you mean by “transcendental” and “immanent” perceptions?

_Phil._—Well! _Transcendental_ perception is rather the knowledge, which, by exceeding any possibility of experience, tends to discover the essence of things as they are by themselves; _immanent_ perception it is, if it keeps inside of the limits of experience. In this case, it can only speak of appearances. You, as an individual, end with your death. Yet individuality is not your true and final essence, but only a mere appearance of it. It is not the _thing in itself_, but only its appearance, established in the form of time, thereby having a beginning and an end. That which is essential in you, knows neither of beginning nor ending, nor of Time itself; it knows no limits such as belong to a given individuality, but exists in all and in each. In the first sense, therefore, you will become nothing after your death; in the second sense, you are and remain all. For that reason I said you would be all and nothing. You desired a short answer, and I believe that hardly a more correct answer could be given _briefly_. No wonder, too, that it contains a contradiction; for your life is in Time, while your immortality is in Eternity.

_Thras._—Without the continuation of my individuality, I would not give a farthing for all your “immortality.”

_Phil._—Perhaps you could have it even cheaper. Suppose that I warrant to you the continuation of your individuality, but under the condition that a perfectly unconscious slumber of death for three months should precede its resuscitation.

_Thras._—Well, I accept the condition.

_Phil._—Now, in an absolutely unconscious condition, we have no measure of time; hence it is perfectly indifferent whether, whilst we lie asleep in death in the unconscious world, three months or ten thousand years are passing away. We do not know either of the one or of the other, and have to accept some one’s word with regard to the duration of our sleep, when we awake. Hence it is indifferent to you whether your individuality is given back to you after three months or after ten thousand years.

_Thras._—That I cannot deny.

_Phil._—Now, suppose that after ten thousand years, one had forgotten to awake you at all, then I believe that the long, long state of non-being would become so habitual to you that your misfortune could hardly be very great. Certain it is, any way, that you would know nothing of it; nay, you would even console yourself very easily, if you were aware that the secret mechanism which now keeps your actual appearance in motion, had not ceased during all the ten thousand years for a single moment to establish and to move other beings of the same kind.

_Thras._—In that manner you mean to cheat me out of my individuality, do you? I will not be fooled in that way. I have bargained for the continuation of my individuality, and none of your motives can console me for the loss of that; I have it at heart, and I never will abandon it.

_Phil._—It seems that you hold individuality to be so noble, so perfect, so incomparable, that there can be nothing superior to it; you therefore would not like to exchange it for another one, though in that, you could live with greater ease and perfection.

_Thras._—Let my individuality be as it may, it is always myself. It is I—I myself—who want to be. That is the individuality which I insist upon, and not such a one as needs argument to convince me that it may be my own or a better one.

_Phil._—Only look about you! That which cries out—“I, I myself, wish to exist”—that is not yourself alone, but all that has the least vestige of consciousness. Hence this desire of yours, is just that which is not individual, but common rather to all without exception; it does not originate in individuality, but in the very nature of existence itself; it is essential to anybody who lives, nay, it is that through which it is at all; it seems to belong only to the individual because it can become conscious only in the individual. What cries in us so loud for existence, does so only through the mediation of the individual; immediately and essentially it is the _will_ to exist or to live, and this _will_ is one and the same in all of us. Our existence being only the free work of the will, existence can never fail to belong to it, as far, at least, as that eternally dissatisfied will, _can_ be satisfied. The individualities are indifferent to the will; it never speaks of them; though it seems to the individual, who, in himself is the immediate percipient of it, as if it spoke only of his own individuality. The consequence is, that the individual cares for his own existence with so great anxiety, and that he thereby secures the preservation of his kind. Hence it follows that individuality is no perfection, but rather a restriction or imperfection; to get rid of it is not a loss but a gain. Hence, if you would not appear at once childish and ridiculous, you should abandon that care for mere individuality; for childish and ridiculous it will appear when you perceive your own essence to be the universal will to live.

