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 movement is the converse one, namely, that this necessary element has returned to the finite. In the first movement the finite forgets itself. The second is the relation of Substance to the finite. God being only determined here as the Substance of the finite and the power over it, He Himself is still undetermined. He is not yet known as determined within Himself for Himself. He is not yet known as Spirit.

This is the general foundation of several definite forms of religion, which are progressive efforts to grasp Substance as self-determining.

1. To begin with, in the religion of China, for example, Substance is known as the simple foundation, and is thus immediately present in the finite, the contingent.

What occasions the progressive movement of consciousness is that Spirit, even although Substance is not yet conceived of as Spirit, is nevertheless the Truth which potentially lies at the foundation of all the phenomena of consciousness, so that even at this stage nothing can be wanting of what pertains to the conception of Spirit. Therefore here too Substance will take on the specific character of a subject, but the question is as to how it does this. Here, accordingly, the characteristics of Spirit which are potentially existent present themselves in an external shape. Complete determinateness, the ultimate reach of definite form, this final culmination of the unit of independent being, is now posited in an external fashion, so that a present human being is known as the universal Power.

This consciousness already shows itself in the Chinese religion, where the Emperor at all events represents what gives effect to the power.

2. In the religion of India Substance is known as abstract unity, no longer as a mere foundation, and this abstract unity is more nearly akin to Spirit, since Spirit as is itself this abstract unity. Here, then, man rises up, and in lifting himself up to his inner abstract


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 unity, to the unity of Substance, identifies himself with it, and thus gives it existence. Some by nature share in the existence of this unity; others have it in their power to rise to the attainment of it.

The unity which is here the ruling power makes, it is true, an attempt to unfold itself. The true unfolding and the negativity of the combination of differences would be Spirit, which determines itself within itself, and in its subjectivity manifests itself to itself. This subjectivity of Spirit would give it a content, which would be worthy of it, and which would itself also have a spiritual nature. Here, however, the characteristic of naturalness still remains, inasmuch as an advance is made to differentiation and unfolding only, and the moments or elements remain in an isolated condition alongside of each other. Here the unfolding necessary in the conception of Spirit is consequently itself devoid of Spirit. Accordingly, in the Religion of Nature, one is sometimes at a loss to find Spirit unfolded. This is the case, for instance, with the idea of the Incarnation, the Trinity, in the religion of India. Moments or elements will indeed be found which pertain to Spirit, but these are so disposed that they at the same time do not pertain to it. The determinations or characteristics are isolated, and present themselves as mutually exclusive. Thus the triad in Indian religion does not become Trinity, for absolute Spirit alone is the power which rules over its moments.

The general conception of the religion of nature presents great difficulties in this respect; it is everywhere inconsistent, and is inherently contradictory. Thus, on the one hand, the spiritual, which is essentially free, is posited, made dependent on something else; and then, on the other, that element is represented in the determinateness belonging to nature, in a condition of individuality, with a content which has fixed particularity, and which is therefore wholly inadequate to Spirit, since the latter is true Spirit only as free Spirit.

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 3. In the last form which belongs to this stage of the inner division of consciousness, the concrete embodiment and presence of Substance exists and lives in one individual, and the formless unfolding of unity which was peculiar to the preceding form is at least in so far done away with in that it is nullified and reduced to a volatile state. This is Lamaism or Buddhism.

Before proceeding to consider more closely the historical existence of this religion, we have to look at the general definite character of this entire stage and the metaphysical notion or conception of it. To put it more accurately, what is to be defined is the notion or conception of the exaltation of Spirit and the relation of Substance to the Finite.

The Metaphysical Notion or Conception.

In the first place, we must consider the general scope of the metaphysical notion, and explain what is to be understood by it.

Here we have a wholly concrete content, and the metaphysico-logical notion therefore appears to lie behind us, just because we find ourselves in the region of the absolutely concrete. The content is Spirit, and a process of the unfolding or development which Spirit is, is the content of the whole Philosophy of Religion. The different stages at which we find Spirit give the different religions. Now this differentiation of determinateness, since it constitutes the different stages, shows itself as external form which has Spirit as its foundation, the differences of Spirit being posited within it in a definite form. And this form, it is certain, is universal logical form. Form is therefore the Abstract. At the same time, however, such determinateness is not merely this external form, but, as being the logical element, is what is innermost in the determining Spirit. It unites both in itself; it is at once the inmost element and external form. This is the very nature of the notion, namely, to be the essential


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 element, and the Essence of appearance, of the distinction of form. This logical determinateness is on the one hand concrete as Spirit, and this whole is the simple Substantiality of Spirit; but on the other it is also the external form belonging to Spirit, by means of which it is differentiated from what is other than itself. That inmost specific character, which is the content of each stage in accordance with its substantial nature, is thus at the same time external form. It may well be that when another object, a natural object, is under consideration, the logical element is taken as constituting its inner nature. With so concrete a form of existence as the finite Spirit, this is accordingly the case as well. In the philosophy of nature and in the philosophy of Spirit this logical form cannot be brought into special prominence. In such a content as nature and Spirit it exists in a finite mode, and in such a sphere the exposition of the logical element may be represented as a system of conclusions or syllogisms, of mediations. Without this long explanation, which, however, is alone adequate to our purpose, the statement and consideration of the simple determinateness of the notion would remain unsatisfactory. But since in these spheres the logical qualities, as being the substantial basis, are veiled or concealed, and are not seen in their simple existence, in which they are adequate to thought, it is not so needful to bring them into prominence on their own account, while in religion Spirit allows the logical element to come forward in a more definite form. Here, it is precisely this element which has withdrawn itself into its simple shape, and can therefore here be more easily considered, and this is the excuse we have to offer should it surprise any one that it is made the subject of special consideration.

In one respect, therefore, we are in a position to assume the existence of the element referred to, but in another we can discuss it on account of its simplicity, since it possesses interest in virtue of the fact of its having been


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 formerly treated of in natural theology, and as having, in fact, its place in theology as an element in the philosophical knowledge of God. It has, since the time of the Kantian philosophy, been cast aside as mean, bad, unworthy of notice, and for this reason it requires a justification.

Determination of the Notion, of Notion in general, is in its real character by no means something in a state of repose, but is something which moves itself, is essentially a state of activity, and is for this very reason mediation, as thinking is an activity, a mediation within itself, and thus also contains the definite thought of mediation within itself. The proofs of the existence of God are likewise mediation, the notion is to be represented by a mediation. Thus the same thing is found in both. In the proofs of the existence of God, however, the mediation takes a form which suggests that it has been contrived for the behoof of cognition or reasoned knowledge, in order that for this latter a fixed view or insight might grow up. It is to be proved to me; it is this, accordingly, which constitutes the main interest of my cognition. After what has been said about the nature of the notion, it is clear that we must not so conceive of mediation, nor think of it as subjective, but get to see that what is true is an objective relation of God within Himself, of His logical element within Himself, and only when and in so far as mediation is so conceived of is it a necessary moment. The proofs of the existence of God must show themselves as a necessary moment of the notion itself, as an advancing movement, as an activity of the notion itself.

The first form of this activity derives its character from the fact that here we are still entirely at the first stage, which we have described as the immediate one, the stage of immediate unity. It results from this determination of immediateness that we have to do here with wholly abstract determinations, for immediate and abstract are the same. The immediate is Being, and so in thought, too, the


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 immediate is the abstract which has not as yet buried itself in itself, and has not as yet filled itself up by means of further reflection, has not yet made itself concrete. If we thus divest both these sides—Spirit as object generally, and nature, the mode of its reality—of what is concrete in the content, and hold fast simply the simple thought-determinateness, we have in this way an abstract determination of God and of the finite. These two sides are now opposed as infinite and finite—the one as pure Being, the other as determinate Being—as substantial and accidental, as universal and as particular. These determinations, it is true, are intrinsically different in some degree; thus the Universal is undoubtedly in itself much more concrete than Substance is; here, however, we can look at Substance as undeveloped, and it is then of no consequence which form we take in order to consider it more closely. Its relation to what confronts it is the essential thing.

