views of its significance. The Divine Idea is fixed and determined in his mind, — all its individual parts are likewise determined. The particular form of its ex pression for a particular Age may also be determined; but the living movement of its communication is infinite as the growth of the Human Race. Let no one continue in this calling in whom the mode of this communication, although it may have been the most perfect of his Age, begins to grow old and formal, — none in whom the fountain of youth does not still flow on with unimpaired vigour. Let him faithfully trust himself to its current so long as it will bear him forward: when it leaves him, then let him be content to retire from this ever-shifting scene of onward being; — let him separate the dead from the living.
It was a necessary part of the plan which I marked out to you, to treat of the dignity of the Academic Teacher. I hope that in doing so I have exhibited the same strictness with which I have spoken of the other subjects which have fallen under our notice, — without allowing myself to be seduced into any lenity towards it by the consideration that I myself practise the calling of which I have spoken, and that I have practised it even in speaking of it. Whence I have derived this firmness, — on what feeling it rests, — you may inquire at another time; it is sufficient for you now to understand clearly, that Truth, in every possible application of it, still remains true.
( 353 ) LECTURE X.
To complete our survey of the vocation of the Scholar, we have to-day only to consider that department of it which belongs to the Author.
I have hitherto contented myself with clearly setting forth the True Idea of the different subjects of our inquiry, without casting a single glance at the actual state of things in the present age. It is almost im possible to proceed in this way with the subject which I am to discuss to-day. The Idea of the Author is almost unknown in our age, and something most un worthy usurps its name. This is the peculiar disgrace of the age, — the true source of all its other scientific evils. The inglorious has become glorious, and is encouraged, honoured, and rewarded.
According to the almost universally received opinion, it is a merit and an honour for a man to have printed something merely because he has printed it, and with out any regard to what it is which he has printed, and what may be its result. They, too, lay claim to the highest rank in the republic of letters, who announce the fact that somebody has printed something, and what that something is; or, as the phrase goes, who " review" the works of others. It is almost inexplicable how H h 2 354 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
such an absurd opinion could have arisen and taken root, when we consider the subject in its true light.
Thus stands the matter: In the latter half of the past century, Reading took the place of some other amusements which had gone out of fashion. This new luxury demanded, from time to time, new fancy goods; for it is of course quite impossible that one should read over again what one has read already, or those things which our forefathers have read before us; just as it would be altogether unbecoming to appear frequently in fashionable society in the same costume, or to dress according to the notions of one's grandfather. The new want gave birth to a new trade, striving to nourish and enrich itself by purveying the wares now in de mand, — namely, Bookselling. The success of those who first undertook this trade encouraged others to engage in it, until, in our own days, it has come to this, that this mode of obtaining a livelihood is greatly over stocked, and the quantity of these goods produced is much too large in proportion to the consumers. The book-merchant, like the dealer in any other commodity, orders his goods from the manufacturer, solely with the view of bringing them to the market; — at times he also buys uncommissioned goods which have been manufactured only upon speculation; and the Author who writes for the sake of writing is this manufacturer.
It is impossible to conceive why the book-manufacturer should take precedence of any other manufacturer; he ought rather to feel that he is far inferior to any other manufacturer, inasmuch as the luxury to which he ministers is more pernicious than any other. That he find a merchant for his wares may indeed be useful and profitable to him, but how it should be an honour LECTURE X. 355 is not readily discoverable. Surely no value can be set upon the judgment of the publisher, which is only a judgment on the saleableness or unsaleableness of the goods.
Amid this bustle and pressure of the literary trade, a happy thought struck some one; — this, namely, out of all the books which were printed, to make one' periodical book, so that the reader of this book might be spared the trouble of reading any other. It was fortunate that this last purpose was not completely successful, and that everybody did not take to reading this book exclusively, since then no others would have been purchased, and consequently no others printed; so that this book too, being constantly dependent upon other books for the possibility of its own existence, must likewise have remained unprinted.