_Thras._—You yourself and all philosophers are childish and ridiculous, and in fact it is only for a momentary diversion that a man of good common sense ever consents to squander away an idle hour with the like of you. I leave your talk for weightier matters.

[The reader will perceive by the positions here assumed that Schopenhauer has a truly speculative stand-point; that he holds self-determination to be the only substantial (or abiding) reality. But while Aristotle and those like him have seized this more definitely as the self-conscious thinking, it is evident that Schopenhauer seizes it only from its immediate side, i. e. as the _will_. On this account he meets with some difficulty in solving the problem of immortality, and leaves the question of conscious identity hereafter, not a little obscure. Hegel, on the contrary, for whom Schopenhauer everywhere evinces a hearty contempt, does not leave the individual in any doubt as to his destiny, but shows how individuality and universality coincide in self-consciousness, so that the desire for eternal existence is fully satisfied. This is the legitimate result that _Philalethes_ arrives at in his last speech, when he makes the individuality a product of the will; for if the will is the essential that he holds it to be, and the product of its activity is individuality, of course individuality belongs eternally to it. At the close of his _Philosophy of Nature_, (Encyclopædia, vol. II.,) Hegel shows how death which follows life in the mere animal—and in man as mere animal—enters consciousness as one of its necessary elements, and hence does not stand opposed to it as it does to animal life. Conscious being (_Spirit_ or _Mind_ as it may be called,) is therefore immortal because it contains already, within itself, its limits or determinations, and thus cannot, like finite things, encounter dissolution through external ones.—ED.]

GOETHE’S THEORY OF COLORS.
From an exposition given before the St. Louis Philosophical Society,
Nov. 2nd, 1866.

I.—Color arises through the reciprocal action of light and darkness.

(_a._) When a light object is seen through a medium that dims it, it appears of different degrees of yellow; if the medium is dark or dense, the color is orange, or approaches red. Examples: the sun seen in the morning through a slightly hazy atmosphere appears yellow, but if the air is thick with mist or smoke the sun looks red.

(_b._) On the other hand a dark object, seen through a medium slightly illuminated, looks blue. If the medium is very strongly illuminated, the blue approaches a light blue; if less so, then indigo; if still less, the deep violet appears. Examples: a mountain situated at a great distance, from which very few rays of light come, looks blue, because we see it through a light medium, the air illuminated by the sun. The sky at high altitudes appears of a deep violet; at still higher ones, almost perfectly black; at lower ones, of a faint blue. Smoke—an illuminated medium—appears blue against a dark ground, but yellow or fiery against a light ground.

(_c._) The process of bluing steel is a fine illustration of Goethe’s theory. The steel is polished so that it reflects light like a mirror. On placing it in the charcoal furnace a film of oxydization begins to form so that the light is reflected through this dimming medium; this gives a straw color. Then, as the film thickens, the color deepens, passing through red to blue and indigo.

(_d._) The prism is the grand instrument in the experimental field of research into light. The current theory that light, when pure, is composed of seven colors, is derived from supposed actual verifications with this instrument. The Goethean explanation is by far the simplest, and, in the end, it propounds a question which the Newtonian theory cannot answer without admitting the truth of Goethe’s theory.

II.—The phenomenon of refraction is produced by interposing different transparent media between the luminous object and the illuminated one, in such a manner that there arises an apparent displacement of one of the objects as viewed from the other. By means of a prism the displacement is caused to lack uniformity; one part of the light image is displaced more than another part; several images, as it were, being formed with different degrees of displacement, so that they together make an image whose edges are blurred in the line of displacement. If the displacement were perfectly uniform, no color would arise, as is demonstrated by the achromatic prism or lens. The difference of degrees of refraction causes the elongation of the image into a spectrum, and hence a mingling of the edges of the image with the outlying dark surface of the wall, (which dark surface is essential to the production of the ordinary spectrum). Its _rationale_ is the following:

(_a_) The light image refracted by the prism is extended over the dark on one side, while the dark on the other side is extended over it.