This relation in which they are placed with regard to one another is present in their own nature quite as much as in religion, and is to be taken up in the first place in that aspect of it. In bringing himself into relation to the Infinite, man starts from the finite as his point of departure. Having the world before him, he has a feeling of the unattainable in it, for feeling, too, feels what is thought of, or what is thinkable. It does not suffice for what is ultimate, and he finds the world as an aggregate of finite things. In like manner, man knows himself to be something contingent, transient, and in this feeling he goes beyond the Particular and rises up to the Universal, to the One, which exists on its own account, to an Essence to which this contingency and conditioned character does not pertain, which rather is simply the Substance in contrast to this accidental element, and the Power owing to which this contingency is and is not. Now, religion just means that man seeks the basis of his want of self-dependence: not until he is in the presence of the Infinite does he find tranquillity. If we


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 speak thus abstractly of religion, we already have the essential relation here, the transition from the finite to the Infinite. This transition is of such a kind that it is essentially involved in the nature of these determinations, in other words, in the Notion, and it may be observed here that it is possible to stop short at this determination. Taken in a strict sense, this transition may be conceived of in two different ways. We may regard it first as a transition from the finite to the Infinite as a “Beyond,” which is a more modern way of looking at it. Then, secondly, we may so conceive of it that the unity of the two is held fast, while the finite maintains itself in the Infinite. In the Religiou of Nature we find that any particular, immediate existence whatever, whether natural or spiritual, becomes a finite infinitely extended beyond its own range, and in the limited sense-perception of such an object the infinite Essence, free substantiality, is at the same time known. What, in fact, is here involved is that in the finite thing, the sun or the animal, and the like, infinitude is at the same time perceived, and that in the external manifoldness of the finite object we at the same time behold the inner infinite unity, divine substantiality. To consciousness the Infinite itself here becomes so really present in finite existence, the God becomes so present to it in this particularised existence, that this existence is not distinct from God, but rather is the mode in which God exists, implying that natural existence is preserved in immediate unity with Substance.

This advance from the finite to the Infinite is not only a fact, a matter of history in religion, but it is necessitated by the notion involved in the very nature of such a determination itself. This transition is thought itself; this means nothing else than that we know the Infinite in the finite, the universal in the particular. The consciousness of the universal, of the Infinite, is thought, and as this it is intrinsically mediation, a going forth—in fact, the abrogation and absorption of the external, of the


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. Such is the nature of thought generally. We think of an object; in doing so, we come to have its law, its essence, its universal element before us. It is thinking man and he alone who has religion; an animal has none, because it does not think. Accordingly we should have to show in reference to such a determination of the finite, the particular, the accidental, that it is the finite, &c., which translates itself into the Infinite, &c., which cannot remain as finite, which makes itself infinite, and must in accordance with its Substance return into the Infinite. This determination belongs entirely to the logical consideration of the problem.

The exaltation or rising up of Spirit is not tied down to making the contingency of the world its point of departure in order to arrive at the necessity of the Essence which exists in its own right: we may, on the contrary, determine the world in yet another way. Necessity is the final category of Being and Essence, therefore many categories precede it. The world may be a Many, a manifold. The truth of it is then the One. Just as we pass from the many to the One, from the finite to the Infinite, so too the transition may be made from Being in general to Essence.

The process of transition from the finite to the Infinite, from the accidental to the substantial, and so on, belongs to the active operation of thought in consciousness, and is the inherent nature of these characteristics themselves,—that precisely which they truly are. The finite is not the Absolute; on the contrary, it belongs to its very nature to pass away and become infinite; it belongs to the very nature of the particular to return into the universal, and to that of the accidental simply to return into Substance. This transition is in so far mediation as it is movement from the initial immediate definite state into its Other, into the Infinite, the Universal; and Substance is clearly not something immediate, but something which comes into being by means of this transition,


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 something self-positing. That such is the true nature of these determinations themselves is demonstrated in logic; and it is essential to hold this fast in its true sense, namely, that it is not we in merely external reflection who pass over from such qualities to that which is their Other, but rather that it is their own essential nature so to pass over. I shall now describe in a few more words this dialectical element in the determination in question here, namely, the finite.

We say, “It is;” this Being is at the same time finite; that which it is, it is by means of its end, of its negation, by means of its limits, of the commencement of an Other in it, which is not itself. “Finite” is a qualitative characteristic, a quality generally; the finite implies that quality is simply definite character or determinateness, which is identical in an immediate way with Being, so that if quality passes away, the something definite passes away too. We say something is red; here “red” is the quality; if this quality cease, the “something” is then no longer this particular thing, and if it were not a Substance which can endure this withdrawal of quality, the “something” would be lost. It is just the same in Spirit; there are human beings possessed of an absolutely definite character; if this be lost, they cease to be. Cato’s fundamental quality was the Roman Republic; as soon as that ceased, he died. This quality is so bound up with him, that he cannot subsist without it. This quality is finite, is essentially a limit, a negation. The limit of Cato is the Roman republican; his spirit, his idea, has no greater compass than that. Since quality constitutes the limit of the Something, we call such a thing finite; it is essentially within its boundary, in its negation, and the particularity of the negation and of the Something is thereby essentially in relation to its Other. This Other is not another finite, but is the Infinite. In virtue of its essentiality the finite is seen to consist in this, that it has its essentiality in its negation,


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 and this when developed is an Other, and is here the Infinite.

The leading thought is that the finite is something whose nature consists in this, that it has not its Being in its own self, but has that which it is in an Other, and this Other is the Infinite. The very nature of the finite it is to have the Infinite as its truth; that which it is, is not it itself, but is its opposite, the Infinite.

This advance is necessary—it is posited in the notion; the finite is inherently finite—that is its nature. The rising up to God is thus just what we have seen it to be; this finite self-consciousness does not keep itself limited to the finite; it forsakes it, relinquishes it, and conceives the Infinite. This takes place in the process of rising up to God, and is the rational element therein. This advance is the innermost, the purely logical element, yet so conceived it only expresses one side of the Whole: the finite vanishes in the Infinite; it is its nature to posit the Infinite as its truth; the Infinite, which has thus come to be in this manner, is, however, itself as yet only the abstract Infinite; it is only negatively determined as the Not-finite. The essential nature of the Infinite, too, on its part, as being this merely negatively determined Infinite, is to annul itself and to determine itself; in fact, to annul and absorb its negation, to posit itself on the one hand as affirmation, and on the other to annul in like manner its abstraction, and to particularise itself and posit the moment of finitude within itself. The finite vanishes at first in the Infinite; it is not; its Being is only a semblance of Being. We have then the Infinite before us as an abstract Infinite only, enclosed within its own sphere; and it belongs to its real nature to abolish this abstraction. This results from the notion or conception of the Infinite. It is the negation of the negation—the negation relating itself to itself—and this is absolute affirmation, and at the same


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 time Being, simple reference to itself: such is Being. Since this is the case, the second element too, the Infinite, is not universally posited, but is also affirmation, and thus its nature is to determine itself within itself, to preserve the moment of finitude within itself, but ideally. It is negation of the negation, and thus contains the differentiation of the one negation from the other negation. Thus limitation is involved in it, and consequently the finite too. If we define the negation more strictly, then we see that the one is the Infinite and the other the finite, and true infinitude is the unity of the two.

It is only these two moments together which constitute the nature of the Infinite, and its true identity; it is this Whole which is for the first time the notion of the Infinite. This Infinite is to be distinguished from that which was mentioned previously, namely, the Infinite in immediate knowledge or the Thing-in-itself, which is the negative Infinite void of determination, the mere Not-finite of the Kantian philosophy. The Infinite is now no longer a “Beyond;” it has determinateness within itself.

The religion of nature, however imperfect its representation of the unity of the finite and Infinite, already contains this consciousness of the Divine as being the substantial element, which is at the same time determined, and thus has the form of a natural mode of existence. What is beheld as God in it is this divine Substance in a natural form. Here, therefore, the content is more concrete and consequently better; it contains more truth than that found in immediate knowledge, which refuses to know the nature of God, because it holds that He is undetermined. Natural religion really occupies a higher standpoint than this view, which is characteristic of more recent times, though those who hold it still mean to believe in a revealed religion.


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 If we now consider the transition already specified as it presents itself in the proofs of the existence of God, we find it expressed in the form of a syllogism to be the Cosmological Proof. In metaphysics the essence of this proof is that contingent Being, the contingency of worldly things, is made the starting-point, and then the other determination is not that of infinitude, but that of something necessary in and for itself. This last is indeed a much more concrete determination than that of the Infinite; only, in accordance with the content of the proof, it is not it that is in question here, but it is only the logical nature of the transition which comes under consideration.

If we put the transition in this way into the form of a syllogism, we then say that the finite presupposes the Infinite; the finite is, consequently there is an Infinite. If we look at such a syllogism critically, we perceive that it leaves us cold or indifferent; something different from this and more than this is asked for in religion. From one point of view this demand is right enough; on the other hand, however, such a rejection of proof involves the depreciation of thought, as if we made use of feeling, and had to appeal to popular or pictorial conceptions in order to produce conviction. The true nerve is true thought; only when that is true is feeling too of a true kind.

What is specially noticeable here is that a finite form of Being is accepted as the starting-point, and this finite Being thus appears as that by means of which the infinite Being gets its foundation. A finite Being thus appears as the foundation or basis. Mediation is given a position which implies that the consciousness of the Infinite has its origin in the finite. To speak more accurately, what we have here is that the finite is expressed in terms which imply that it has only a positive relation between the two. The proposition thus means that the Being of the finite is the Being of the Infinite.