(_b_) The bright over the dark produces the blue in different degrees. The side nearest the dark being the deepest or violet, and the side nearest the light image being the lightest blue.

(_c_) On the other side, the dark over light produces yellow in different degrees; nearest the dark we have the deepest color, (orange approaching to red) and on the side nearest the light, the light yellow or saffron tint.

(_d_) If the image is large and but little refracted (as with a water prism) there will appear between the two opposite colored edges a colorless image, proving that the colors arise from the mingling of the light and dark edges, and not from any peculiar property of the prism which should “decompose the ray of light,” as the current theory expresses it. If the latter theory were correct the decomposition would be throughout, and the whole image be colored.

(_e_) If the image is a small one, or it is very strongly refracted, the colored edges come together in the middle, and the mingling of the light yellow with the light blue produces _green_—a new color which did not appear so long as the light ground appeared in the middle.

(_f_) If the refraction is still stronger, the edges of the opposite colors lap still more, and the green vanishes. The Newtonian theory cannot explain this, but it is to be expected according to Goethe’s theory.

(_g_) According to Goethe’s theory, if the object were a dark one instead of a light one, and were refracted on a light surface, the order of colors would be reversed on each edge of the image. This is the same experiment as one makes by looking through a prism at the bar of a window appearing against the sky. Where in the light image we had the yellow colors we should now expect the blue, for now it is dark over light where before it was light over dark. So, also, where we had blue we should now have yellow. This experiment may be so conducted that the current doctrine that violet is refracted the most, and red the least, shall be refuted.

(_h_) This constitutes the _experimentum crucis_. If the prism be a large water prism, and a black strip be pasted across the middle of it, parallel with its axis, so that in the midst of the image a dark shadow intervenes, the spectrum appears inverted in the middle, so that the red is seen where the green would otherwise appear, and those rays supposed to be the least refrangible are found refracted the most.

(_i_) When the two colored edges do not meet in this latter experiment, we have blue, indigo, violet, as the order on one side; and on the other, orange, yellow, saffron; the deeper colors being next to the dark image. If the two colored edges come together the union of the orange with the violet produces the perfect red (called by Goethe “_purpur_”).

(_j_) The best method of making experiments is not the one that Newton employed—that of a dark room and a pencil of light—but it is better to look at dark and bright stripes on grounds of the opposite hue, or at the bars of a window, the prism being held in the hand of the investigator. In the Newtonian form of the experiment one is apt to forget the importance of the dark edge where it meets the light.

[For further information on this interesting subject the English reader is referred to Eastlake’s translation of Goethe’s Philosophy of Colors, published in London.]

THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.
Vol. I. 1867. No. 2.

SECOND PART OF GOETHE’S FAUST.
[Translated from Rosenkrantz’s “Deutsche Literatur,” by D. J. Snider.]

Goethe began nothing if the whole of the work did not hover before his mind. By this determinateness of plan he preserved a most persevering attachment to the materials of which he had once laid hold; they were elements of his existence, which for him were immortal, because they constituted his inmost being. He could put off their execution for years, and still be certain that his love for them would return, that his interest in them would animate him anew. Through this depth of conception he preserved fresh to the end his original purpose; he needed not to fear that the fire of the first enthusiasm would go out; at the most different times he could take up his work again with youthful zeal and strength. Thus in the circle of his poetical labors, two conceptions that are in internal opposition to one another, accompanied him through his whole life. The one portrays a talented but fickle man, who, in want of culture, attaches himself to this person, then to that one, in order to become spiritually independent. This struggle carries him into the breadth of life, into manifold relations whose spirit he longs to seize and appropriate; such is Wilhelm Meister. The other is the picture of an absolutely independent personality that has cultivated its lordly power in solitary loftiness, and aspires boldly to subject the world to itself; such is Faust. In the development of both subjects there is a decisive turning-point which is marked in the first by the “Travels;” in the second, by the Second Part of the Tragedy. Up to this point, both in Wilhelm Meister and in Faust, subjective conditions prevail, which gradually purify themselves to higher views and aims. For the one, the betrothal with Natalia closes the world of wild, youthful desire; for the other, the death of Margaret has the same effect. The one steps into civil society and its manifold activity, with the earnest endeavor to comprehend all its elements, to acquire, preserve, and beautify property, and to assist in illuminating and ennobling social relations; the other takes likewise a practical turn, but from the summit of Society, from the stand-point of the State itself. If, therefore, in the apprenticeship and First Part of the Tragedy, on account of the excess of subjective conditions, a closer connection of the character and a passionate pathos are necessary, there appears, on the contrary, in the Travels and Second part of the Tragedy a thoughtfulness which moderates everything—a cool designingness; the particular elements are sharply characterized, but the personages seem rather as supporters of universal aims, in the accomplishment of which their own personality is submerged; the Universal and its language is their pathos, and the interest in their history, that before was so remarkably fascinating, is blunted of its keenness.

We have seen Faust grow, fragment by fragment, before our eyes. So long as there existed only a First Part, two views arose. The one maintained that it was in this incompleteness what it should be, a wonderful Torso; that this magnificent poem only as a fragment could reflect the World in order to indicate that Man is able to grasp the Universe in a one-sided, incomplete manner only; that as the poet touched the mysteries of the World, but did not give a complete solution, so the Enigmatical, the Prophetic, is that which is truly poetic, infinitely charming, really mystic. This view was considered as genial, particularly because it left to every one free play—in fact, invited every one in his imagination to fill up the outlines; for it could not be defended from a philosophic nor from an artistic standpoint. Knowing seeks not half knowledge, Art aims not at halfness of execution. If Dante in his Divine Comedy had neglected any element of nature or of history, if he had not wrought out all with equal perseverance in corresponding proportion, could it be said that his poem would stand higher without this completion? Or conversely, shall we praise it as a merit that Novalis’ Ofterdingen has remained mere fragments and sketches? This would be the same as if we should admire the Cologne Cathedral less than we now do were it complete. Another view supposed that a Second Part was indeed possible, and the question arose, in what manner shall this possibility be thought? Here again two opposite opinions showed themselves. According to the one, Faust must perish; reconciliation with God would be unbecoming to the northern nature of this Titanic character; the teeth-gnashing defiance, the insatiate restlessness, the crushing doubt, the heaven-deriding fierceness, must send him to hell. In this the spirit of the old legend was expressed as it was at the time of the Reformation—for in the middle ages the redemption of the sinner through the intercession of the Virgin Mary first appeared—as the _Volksbuch_ simply but strikingly narrates it, as the Englishman, Marlowe, has dramatized it so excellently in his Doctor Faustus. But all this was not applicable to the Faust of Goethe, for the poet had in his mind an alteration of the old legend, and so another party maintained that Faust must be saved. This party also asserted that the indication of the poet in the Prologue led to the same conclusion; that God could not lose his bet against the Devil; that the destruction of Faust would be blasphemous irony on Divine Providence. This assertion of the necessity of Faust’s reconciliation found much favor in a time, like ours, which has renounced not indeed the consciousness and recognition of Evil, but the belief in a separate extra-human Devil; which purposes not merely the punishment but also the improvement of the criminal; which seeks even to annul the death penalty, and transfer the atonement for murder to the inner conscience and to the effacing power of the Mind. But how was Poetry to exhibit such a transition from internal strife to celestial peace? Some supposed, as Hinrichs, that since Faust’s despair resulted originally from science, which did not furnish to him that which it had at first promised, and since his childish faith had been destroyed by scepticism, he must be saved through the scientific comprehension of Truth, of the Christian Religion; that speculative Philosophy must again reconcile him with God, with the World, and with himself. They confessed indeed that this process—study and speculation—cannot be represented in poetry, and therefore a Second Part of Faust was not to be expected. Others, especially poets, took Faust in a more general sense; he was to penetrate not only Science but Life in its entirety; the most manifold action was to move him, and the sweat of labor was to be the penance which should bring him peace and furnish the clearness promised by the Lord. Several sought to complete the work—all with indifferent success.