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 This relation is at once seen to be inadequate in reference to the two sides. The finite is the positing agent, it remains the affirmative, the relation is a positive one, and the Being of the finite is what is primarily the basis, which is the point of departure, and which is the abiding element. It is to be remarked further, that when we say the Being of the finite is the Being of the Infinite, the Being of the finite, which is itself the Being of the Infinite, is in this way the major premiss of the syllogism, and the mediation between the Being of the finite and that of the Infinite is not shown. It is a proposition without mediation, and that is precisely the opposite of what is demanded.

This mediation contains a further determination besides. The Being of the finite is not its own Being, but that of the Other, that of the Infinite; it is not through the Being of the finite that the Infinite arises, but out of the not-being of the finite; this is the Being of the Infinite. The mediation is of such a kind that the finite stands before us as affirmation. Looked at more closely, the finite is that which it is as negation; thus it is not the Being, but the not-being of the finite; the mediation between the two is rather the negative nature in the finite, and thus the true moment of mediation is not expressed in this proposition. The deficiency in the form of the syllogism is that this true content, this element which belongs essentially to the notion, cannot be expressed in the form of a single syllogism. The Being of the Infinite is the negation of the finite; the destiny of the finite is simply to pass over into the Infinite, and thus the other propositions which belong to a syllogism do not permit of being superadded. The defect here is that the finite is pronounced to be affirmative and its relation to the Infinite is declared to be positive, while it is yet essentially negative, and this dialectic escapes the form of the syllogism of the understanding.

If the finite presupposes the Infinite, the following


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 principle, although not distinctly expressed, is implied in this. The finite is what posits, but as something which presupposes or preposits the existence of something else, so that the Infinite is the first and the essential element. When the presupposition is more fully developed it involves the negative moment of the finite and its relation to the Infinite. What is implied in religion is not that the affirmative nature of the finite, its immediacy, is that on account of which the Infinite exists; neither is the Infinite the self-annulling of the finite. The proof, the form of the relation of the finite to the Infinite—the thought—takes a wrong direction, owing to the form of the syllogism. Religion, however, contains this Thinking, this passing over from the finite to the Infinite, a passing over which is not of a chance character, but is necessary, and which the very conception of the nature of the Infinite brings with it. This thought, which essentially belongs to the substance of religion, is not correctly laid hold of in the syllogistic form.

The deficiency in the mediation of the proof is this, that the Unconditioned is expressed as conditioned by means of another form of Being. The simple determination of negation is let go. In the true mediation the transition is also made from the Many to the One, and in such a manner too that the One is expressed as mediated. But this defect is amended in the true exaltation of the Spirit, and, in fact, in virtue of its being stated that it is not the Many that exist, but the One. Through this negation the mediation and the condition are done away with, and that which is necessary in and for itself is now mediated through negation of mediation. God creates: here, then, we have the relation of two and mediation. This, however, is a judgment, a differentiation: God is no longer the dark Essence existing in a state of torpor; He manifests Himself, He reveals Himself, He posits a distinction and is for an Other. This distinction in its highest expression is the Son. The Son is by means of


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 the Father, and conversely in Him only is God revealed. But in this Other God is at home with Himself, does not go outside of Himself; He relates Himself to Himself; and since this is no longer a relation toward what is other than Himself, mediation is done away with.

God is therefore that which is inherently and absolutely necessary—necessary in and for itself; this determination is the absolute foundation. If even this be not sufficient, God must be conceived of as Substance.

We now come to the other aspect of the subject; it is the converse one, the relation in which Substance stands to the finite. In the act of rising up from the finite to Substance there is a mediation which was done away with in the result, posited as non-existent. In the turning round of Substance toward the many, the finite, and so forth, this annulled mediation is to be taken up again, but in such a way that in the movement of the result it comes to be posited as null; that is to say, it is not only the result which must be apprehended, but in that result the Whole and its process. Now when the Whole is apprehended in this manner, it is said that Substance has accidents, has the infinite manifolduess which belongs to this Substance as a form of Being which passes away. That which is perishes. But death is just as much again the beginning of life; the perishing or passing away is the beginning of the rise of existence, and there is only a veering round from Being into Not-Being, and vice versâ. This is the alternation of accidentality, and Substance is now the unity of this alternation itself. What is perennial is this alternation; what is thus alternation and at the same time unity is the substantial element, the necessity which translates the origination into passing away, and vice versâ. Substance is the absolute power or force of Being; Being belongs to it of right; but it is likewise the unity of the act of veering round, when Being veers round into Not-Being; it is again,


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, the dominating power over the process of perishing, so that the perishing perishes.

The defect attaching to this oriental Substance, as well as to that of Spinoza, lies in the categories of origination and perishing. Substance is not conceived of as the active agent within itself, as subject and as activity in accordance with ends; not as wisdom, but only as power. It is something devoid of content; specific character, purpose is not contained in it; the specific character which manifests itself in this originating and perishing is not grasped in thought. It is essentially purposeless empty power, which merely staggers about, so to speak. Such is the system which is called Pantheism. God is here the absolute Power, the Being in all determinate Being, the purification of Himself from determinateness and negation. That things are, is owing to Substance; that they are not, is likewise owing to the power of Substance, and this power is immediately immanent for the things.

We have an example of this Pantheism also in the expression of Jacobi: “God is Being in all determinate Being;” and we undoubtedly get from him in this connection very brilliant definitions of God. This determinate Being contains Being in an immediate manner within itself, and this Being in determinate Being is God, who is thus the Universal in determinate Being. Being is the most arid possible determination of God, and if He is to be Spirit it is supremely unsatisfactory; when used in this way as the Being of determinate Being in finite reality we have Pantheism. Jacobi’s system was far removed from Pantheism, yet the latter is involved in that expression, and Science is not concerned with what a person thinks in his own mind; on the contrary, it is what is expressed that it considers to be of importance.

Parmenides says, Being is everything. This seems to be the same thing, and thus to be Pantheism too; but this thought is purer than that of Jacobi, and is not Pantheism. For he says expressly that Being alone is,


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 and all limitation, all reality, all definite modes of existence come to be included in Not-Being; this latter, accordingly, is not at all, but it has Being only. With Parmenides that which is known as determinate Being is no longer present or existent at all. By Jacobi, on the contrary, determinate Being is regarded as affirmative, although it is finite, and thus it is affirmation in finite existence. Spinoza says, What is is the absolute substance; what is other than this are mere modi, to which he ascribes no affirmation, no reality. Thus it cannot perhaps be said even of the Substance of Spinoza that it is so precisely Pantheistic as that expression of Jacobi, for particular things still remain as little an affirmative for Spinoza as determinate Being does for Parmenides, which, as distinguished from Being, is for him mere Not-Being, and is of such a character that this Not-Being is not at all.

If the finite be taken as thought, then all that is finite is understood to be included, and thus it is Pantheism. But in using the term finite it is necessary to draw a distinction between the finite as represented merely by this or that particular object, and the finite as including all things, and to explain in which sense we use the word. Taken in the latter sense, it is already a progressive movement of reflection, which no longer arrests itself at the Particular; “all that is finite” pertains to reflection. This Pantheism is of modern date, and if it be said that “God is Being in all determinate Being,” this expresses a form of Pantheism found among Mohammedans of modern times, especially the Pantheism of the Dechelaleddin-Rumi. Here this everything as it is is a Whole, and is God; and the finite is in this determinate Being as universal finitude. This Pantheism is the product of thinking reflection, which extends natural things so as to include all and everything, and in so doing conceives of the existence of God not as true universality of thought, but as an allness; that is to say, as being in all individual natural existences.


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 It may be remarked further in passing, that the definition given by more recent philosophical systems, according to which Spirit is unity with itself, and comprises the World as something ideal within itself, is called Pantheism, or more precisely the Pantheism of Spiritualism. But here the category of unity is understood in a one-sided manner only, and the category of Creation, in which God is cause, and the separation is so patent that the creation is independent relatively to Him, is placed in contrast to it. But it is precisely the fundamental characteristic of Spirit that it is this differentiation and positing of the difference; and that is the very creation which those who bring the charge of Pantheism always want to have. The next thing indeed is that the separation does not remain permanent, but is annulled; for otherwise we would find ourselves in dualism and Manicheeism.

We now return to the conception in accordance with which Substance, as the universal ruling power of thought, is brought into prominence on its own account.

This exaltation, this knowing, is not, however, as yet religion, for there is wanting to it the moment or element which is indispensable in religion as the fully developed idea, namely, the moment of Spirit. The position given to this moment here results from Substance not being as yet determined within itself as Spirit—that is, from Spirit not being as yet determined as Substance. Thus Spirit is outside of Substance, and is outside of it in the sense of being different from it.

We have now to consider the fundamental character of Pantheism in its more definite forms and under its religious aspects.