In what manner the poet himself would add a Second Part to the First, what standpoint he himself would take, remained a secret. Now it is unsealed; the poem is unrolled before us complete; with wondering look we stand before it, with a beating heart we read it, and with modest anxiety, excited by a thousand feelings and misgivings, we venture cursorily to indicate the design of the great Master; for years shall pass away before the meaning of the all-comprehensive poem shall be unveiled completely in its details. Still this explanation of particulars in poetry is a subordinate matter. The main tendency of a poem must be seen upon its face, and it would be a sorry work if it did not excite a living interest the first time that it was offered to the enjoyment of a people—if this interest should result from microscopic explanations and fine unravelling of concealed allusions—if enthusiasm should not arise from the poetry as well as from the learning and acuteness of the poet. Such particulars, which are hard to understand, almost every great poem will furnish; latterly, the explanatory observations on epic poems have become even stereotyped; it must be possible to disregard them; through ignorance of them nothing essential must be lost.

The First Part had shown us Faust in his still cell, engaged in the study of all sciences. The results of his investigation did not satisfy the boundless seeker, and as an experiment he bound himself to the Devil to see if the latter could not slake his burning thirst.

Thus he rushed into Life. Earthly enjoyment surrounded him, Love enchained him, Desire drove him to sudden, to bad deeds; in the mad _Walpurgisnach_ he reached the summit of waste worldliness. But deeper than the Devil supposed, Faust felt for his Margaret; he desired to save the unfortunate girl, but he was obliged to learn that this was impossible, but that only endurance of the punishment of crime could restore the harassed mind to peace. The simple story of love held everything together here in a dramatic form. The Prologue in Heaven, the Witch-kitchen, the _Walpurgisnacht_, and several contemplative scenes, could be left out, and there still would remain a theatrical Whole of remarkable effect.

The relation to Margaret—her death—had elevated Faust above everything subjective. In the continuation of his life, objective relations alone could constitute the motive of action. The living fresh breath of the First Part resulted just from this fact, that everything objective, universal, was seized from the point of subjective interest; in the Second Part the Universal, the Objective, stands out prominently; subjective interests appear only under the presupposition of the Objective; the form becomes allegorical.

A story, an action which rounds itself off to completion, is wanting, and therefore the dramatic warmth which pulsates through every scene of the First Part is no longer felt. The unity which is traced through the web of the manifold situations, is the universal tendency of Faust _to create a satisfaction for himself through work_. Mephistopheles has no longer the position of a being superior by his great understanding and immovable coldness, who bitterly mocks Faust’s striving, but he appears rather as a powerful companion who skillfully procures the material means for the aims of Faust, and, in all his activity, only awaits the moment when Faust shall finally acknowledge himself to be satisfied. But the striving of Faust is infinite; each goal, when once reached, is again passed by; nowhere does he rest, not in Society, not in Nature, not in Art, not in War, not in Industry; only the thought of Freedom itself, the presentiment of the happiness of standing with a free people upon a free soil wrung from the sea, thrills the old man with a momentary satisfaction—and he dies. Upon pictures and woodcuts of the middle ages representations of dying persons are found, in which the Devil on one side of the death-bed and angels on the other await eagerly the departing soul to pull it to themselves. Goethe has revived this old idea of a jealousy and strife between the angels and the Devil for Man. Mephistopheles, with his horde of devils, struggles to carry away the soul of Faust to hell, but he forgets himself in unnatural lust, and the angels bear the immortal part of Faust to that height where rest and illumination of the dying begin.