1. The Chinese Religion, or the Religion of Measure.

(a.) The General Character of this Religion.—In the first place, Substance continues to be thought of under


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 that aspect of Being which does indeed come nearest to Essence, but yet still pertains to the immediateness of Being; and Spirit, which is different from it, is a particular, finite Spirit, is Man. This Spirit is, viewed from one side, that which is possessed of authority—it is what carries that power into effect; viewed from the other side, it is, as subjected to that power, the accidental element. If man be conceived of as this power, so that it is looked upon as acting and working in him, or else that he succeeds by means of worship in positing himself as identical with it, the power has the form of Spirit, but of the human finite spirit; and here enters in the element of separation from others over whom he has power.

(b.) The Historical Existence of this Religion.—We have, it is true, emerged from that immediate religion in which we were at the stage of magic, since the particular spirit now distinguishes itself from Substance, and stands in such a relation toward it that it regards it as the universal Power. In the Chinese religion, which represents the earliest historical form of this substantial relation, Substance is thought of as representing the entire sphere of essential Being or measure; measure represents what exists in-and-for itself, the Unchangeable, and T‘ien, Heaven, is the objective material representation of this essentially existing element. Notwithstanding this, the element of magic still intrudes itself into this sphere, in so far as in the world of reality the individual man, the will and empirical consciousness, are what is highest. Nay, the standpoint of magic has here broadened out into an organised monarchy, which presents the appearance of something imposing and majestic.

T‘ien is the Highest, but not in the spiritual, moral sense alone; T‘ien rather denotes wholly indeterminate abstract universality; it is the wholly indeterminate sum of all physical and moral connection whatsoever. Along


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 with this conception, however, we have the other idea that it is the Emperor who is sovereign upon earth, and not the Heavens. It is not Heaven which has given laws or gives them, laws which the people respect, divine laws, laws of religion, of morality. It is not T‘ien who governs nature; it is the Emperor who governs everything, and he only is in connection with this T‘ien.

It is the Emperor alone who brings offerings to T‘ien at the four principal festivals of the year. He also confers with T‘ien, offers his prayers to him; he alone stands in connection with him, and governs everything on earth. The Emperor has in his hands, too, authority over natural things and their changes, and rules their forces.

We distinguish between the world, the phenomena of the world, and God, in a way which implies that God also rules outside of this world. Here, however, the Emperor alone is the one who rules. The Heaven of the Chinese—T‘ien—is something entirely empty; the souls of the departed exist, it is true, in it, they survive the separation from the body, but they also belong to the world, since they are thought of as lords over the course of nature. And they too are under the rule of the Emperor; he instals them in their offices and deposes them. If the dead are conceived of as directors of the realm of nature, it might be said that they are thus given an exalted position; but the fact of the matter is that they are degraded into genii of the natural world, and therefore it is right that the self-conscious Will should direct those genii.

The Heaven of the Chinese, therefore, is not a world which forms an independent realm above the earth, and which is in its own right the realm of the Ideal, like the heaven we conceive of, with angels and the souls of the departed; nor is it like the Greek Olympus, which is distinct from life upon earth. Here, on the contrary, everything is upon earth, and all that has power is subject to the Emperor; it is this individual


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 which in a conscious way exercises complete sovereignty. As regard the element of Measure, there are established typical forms which are called Reason (Tâo). The laws of Tâo, or Measures, are determinations, figurations; not abstract Being nor abstract Substance, but figures or signs of Substance, which may either be understood in a more abstract sense, or else are to be taken as the determinations for nature and for the spirit of man, the laws of his will and of his reason.

The detailed statement and development of these measures would comprise the entire philosophy and science of the Chinese. Here we have only to treat of the principal points.

The measures in abstract Universality are quite simple categories: Being and Not-Being, One and Two, which is equivalent in general to the Many. The Chinese represent these universal categories by lineal figures; the fundamental figure is the line; a simple line signifies the one, and affirmation or “yes;” the interrupted line  two, division, and negation or “no.” These signs are called Kuâ, and the Chinese relate that these signs appeared to them upon the shell of the tortoise. There are many different combinations of these, which in their turn give more concrete meanings of those original typical forms. Among these more concrete meanings we may specially remark the four quarters of the world and the centre; four mountains which correspond to these regions of the world and one in the middle; five elements, earth, fire, water, wood, metal. In the same way there are five fundamental colours, of which each belongs to an element. Each ruling dynasty in China has a special colour, an element, and so on. In like manner there are also five keynotes in music; five fundamental determinations for the actions of man in his relations to others. The first and highest is that of children to their parents, the second is reverence for deceased ancestors and the dead, the third obedience to the Emperor, the fourth the


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 mutual relations of brothers and sisters, the fifth the attitude to be assumed towards other men.

These determinations of Measure constitute the basis—Reason. Men have to guide themselves in conformity with these, and as regards the natural elements, it is laid down that their genii are to be reverenced by man.

There are people who devote themselves exclusively to the study of this Reason, who hold aloof from all practical life and live in solitude; yet what is always of most importance is, that these laws should be brought into use in practical life. When these are maintained intact, when duties are observed by men, then everything is in order in nature as well as in the empire; it goes well both with the empire and the individual. There is a moral connection here between the action of man and what takes place in nature. If misfortune overtakes the empire, whether owing to floods or earthquakes, conflagrations, dry weather, and the like, this is regarded as entirely the result of man’s not having been obedient to the laws of Reason, and as having happened because the rules of Measure have not been maintained in the empire. Owing to this, universal Measure is destroyed, and misfortune of the kind just described enters the land.

Thus Measure is known here as Being-in-and-for itself. This is the general foundation.

What comes next has to do with the giving effect to Measure. The maintenance of the laws belongs of right to the Emperor, to the Emperor as the Son of Heaven, which is the whole, the totality of Measure. The sky, as the visible firmament, is at the same time the power of Measure. The Emperor is the Son of Heaven (T‘ien-tsze); he has to honour the laws and to promote their recognition. The heir to the throne is made acquainted with all the sciences and with the laws by means of a careful education. It is the Emperor alone who renders


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 honour to the law; his subjects have only to give the homage to himself which he renders to the law. The Emperor brings offerings. This means nothing else than that the Emperor prostrates himself and reverences the law. Among the few Chinese festivals, that of agriculture is one of the principal. The Emperor presides over it; on the day of the festival he himself ploughs the field; the corn which grows upon this field is used for offerings. The Empress has the rearing of silk-worms under her direction, for this supplies the material for clothing, just as agriculture is the source of all nourishment. When floods, drought, and the like lay waste and scourge the country, this concerns the Emperor alone; he recognises his officials, and especially himself, as being the cause of misfortune; if he and his magistrates had properly maintained the law, the misfortune would not have taken place. The Emperor, therefore, commands the officials to examine themselves, and to see wherein they have failed in duty; and he in like manner devotes himself to meditation and repentance on account of his not having acted rightly. Upon the fulfilment of duty, therefore, depends the prosperity both of the empire and the individual. In this way the entire worship of God reduces itself for the subjects to a moral life. The Chinese religion may thus be called a moral religion, and it is from this point of view that it has been found possible to hold that the Chinese are atheists. These definite laws of measure and specific rules of duty are due for the most part to Confucius; his works are principally occupied with moral questions of this kind.

This power of the laws and of the rules of Measure is an aggregate of many special rules and laws. These special rules must now be known as activities too; in this particular or special aspect they are subjected to the universal activity, namely, to the Emperor, who is the power over the collective activities. These special


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 powers are accordingly represented as human beings, and especially as the departed ancestors of existing persons. For a man is specially known as a power when he has departed—that is to say, when he is no longer entangled in the interests of daily life. One, however, who of his own will withdraws himself from the world, sinks into himself and directs his activities toward the Universal alone, and towards the gaining of a knowledge of these powers, renouncing the associations of daily life, and holding himself aloof from all enjoyments, may also be regarded as having departed, for in such a case a man has passed away so far as concrete human life is concerned, and he too, therefore, comes to be recognised as a special power.

Besides this there are creatures of imagination who hold this power in trust, and these constitute a very fully developed realm, which consists of special powers of this kind. The entire body of these is subject to the Universal Power, namely, to that of the Emperor, who instals them and gives them commands. The best way in which to get a knowledge of this extensive realm of popular conception is to study a section of Chinese history as we have it in the information given by the Jesuits in the learned work Mémoires sur les Chinois. In connection with the inauguration of a new dynasty we find, among other things, the following description.

About the year 1122 B.C., a time which is still pretty accurately determined in Chinese history, the Chau dynasty came to the throne. Wû was the first Emperor of this dynasty; the last of the preceding dynasty, Shau, had, like his predecessors, governed badly, so that the Chinese imagined that the evil genius which had embodied itself in him must have been reigning. With a new dynasty everything on earth and in heaven must be renewed, and this was accomplished by the new Emperor with the help of the commander-in-chief of his army. New laws, new music, new dances,


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 new officials, were introduced, and therefore both the living and the dead had to be placed under new directors.

A point of great importance was the destruction of the graves of the preceding dynasty—that is to say, the destruction of the worship of ancestors, who had hitherto been the powers ruling over families and over nature generally. Since there were in the new empire families who were attached to the old dynasty, whose relations had held the higher offices, and particularly military posts, yet to offend whom would have been impolitic, a means had to be found by which the dead relatives of these families should continue to enjoy the respect and reverence in which they had hitherto been held. Wû accomplished this in the following way. After the flames had been extinguished in the capital (it was not as yet Pekin), the flames, namely, which the last prince had had kindled in order to destroy the Imperial Palace with all its treasures, women, &c., the empire and its government were brought under Wû’s authority, and the moment had arrived for him to make his entrance as Emperor into the Imperial city, to present himself to the people, and to give laws. He nevertheless announced that he could not do this until everything was brought into proper order between himself and Heaven. With regard to this imperial constitution between himself and Heaven, it was given out that it was contained in two books which were deposited upon a mountain in the care of a venerable sage. Of these two books, one contained the new laws, and the other the names and offices of the genii, called Ch‘i, who were the new directors of the empire in the world of nature, in the same way as the mandarins are in the world of every-day life. Wû’s general was sent off to fetch these books; this man was himself already a Ch‘i, a present genius, to which dignity he had attained


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 during his lifetime by more than forty years of study and exercise. The books were brought. The Emperor purified himself and fasted three days; on the fourth day at sunrise he appeared in imperial array with the book of the new laws; this was laid upon the altar, offerings were presented, and thanks given to Heaven for the book. Upon this the laws were proclaimed, and, to the supreme astonishment and satisfaction of the people, it turned out that they were absolutely the same as the former ones. It is generally the case that at a change of dynasty the old laws remain in force with but little alteration. The second book was not opened, but the general was sent with it to a mountain, in order to promulgate it to the Shăn, and to impart the commands of the Emperor to them. In this book their installation and degradation were contained. The story goes on to say that the general had called the Shăn together on the mountain; this mountain lay in the region which was the original home of the new dynasty. The departed had assembled themselves on the mountain in accordance with the higher or lower rank which they held, while the general sat upon a throne in the midst of them, which had been erected for this purpose. He was splendidly attired and decorated with the eight Kua; the imperial standard and the sceptre, the staff of command over the Shăn, lay upon an altar before him, and likewise the diploma of the sage who thereby authorised the general to make known the new commands to the Shăn. The general read the diploma; the Shăn who had ruled


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 under the previous dynasty were declared unworthy to rule any longer on account of their neglect, which was the cause of the disasters that had overtaken the country, and they were dismissed from their posts. They were told that they could go wherever they liked, they might even enter into human life again in order that they might in this way earn a recompense anew. The deputed commander-in-chief now named the new Shăn, and commanded one of those present to take the register and to read it aloud. He obeyed, and found his name to be the first on the list. The commander-in-chief then congratulated him upon this recognition of his virtues. He was an old general. Afterwards the others were summoned, some of whom had fallen in the interests of the new dynasty, and some who had fought and sacrificed themselves in those of the former one. In particular, there was one among them, a prince, commander-in-chief of the army of the former dynasty. In time of war he had been an able and a great general, in peace a faithful and conscientious minister, and it was he who had placed the greatest hindrances in the way of the new dynasty, until finally he perished in battle. His name was the fifth—that is to say, it followed upon those of the directors of the four mountains which represented the four quarters of the world and the four seasons. As his office, he was to be intrusted with the inspection of all the Shăn who were put in charge of rain, wind, thunder, and clouds. But his name had to be called twice, and the staff of command had to be shown to him before he would approach the throne; he came with a contemptuous mien, and remained proudly standing. The general addressed him with the words, “Thou art no longer what thou wast among men, thou art nothing but an ordinary Shăn who has as yet no office; I have to convey one to thee from the master, give reverence to this command.” Upon this the Shăn fell down, a long speech was addressed to him, and he was appointed to


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 be the chief of those Ch‘i whose business it is to take charge of rain and thunder. It now became his business to create rain at the proper time, to disperse the clouds when they were likely to be the cause of floods, not to allow the wind to increase to a storm, and only to permit the thunder to exercise its power for the purpose of frightening the wicked and of occasioning their repentance. He received four-and-twenty adjutants, to each of whom his own special inspectorship was intrusted, and this was changed every fortnight: of these, some were put in charge of other departments. The Chinese have five elements, and these, too, were given chiefs. To one Shăn was given the oversight of fire, with reference to conflagrations; six Shăns were appointed over epidemics, and received orders with a view to the alleviation of the troubles of human society, to purge it from time to time from superabundance of population. After all the offices were distributed, the book was given back to the Emperor, and to this day it constitutes the astrological part of the calendar. Two directories appear every year in China; one relates to the mandarins, the other to the invisible officials, the Ch‘i [viz., Shăn who have become such]. In case of the failure of crops, conflagrations, floods, &c., the Ch‘i who are concerned are dismissed, their images thrown down, and fresh Ch‘i appointed. Thus the lordship of the Emperor over nature is here a completely organised monarchy.

There were besides among the Chinese a class of men who occupied themselves inwardly, who not only belonged to the general State religion of T‘ien, but formed a sect who gave themselves up to thought, and sought to attain to consciousness of what the True is. The first stage of advance out of that earliest attitude of natural religion (which was, that immediate self-consciousness in its very immediateness, knows itself to be what is highest, to be the sovereign power) is the return of consciousness into itself, the claim that consciousness


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 has essentially a meditating character. This stage is exemplified in the sect of Tâo.

It is, however, to be remarked that these persons who are absorbed in thought, in an inner life, and betake themselves to the abstraction of thought, at the same time have it as an aim to become immortal, pure beings in their own right, partly on account of their having been previously consecrated, and partly because, since they have reached the goal and attained mastership, they deem themselves higher beings, even as regards their existence here and their actual state.

This turning inwards, toward abstracting pure thought, is thus already to be found in ancient times among the Chinese. A revival or reform of the doctrine of Tâo took place at a later date; this is principally ascribed to Lâo-tsze, a wise man, who, although somewhat older, was contemporary with Confucius and Pythagoras.

Confucius is emphatically a moral, and not a speculative philosopher. T‘ien, this universal power over nature which attains to reality by the authority of the Emperor, is closely associated with morals generally, and it was this moral aspect especially which was developed by Confucius. With the sect of Tâo the initial act is the passing over into thought, into the pure element. It is remarkable in this connection that in Tâo—in Totality—the idea of the Trinity makes its appearance. The One has produced the Two, and the Two the Three: this is the Universum. Thus, as soon as ever man took up a thinking attitude, the idea of Trinity at once made its appearance as the result of this. The One or Unity is wholly characterless or devoid of determination, and is simply abstraction. If it is to have the principle of life and of spirituality, an advance must be made to determination. Unity is only real in so far as it contains two within itself, and with this Trinity is given. That this advance has been made to thought does not, however, imply that any higher spiritual religion has as yet


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 established itself: the determinations of Tâo remain complete abstractions, and life, consciousness, the spiritual element is not found, so to speak, in Tâo itself, but still belongs absolutely and entirely to man in his immediate character.

To us God is the Universal, but determined within Himself; God is Spirit; His existence is spirituality. Here the actuality, the living form of Tâo, is still the actual immediate consciousness. Though it is indeed dead, as represented by Lâo-tsze, it yet transforms itself into other shapes, and is living and actually present in its priests.

Like T‘ien, this One is the governing power, but is only an abstract basis, the Emperor being the actual embodiment of this basis, and, strictly speaking, the real governing power, and the same is the case with the idea of Reason. Reason is, in like manner, the abstract foundation, which only has its actuality in existing human beings.

(c.) Worship or Cultus.—Worship really represents the whole existence of the religion of Measure, the power of Substance not having as yet taken on the form of a stable objectivity, and even the realm of idea or popular conception, so far as it has developed itself in that of the Shăn, is in subjection to the power of the Emperor, who is himself merely the actual embodiment of the Substantial.

When, accordingly, we begin to inquire into worship in the stricter sense, all that is left for us to do is to examine the relation of the universal determinateness of this religion to inner life and to self-consciousness.

The Universal being only the abstract foundation, man remains in it without having a strictly immanent, realised, or concrete inner character; he has no firm hold or stability within himself. Not until freedom, not until rationality comes in does he possess this, for then he is the consciousness of being free, and this freedom develops until it appears as reason.


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 This developed reason yields absolute principles and duties, and the man who is conscious of these absolute determinations in his freedom, in his consciousness, who knows they are immanent determinations within him, has then, for the first time within himself, within his conscience, something to hold by and to give him stability. In so far only as man knows God as Spirit, and knows the determinations of Spirit, are these divine determinations essential, absolute determinations of rationality—determinations, in fact, of that which is duty within him, and which, so far as he is concerned, is immanent in him.