Such an allegorical foundation could not be developed otherwise than in huge masses; the division of each mass in itself, so that all the elements of the thought lying at the bottom should appear, was the proper object of the composition. The First Part could also be called allegorical, in so far as it reflected the universal Essence of Spirit in the Individual; but it could not be said of it in any other sense than of every poem; Allegory in its stricter sense was not to be found; the shapes had all flesh and blood, and no design was felt. In the Second Part everything passes over into the really Allegorical, to which Goethe, the older he grew, seems to have had the greater inclination; the _Xenien_, the _Trilogie der Leidenschaft_, the _Lieder zur Loge_, the _Maskenzüge_, _Epimenides Erwachen_, the cultivation of the Eastern manners, all proceeded from a didactic turn which delighted in expressing itself in gnomes, pictures, and symbolical forms. With wonderful acuteness, Goethe has always been able to seize the characteristic determinations, and unfold them in neat, living language; however, it lies in the nature of such poems that they exercise the reflective faculty more than the heart, and it was easy to foresee that the Second Part of Faust would never acquire the popularity of the First Part; that it would not, as the latter, charm the nation, and educate the people to a consciousness of itself, but that it would always have a sort of esoteric existence. Many will be repelled by the mythological learning of the second and third acts; and the more so, as they do not see themselves recompensed by the dialectic of an action; however, we would unhesitatingly defend the poet against this reproach; a poem which has to compass the immeasurable material of the world, cannot be limited in this respect. What learning has not Dante supposed in his readers? Humbly have we sought it, in order to acquire an understanding of his poem, in the certainty of being richly rewarded; the censure which has been cast upon it for this reason has effected nothing. Indeed, such fault-finders would here forget what the first acknowledged Part of Faust has compelled them to learn. With this difference of plan, the style must also change. Instead of dramatic pathos, because action is wanting, description, explanation, indication, have become necessary; and instead of the lively exchange of dialogue, the lyrical portion has become more prominent, in order to embody with simplicity the elements of the powerful world-life. The descriptions of nature deserve to be mentioned in particular. The most wanton fancy, the deepest feeling, the most accurate knowledge, and the closest observation into the individual, prevail in all these pictures with an indescribable charm. We shall now give a short account of the contents of each act. In a more complete exposition we would point out the places in which the power of the particular developments centers; in these outlines it is our design to confine ourselves to tracing out the universal meaning. To exhibit by single verses and songs the wonderful beauty of the language, particularly in the lyrical portions, would seem to us as superfluous as the effort to prove the existence of a divine Providence by anecdotes of strange coincidences.

The first act brings us into social life; a multitude of shapes pass by us—the most different wishes, opinions and humors are heard; still, a secret unity, which we shall note even more closely, pervades the confused tumult. In a delightful spot, lying upon the flowery sward, we see Faust alone, tormented by deep pangs, seeking rest and slumber. Out of pure pity, indifferent whether the unfortunate man is holy or wicked, elves hover around him and fan him to sleep, in order that the past may be sunk into the Lethe of forgetfulness; otherwise, a continuance of life and endeavor is impossible. The mind has the power to free itself from the past, and throw it behind itself, and treat it as if it had never been. The secret of renewing ourselves perpetually consists in this, that we can destroy ourselves within ourselves, and, as a veritable Phœnix, be resurrected from the ashes of self-immolation. Still, this negative action suffices not for our freedom; the Positive must be united to us; there must arise, with “tremendous quaking,” the sun of new activity and fresh endeavor, whereby the stillness of nightly repose, the evanishment of all thoughts and feelings which had become stable, passes away in refreshing slumber. Faust awakened, feels every pulse of nature beating with fresh life. The glare of the pure sunlight dazzles him—the fall of waters through the chasms of the rock depicts to him his own unrest; but from the sunlight and silvery vapor of the whirlpool there is created the richly colored rainbow, which is always quietly glistening, but is forever shifting: it is Life. After this solitary encouragement to new venture and endeavor, the court of the Emperor receives us, where a merry masquerade is about to take place. But first, from all sides, the prosaic complaints of the Chancellor, the Steward, the Commander-in-Chief, the Treasurer, fall upon the ear of the Emperor; money, the cement of all relations, is wanting to the State; for commerce, for pleasure, for luxury, money is the indispensable basis. At this point, Mephistopheles presses forward to the place of the old court-fool, who has just disappeared, and excites the hope of bringing to light concealed treasure. To the Chancellor this way seems not exactly Christian, the multitude raises a murmur of suspicion, the Astrologer discusses the possibility—and the proposition is adopted. After this hopeful prospect, the masquerade can come off without any secret anxieties disturbing their merriment. The nature of the company is represented in a lively manner. No one _is_ what he _seems_ to be; each has thrown over himself a concealing garment; each knows of the other that he is not that which his appearance or his language indicates; this effort to hide his own being, to pretend and to dream himself into something different from himself—to make himself a riddle to others in all openness, is the deepest, most piquant charm of social interests.