Where the Universal is merely this abstract foundation in a general sense, man has no immanent definite inner life within himself. For this reason, all that is external acquires an inward character for him; everything external has a meaning for him, a relation to him, and, in fact, a practical relation. From a general point of view, this external element is the constitution of the State, the fact that he is ruled from without.

No morality in the strict sense, no immanent rationality by means of which man would have worth and dignity within himself and protection against what is external, is bound up with this religion. All which has a relation to him is for him a power, because he possesses no power in his own rationality and moral sense. The result is this indefinable dependence upon all external circumstances, this complete and entirely arbitrary superstition.

Speaking generally, what lies at the foundation of this external dependence is the fact that all that is particular cannot be placed in an inner relation with a Universal, which remains merely abstract. The interests of individuals lie outside of the universal determinations which the Emperor puts into practice. As regards particular interests, what we find is rather the conception of a power which exists on its own account.


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 This is not the universal power of Providence, which extends its sway even over the destinies of individuals. What we find rather is that the Particular is brought under the sway of a particular power. This power is that of the Shân, and with it a whole realm of superstition enters in.

Thus the Chinese are in perpetual fear and dread with regard to everything, because all that is external has a meaning, is for them a power which is able to use force against them and to affect them.

China is, par excellence, the home of divination; in every locality you find many people who deal in prophecies. The finding of the right spot for a grave, questions of locality, of relations in space, &c., are the kind of things with which they occupy themselves during their entire life.

If in building a house another house flanks their own, and the front has an angle towards it, all possible ceremonies are gone through, and the special powers in question are rendered propitious by means of presents. The individual is wholly without the power of personal decision and without subjective freedom.


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 334 Athene in the Panathenaic festival; but it appears probable that similar rites extend through all stages of culture.

I should be glad of instances of garments or coverings, provided for images, or for any sacred object, and especially of the use of such garments at festivals or on special occasions.

As interesting examples of this clothing of images, or sacred objects, in most widely separated conditions of culture, I may mention the very primitive clothing of a sacred stone by branches, "to keep the god warm", in Samoa—"when praying on account of war, drought, famine, or epidemic, the branch clothes were carefully removed"; the clothing, like a woman, of a plantain tree in the ceremonies that take place at the consecration of an image of the great Hindoo goddess Durga (Parvati); the draping of images in the skin of sacrificial victims in ancient rites; the Mexican feast of Huitzilopochli, where an image, made of dough, was dressed in the raiment of the idol; and the great Mexican festival of Tezcatlipoca, on the eve of which the image was dressed in new clothes.

When the divinity is specifically represented by a living person (as in the Hindoo rite of worshipping daughters of a Brahman as forms of a goddess, and offering to them cloth, paint, and ornaments during the ceremony; and the Mexican rite in which human sacrifices were "adorned with the trappings of the Tlaloc gods, for it was said they were the images of these gods), garments provided for such persons would, of course, have an interest equal to clothing destined for an image.


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 CORRESPONDENCE.

writes as follows respecting Mr. Paton's communication in, iv, No. 3, p. 275:

"The question of superstitions in the Canons has been very ably and almost exhaustively treated by C. P. Caspari, in his edition of Pseudo-Augustin's Homilia de Sacrilegiis (Christiania, 1886), and more especially in the notes accompanying the text. Caspari refers to the various Acts of Councils and to ancient Indices of Superstitions, drawn up by various bishops, and to sermons against idolatrous customs. The Nomocanones are comparatively modern digests of these ancient Acts of Councils and decisions of Basil the Great, etc.

"I have reproduced two chapters on 'Charms and Vampires' from the Roumanian {Slavo-Greek) Nomocanon, published 1645, in my Chrestomnathie Roumaine, i, pp. 116-117.

"A large collection of such beliefs and customs is to be found in Del Rio's well-known Disquisitionum Magicarum libri vi, lib. III. referring constantly to the Acts of Councils as the ultimate source for their condemnation."

CLOTHED IMAGES.

To the Editor of.

,—May I ask your reader's attention to an interesting branch of primitive ritual on which I am anxious to elicit facts.

The custom of the offering of a garment to an image may be taken as typified in the presentation of the peplos to


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Fusan, 5 – 8 •

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 192 communities, who acquiesced in the banishment of some and the whipping or execution of others, in order that by uniform obedience to the theocratic ideal the purpose of the founders might be fulfilled.

But in the eighteenth century there began to be a change. The growing interest in science, the influence of such writers as John Locke, the rise of other learned professions than the ministry, the advance of the merchant class, the increasing concern about political relations with the mother country, the founding of other churches than the Congregational ones which hitherto had virtually constituted an Establishment—all of these influences make American life and letters in the eighteenth century radically different from the century of colonization. Strikingly unlike each other as Franklin and Woolman are in most respects, they agree in representing aspects of the American mind that could hardly flourish in American literature until in the eighteenth century that literature began to move out of New England and its intolerant church.

FRANKLIN'S METHODS IN LITERATURE AND SCIENCE

The career of Franklin well illustrates these changes. He finds himself cramped in Boston and moves to Philadelphia. He pays the most careful attention to the matter of writing well, because he sees that it pays to consult the convenience of the reader. In his writing he employs the secular arts of humor and irony and takes particular care to "forbear all direct contradiction to the sentiments of others, and all positive assertions of [his] own." He seeks the convenience of mankind also by various mechanical improvements and by the better organization of certain departments of the public service. His experiments in pure science mark him as patient, observant, and logical to an unusual degree. But most of his attention—in business, science, and public service—is given to matters of immediate utility.

FRANKLIN IN POLITICS

In politics he was eminently successful, though probably not entirely uncorrupt. He managed delicate affairs of state with conspicuous coolness and skill. He was particularly useful to the


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 Rh Instances of such ritual clothing would be most valuable, if in connection with festivals of the birth (or return), marriage, or death of the god. And I should be glad of instances of any kind of covering, from savage paint to temple vestments.

writes from Kalymnos, Asiatic Turkey:—

"I have some notions about the death of Hector. It would suit my theory if his running three times round the walls of Troy was a thing which would bring him luck. I fancy there are parallels from folk-lore. Any information would be welcome."

any reader of be kind enough to send to me at the address given below any information concerning single ballads or collections of ballads from the following counties:—Buckinghamshire, Berkshire (beyond those in the "Scouring of the White Horse"), Cambridge, Dorset, Durham, Essex, Hampshire, Hereford, Hertford, Huntington, Monmouth, Northampton, Oxford, Warwickshire, Westmoreland.

Llandaff House, Cambridge.


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 Rh in explaining abroad the actual condition and views of the average American. His solid merits and unusual tact made him a great favorite in France, where, as commissioner for the colonies, he attained a personal popularity which was of the greatest advantage to his country. In spite of some loss of reputation from the suspicion that he had not always used his privileges unselfishly, Franklin returned to America to spend his last years in a position of honor not much below that of Washington himself.

FRANKLIN'S MORALS AND RELIGION Such eminence was not achieved without the most careful management. Indeed, the fact that most strongly impresses a reader of Franklin's "Autobiography" is the astonishing degree to which he regulated his acts and developed his character by a system of what, in the language of our day, might almost be termed "scientific management." For example, he drew up, as many others have done, a list of virtues and of precepts for attaining them. Then, apparently untroubled by any suspicion that what he was doing was at all funny, he kept a tabular record which showed, week by week, how good a score he was making in the important game of living a moral life. His entire attitude toward life was of this prudential sort. Sins which would have prostrated a Puritan in the fear of eternal torment are to Franklin a matter of regret because of their expense and their injurious effect upon his health. Virtue he seems to have regarded chiefly as a means to the favor of man. The favor of God, which the Puritan implored in fasts and vigils, Franklin tranquilly expected as the outcome of a life regulated by prudence and virtue. "Having experienced the goodness of that Being in conducting me prosperously through a long life," he wrote to President Stiles of Yale, "I have no doubt of its continuance in the next, though without the smallest conceit of meriting such goodness."

JOHN WOOLMAN'S RELIGION Strikingly different in almost every respect are the life and aims of John Woolman. "There was a care on my mind," he writes, "so to pass my time that nothing might hinder me from the most steady


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 194 attention to the voice of the true Shepherd." This is the guiding principle of a life so inconspicuous in its outward circumstances and immediate rewards that we cannot possibly apply to it that somewhat worldly and dubious word "career," yet so steadily and unconsciously holy as to deserve our most affectionate regard. Even as a young man Woolman began to be troubled by his own sins and by the dissolute life of many around him. Sometimes he felt moved to speak to others of their manner of life; oftener he concerned himself only with his own shortcomings and found that although "nature was feeble," yet "every trial was a fresh incitement to give himself up wholly to the service of God." From the humility of Woolman's utterances one can hardly doubt that his own sins were less grave than he felt them to be, or that his warnings to others had no touch of the pharisaical about them, but came from a heart that unaffectedly desired the good of all men.

Having learned the trade of a tailor, and having perceived that large possessions are an unnecessary temptation and trouble, Woolman began to journey about and to "pursue worldly business no further than as truth opened [his] way." He presently began to be much concerned about the evils of slavery, at that time practiced by Quakers as by others, and quietly set his face against an institution which he believed was destined to be "grievous to posterity." To act upon his convictions in this matter was not always easy or profitable, as we see from the account of his refusal to write the will of a certain Quaker slaveholder. Woolman felt regret at the loss of the employment and at the necessity of giving offence. But far more deeply he felt "that acting contrary to present outward interest, from a motive of Divine love and in regard to truth and righteousness, and thereby incurring the resentment of people, opens the way to a treasure better than silver, and to a friendship exceeding the friendship of men."

The temper shown in this incident is typical of the entire journal, and it inclines one to believe that such beautiful serenity and modesty


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 Rh as Woolman's are perhaps more rare, as they are certainly more lovely, than mere avoidance of sin. Woolman's care was not to be seen of men, but to be prompted by "the pure spirit which inwardly moves upon the heart." A man taught, as he was, "to wait in silence, sometimes many weeks together," until he hears God's voice, is not likely to offend by an appearance of self-seeking or self-praise. Yet it would be a mistake to leave these two interesting and instructive autobiographies with the feeling that one is the record of a pure and exalted spirit, the other a story of mere self-seeking. Woolman, though both in deed and in temper, far above this world, wrought no small part of a great practical reform. If Franklin's life seems earthy in comparison, it should be remembered that, whatever his motives, he did manage to confer upon his country such benefits in science, in literature, diplomacy, practical arts, and public welfare as should entitle him to a respect which we may well deny to many of his rules for practicing the art of life. We could spare the practical advantages of having had among us a man like Franklin only if it were necessary to do so in order that the inner light which guided John Woolman might not be extinguished.


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 Rh the sky cloudless. The bright stars were shining, and it was long before they fell asleep. Gazing at the stars, they were animated by the natural curiosity so beautifully expressed by the poetess,—

and they began to imagine them the eyes of lovers looking down on them; they began speculating at the choice they would make."

What aggravates the offence in this particular instance is that the translator has thought it necessary to repeat two of these magnificent verses in the same connection in another variant of the same story, and to retail the accompanying text in very similar words. Now, setting aside the verses, it is apparent that the narrative is not given in anything like the way the native Indian must have given it. And this fault runs through the whole book, though it is not always so glaring in its bad taste or so divergent from what the Micmac original may be presumed to have been.

But when we turn from the form to the matter of the book, we can only speak of its high value. It comprises a series of eighty-seven stories, taken down from the mouths of native Indians, in whose midst a great part of Dr. Rand's long life was passed, and of whose good faith he had ample means of judging. The collection may be divided into: (1) Stories which appear to be purely aboriginal; (2) Stories which appear to be derived from European sources; (3) Stories which are in their foundation aboriginal, but which have been more or less influenced by contact with Europeans and their civilisation. And in the two latter classes it is most instructive to observe, on the one hand, how the European stories have been adapted to aboriginal culture, moral and material, and, on the other hand, how the aboriginal stories have been warped and changed by


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 V. JOHN STUART MILL

HE first three chapters of the "Autobiography of John Stuart Mill," by far the most interesting part of the work, are concerned with the methods and results of his extraordinary education. Under the direct supervision of his father he began serious study with Greek at the tender age of three; at twelve he had covered the equivalent of the classical and mathematical requirements for graduation at the English universities, while in history and philosophy he had gone far beyond the requirements of those institutions of learning. Thereafter he continued his studies with unflagging industry, though along more special lines and in large measure independently, very much after the manner of scholarly graduates of the universities ten years his senior. Before he was twenty he had edited a ponderous legal treatise in a fashion which would have been highly creditable to any scholar in the full maturity of his powers. He was then, at twenty, clearly five, and perhaps ten, years in advance of that stage of intellectual acquirement which he would presumably have reached if he had received the education then, or, indeed, now, customary.

THE SUPPOSED ADVANTAGES OF PRECOCITY

By Mill himself this industrious childhood and youth was looked upon as an unmixed blessing. In the opening paragraph of the "Autobiography" he expresses the opinion that his experience shows that usually the early years of life are little better than wasted. But though no one can doubt that the rigorous mental discipline to which the younger Mill was subjected by his father was highly effective, educational methods fortunately have not been influenced by it in the slightest degree. Contrasted with accepted methods, his education was superior in only one respect—it did save time.


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 Rh It enabled Mill to begin work as a mature writer at an unusually early age. But even so it does not follow that he was consequently able to do more or better work during his life than he would have otherwise accomplished. The addition of five or ten years at the outset of a life of normal length, and the work accomplished during those particular years, are not necessarily a net addition to its total achievement. Before drawing this conclusion we should need to be sure that physical strength and mental alertness were not prematurely lessened in consequence of the early training. After all, for continuous constructive intellectual work, the keeping of the mind open to new impressions and ideas is the one thing fundamentally important; and, while Mill was far superior to many of the world's great thinkers in this respect, this trait does not seem to have been due to the character of his education.

THE DEFECTS OF MILL'S EDUCATION That he was deprived of the ordinary activities and pleasures of childhood and youth does not seem to have been an occasion of regret to Mill. As a philosopher and psychologist he might have been expected to recognize that his exclusive absorption in study during his early years must have narrowed the range of his knowledge of life and his capacity to act with and to lead other men. Mill's attitude toward life was always, and especially in the earlier years of his career, excessively intellectual. He exaggerated the force of reasoned conclusions as a factor in individual conduct and as a means of bringing about social improvement. One cannot but feel that the few years saved by Mill in the acquiring of knowledge from books involved some sacrifice of knowledge and understanding of the ordinary impulses and motives of men and women. Still another defect in an education such as Mill received remains for consideration, though happily he escaped its threatened consequences. His father was one of the foremost of the utilitarian philosophers. He applied the principles of that school to the various problems of individual and of social improvement earnestly and with no lack of dogmatism. He impressed his views upon the mind of his son when he was far too young to subject them to critical analysis and to form an independent judgment regarding them


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72 contact with European civilisation. Want of space compels us to forego illustrations; but there need be no hesitation in saying that to the student of the migration of folk-tales Dr. Rand's collection offers some remarkable evidence.

The historical traditions are less important than they would be if we were furnished with the means of checking the statements they contain with testimony of a more trustworthy character. But they are worth examination, even if regarded as no more than native hypotheses of such events, for example, as the origin of the feud between the Micmacs and the Mohawks, based upon native knowledge of manners and customs. Indeed, all the tales are valuable for the study of native custom and belief In a European märchen we feel at once that we are in a different world from that which we inhabit day by day. But here there is no such feeling. The line between stories told for the pleasure of the telling, and the stories told because they are believed to be true, or at all events possible, is hardly drawn. We are in the same atmosphere in both cases, and there seems no reason why the story of the Magical Dancing Doll—that of Aladdin—should not be to the Indian mind as real as the historical traditions in another part of the volume.

.

" allowance", writes Mr. C. G. Leland, in his Introduction to this book, "should always be made for the first work by a young writer." It was unnecessary to write thus in introducing such a work as Miss Owen's. From the first page to the last there is not a dull page in it. The portraiture of the five old women is admirable, and their talk delicious. Usually, the setting of a work on


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Rh folk-lore in a fictitious, or semi-fictitious, framework is hardly to be commended from a scientific point of view; but in the present case the value of the book is increased. The tellers of the tales, and utterers of the aphorisms, are so carefully described, with their antecedents and descent, that we are enabled to distinguish between their opinions, and to a great extent to assign their several contributions to the various influences under which the interlocutors have come.

It is very difficult to select any of the stories for special praise where all are so good. They are by no means confined to those with which we are familiar in Uncle Remus and Mr. Charles Jones' Negro Myths from the Georgia Coast. When we come upon these we find fresh and interesting variants. Many of the tales, however —probably the greater proportion—are quite new. This is to be attributed to the mixture of Indian blood and Indian influence, which has enriched the stock both of tales and of superstitions. The prescription for attaching a dog to oneself is curious, and the story of the rabbit who tried it is extremely funny. They seem to be, at bottom, Lenape traditions. The Luck-ball, too, as here described, is largely, if not chiefly, made in accordance with Indian prescriptions. Voodooism, in fact, of which we are persuaded Miss Owen has yet much of great importance to tell us, has been affected by Indian practices in the Missouri valley to an extent of which we can adequately judge only when we have a fuller and more systematic account before us, and can compare it with what we know of Indian rites. Miss Owen was able only to whet our appetite at the London Congress; and she is far from satisfying it on the subject of Voodoo mysteries in Old Rabbit. It is to be hoped that, ere long, she will give the scientific world that information she alone can supply.

The illustrations, by Miss Juliette Owen and Mr. Wain, add greatly to the amusement of the book.