The company will have enjoyment—it unites itself with devotion to the festive play, and banishes rough egotism, whose casual outbreaks the watchful herald sharply reproves; but still, in the heart of every one, there remains some intention, which is directed to the accomplishment of earthly aims. The young Florentine women want to please; the mother wishes her daughter to make the conquest of a husband; the fishermen and bird-catchers are trying their skill; the wood-chopper, buffoons, and parasites, are endeavoring, as well as they can, to make themselves valid; the drunkard forgets everything over his bottle; the poets, who could sing of any theme, drown each other’s voices in their zeal to be heard, and to the satirist there scarcely remains an opportunity for a dry sarcasm. The following allegorical figures represent to us the inner powers which determine social life. First, the Graces appear, for the first demand of society is to behave with decency; more earnest are the Parcæ, the continuous change of duration—still, they work only mechanically; but the Furies, although they come as beautiful maids, work dynamically through the excitement of the passions. Here the aim is to conquer. _Victoria_ is throned high upon a sure-footed elephant, which Wisdom guides with skilful wand, while Fear and Hope go along on each side; between these the Deed wavers until it has reached the proud repose of victory. But as soon as this happens, the quarrelsome, hateful Thersites breaks forth, to soil the glory with his biting sneer. But his derision effects nothing. The Herald, as the regulating Understanding, and as distributive Justice, can reconcile the differences and mistakes which have arisen, and he strikes the scoffer in such a manner that he bursts and turns into an adder and a bat. Gradually the company returns to its external foundation; the feeling of _Wealth_ must secure to it inexhaustible pleasure. But Wealth is two-fold: the earthly, money—the heavenly, poetry. Both must be united in society, if it would not feel weak and weary. The Boy Driver, that is, Poetry, which knows how to bring forth the Infinite in all the relations of life, and through the same to expand, elevate and pacify the heart, is acknowledged by Plutus, the God of common riches, as the one who can bestow that which he himself is too poor to give. In the proud fullness of youth, bounding lightly around with a whip in his hand, the lovely Genius who rules all hearts, drives with horses of winged speed through the crowd. The buffoon of Plutus, lean Avarice, is merrily ridiculed by the women; Poetry, warned by the fatherly love of Plutus, withdraws from the tumult which arises for the possession of the golden treasures. Gnomes, Giants, Satyrs, Nymphs, press on with bacchantic frenzy; earthly desire glows through the company, and it celebrates great Pan, Nature, as its God, as the Giver of powerful Wealth and fierce Lust. A whirling tumult threatens to seize hold of everybody—a huge tongue of flame darts over all; but the majesty of the Emperor, the self-conscious dignity of man, puts an end to the juggling game of the half-unchained Earth-spirit, and restores spiritual self-possession.