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198 through comparison with the opinions of other thinkers and from experience of life itself. Mill's early writings are, therefore, and quite naturally, little more than the expression of the views of his father with such acute modifications as might be expected from one gifted with his powerful intellect.

THE STARVING OF EMOTION

In the course of time the utilitarian philosophy, in the form in which it had come to him from his father, ceased to satisfy the distinctly more emotional nature of the son. He became so completely disillusioned with the dry content of this philosophy that he became depressed, lost all joy in work and therewith the capacity for constructive intellectual effort. Perhaps the most valuable part of the "Autobiography" is the account of this distressed and anxious period, and of the various influences which widened his horizon and humanized his views of life and its significance. Being a man of books, it was largely through a change in the character of his reading that he found solace. The poems of Wordsworth were the most potent single influence. It is altogether likely that a person born with less varied natural endowments would have remained content with and fixed in the cast of thought resulting from premature acquaintance with a single school of philosophy.

MILL'S CONTRIBUTION TO UTILITARIANISM AND LIBERALISM This experience is reflected in the contribution made by Mill to utilitarian ethical theories. While adhering to the position that happiness is simply the sum total of pleasures, he made a distinction between higher and lower qualities of pleasure, regarding the higher as indefinitely more desirable than the lower. The criteria for making an exact classification of pleasures were, however, not fully and adequately worked out by Mill. Various branches of knowledge, in particular psychology and sociology, had not been developed sufficiently far for the purpose. On this, as on many other subjects, the work of Mill has been superseded, owing to fundamental differences in methods of approach even more than to the accumulation of additional data. Among influences of special far-reaching


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 200 is often no more than an indispensable preliminary to positive means of improvement and that opportunities thus provided are by no means certain to be made use of. After making every qualification, however, the liberal movement of the nineteenth century surely made possible a long step forward in human progress. In this movement the writings of John Stuart Mill were a potent factor.


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Rh may be mentioned the evolutionary hypothesis, and what may be called, in contradistinction to the intellectual analytical psychology of Mill's time, the scientific psychology of the present. The most influential of all Mill's writings has been "The Principles of Political Economy," published in 1848. In writing this treatise, Mill had two purposes in view. In the first place, he wished to bring together the many improvements which had been made in the principles of the subject since the appearance of "The Wealth of Nations" in 1776 and, following the example of Adam Smith, to illustrate their practical applications. Here he was conspicuously successful. Many writers in recent years have set themselves the same task with no such measure of accomplishment. In the second place, he wished to relate economic principles and phenomena to his own social ideals and social philosophy. The character of these social ideals and the nature of his social philosophy are abundantly set forth in the "Autobiography," where particular attention is given to the influence upon his mind of his wife and of Auguste Comte, the father of the science of sociology. It can hardly be said that Mill was fully successful in this effort. The purely economic part of the treatise and the social philosophy are not fused together and at times are positively contradictory. Nevertheless, the treatise gained in human interest from the effort thus made, and at all events the way was indicated toward a broader treatment of social and economic questions than had been customary among economists since the time of Adam Smith. The personality revealed in the "Autobiography" is one that cannot fail to command respect and admiration. An ardent desire for social as well as individual progress is conspicuous both in the analysis of the growth of his own mind and in what is said about his own writings. Detailed consideration of the various reforms which he advocated in his writings is impossible within the narrow limits of a single lecture. In a general way it may be noted that Mill expected greater results from the removal of obstructions to freedom of thought and action and from education than in fact have been realized. It is now more clearly evident that the removal of


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404 flame of ideal science, although for many this may indeed have burned with pale but steady glow; for them, perhaps as much as for any men, it was the fiercer flame which burns in the hearts of all true explorers, for whom the doing is more than the deed, who go because in very truth they must.

Such a hasty glance at the history of travel from earliest times can do little more than suggest the vastness and the interest of the field. In so wide a prospect only the larger features of the landscape can be seen, and if we have, so to speak, had only glimpses of the higher mountain peaks, it does not follow that there is less of interest in the valleys that nestle at their feet. We have of necessity considered only the great travelers, the great journeys, but those more humble and of lesser compass are not therefore to be despised. Of such more modest travelers, whose little journeys lay in narrower fields, there are a host; and from the best, with their intimate local knowledge, their keen and critical observations, their sympathetic descriptions, we may gain great pleasure and be stimulated perhaps to make all the use possible of the opportunities which come to us to see more thoroughly and with a more observing eye the country and the people round about.

METHODS OF TRAVEL

No one can read the records of the travelers of different periods without being struck by the differences in the character and method of travel which they reveal. Although reference to the comfort, the rapidity, and the safety of modern travel, at least along the great highways of the civilized world, is a commonplace, yet the contrast of the present conditions with those that formerly obtained is none the less noteworthy. The earlier travelers had frequently to go alone, sometimes disguise was their only hope, and they were, far more than at present, subject to hardship, suffering, and danger. They made, indeed were able to make, little in the way of special preparation for the journey; they carried with them little in the way of special outfit; and they traveled as a rule very slowly, often halting or being obliged to halt long on the way. Dependent for guidance frequently on the information of suspicious or unfriendly folk, they often went astray, and lacking regular or direct means of


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 communication, they had often to journey by very roundabout routes to reach their goal. To-day the conditions have vastly changed. The lonely traveler or the elaborately organized expedition alike are spared much of the hardship and danger, and both may secure all sorts of cunningly devised special equipment and supplies, which not only add enormously to comfort and safety, but to the certainty of success. Travel away from the beaten track or exploration in untraveled regions is still and of necessity slow compared with what it is in civilized lands, but the traveler and explorer in remote places to-day has at least this inestimable advantage, that he is able to reach quickly and easily the actual point of departure into the unknown.

THE PLEASURES AND PROFITS OF TRAVEL

Of the advantages and of the pleasures of travel there is little need to speak—they are too obvious. New lands, new peoples, new experiences, all alike offer to the traveler the opportunity of a wider knowledge. He may add almost without limit thus to his stores, although in this field as in most others it must be remembered that "he who would bring back the wealth of the Indies must take with him the wealth of the Indies"—in other words he will gain just in proportion to the knowledge and appreciation which he brings. But greater than any knowledge gained is the influence which travel exerts or should exert on habits of thought, and on one's attitude to one's fellow man. A wider tolerance, a juster appreciation of the real values in life, a deeper realization of the oneness of mankind, and a growing wonder at the magnitude of the achievements of the race—these are some of the results which travel rightly pursued cannot fail to produce. Quite apart, moreover, from any or all of these things, desirable as they are, is the pleasure of travel in and for itself. It has been already pointed out that this is for some the main, and for many at least an important if unadmitted, motive. To the real traveler there is no joy which is keener, no pleasure more lasting, no call more imperious, than that of travel. There is fatigue, hardship, perhaps suffering, to be endured—for him this is of small moment, for they will soon pass; the recollection even of them will fade away—all these will be forgotten, while the


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406 memory holds with almost undiminished clearness the wonder and the beauty of the past. For him the colors of old sunsets glow with undimmed splendor, in his ears the winds of other days still make their music, and in his nostrils is still the perfume of flowers that long passed away.

We cannot all be travelers; there are many who must be content to do their traveling in an arm chair. Rightly read, however, the records of others' journeys may bring to the reader much not only of value but of pleasure. He may play consciously the part which for the traveler memory plays unconsciously, and from the mass of experience select and hold only the best. For him thus the patience, the heroism, and the indomitable perseverance revealed in the lives and deeds of great travelers may serve as an inspiration; and from their description of the wonder and the beauty of the world he may gain some understanding of and sympathy with those who have in all ages set their faces toward the unseen; whose spirit has been that put into the mouth of Ulysses:

my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die.


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I HEN the literary historian seeks to assign to each age its favorite form of literature, he finds no difficulty in dealing with our own time. As the Middle Ages delighted in long romantic narrative poems, the Elizabethans in drama, the Englishman of the reigns of Anne and the early Georges in didactic and satirical verse, so the public of our day is enamored of the novel. Almost all types of literary production continue to appear, but whether we judge from the lists of publishers, the statistics of public libraries, or general conversation, we find abundant evidence of the enormous preponderance of this kind of literary entertainment in popular favor.

Though the instinct for a good story, on which the interest in fiction is based, is of immemorial antiquity, and may well be as old as human speech, the novel, as we understand it, is comparatively modern. The unsophisticated folk tale, represented by the contents of such collections as that of the brothers Grimm, lacks the element of lifelikeness both in incident and character, and is too limited in scale to be regarded as anything but a very remote ancestor. The "Fables" ascribed to Æsop are mere anecdotes with a moral. The myths of both the Mediterranean and the Northern nations are not primarily concerned with human life at all. Epic poetry, besides deriving from its verse a sustained emotional elevation usually


text: Folk-Lore/Volume 5/Should Folk-tales be Termed Modern?