He who undertook such a work, which is commonly called a Literary Journal, Literary Gazette, &c. &c., had the advantage of seeing his work increase by the charitable contributions of many anonymous indivi duals, and of thus earning honour and profit by the labour of others. To veil his own poverty of ideas, he pretended to pass judgment on the authors whom he quoted, — a shallow pretence to the thinker who looks below the surface. For either the book is — as most books are at present — a bad book, only printed that there might be one more book in the world; and in this case it never ought to have been written, and is a nullity, and consequently the judgment upon it is a nullity also; — or, the book is a true Literary Work, such as we shall hereafter describe; and then it is the result of a whole powerful life devoted to Art or Science, and so would require another whole life as 3o6 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
powerful as the first to be employed in its judgment. On such a work it is not altogether possible to pass a final judgment in a couple of sheets, within a quarter or half year after its appearance. How can it be any honour to contribute to such collections, when true talent will, on the contrary, be always more disposed to execute a connected work upon a plan originated and drawn out by itself, than to allow the current of its thoughts to be interrupted by every accident of the day, until that interruption is broken by some new occurrence? The disposition continually to watch the thoughts of others, and on these thoughts, please God, to hang our own attempts at thinking, — is a certain sign of immaturity and of a weak and dependent mind. Or does the honour consist in this, — that the con ductors of such works should consider us capable of filling the office of judge, and actually make it over to us? Their opinion goes no deeper in reality than that of a common unlettered printer, — of the saleable- ness or unsaleablencss of the goods, and of the outward reputation which may thereby accrue to their critical establishment.
I am not unaware that what I have now said may seem very paradoxical. All of us who are connected in any way with Knowledge, which in this connexion may be termed Literature, grow up in the notion that literary industry is a blessing, — an advantage, — an ho nourable distinction of our cultivated and philosophical age; and but few have power to see through its sup posed advantages, and resolve them into their essential nothingness. The only apparent reason which can be adduced in defence of such perverted industry is, in my opinion, this: — that thereby an extensive literary LECTURE X. 357 LECTURE X. 357 public is kept alive, roused to attention, and, as it were, held together; so that, should anything of real value and importance be brought before it, this public shall be found already existing, and not have to be first called together. But I answer, that, in the first place, the means appear much too extensive for the end contemplated, — it seems too great a sacrifice that many generations should spend their time upon nothing, in order that some future generation may be enabled to occupy itself with something; — and further, it is by no means true that a public is only kept alive by this perverse activity; it is at the same time per verted, vitiated, and ruined for the appreciation of anything truly valuable. Much that is excellent has made its appearance in our age, — I shall only instance the Kantian Philosophy, — but this very activity of the literary market has destroyed, perverted, and de graded it, so that its spirit has fled, and now only a ghost of it stalks about, which no one can venerate.
The Literary History of our own day shows the real thinker how writing for writing's sake may be honoured and applauded. A few Authors only ex- cepted, our Literary Men have in their own writings borne worse testimony against themselves than any one else could have given against them; and no even moderately well-disposed person would be inclined to consider the writers of our day so shallow, perverse, and spiritless, as the majority show themselves in their works. The only way to retain any respect for the age, any desire to influence it, is this, — to assume that those who proclaim their opinions aloud are inferior men, and that only among those who keep silence some may be found who are capable of teaching better things.
358 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
Thus, when I speak of the Literary Vocation, it is not the Literary Trade of the age which I mean, but something quite other than that.
I have already set forth the Idea of the Author when distinguishing it from that of the Oral Teacher of Progressive Scholars. Both have to express and communicate the Idea in language: the latter, for particular individuals, by whose capacity for receiving it he must be guided; the former, without regard to any individual, and in the most perfect form which can be given to it in his age.
The Author must embody the Idea, — he must there fore be a partaker of the Idea. All Literary Works are either works of Art or of Science. Whatever may be the subject of a work of the first class, it is evident that since it has no direct significance of its own, and thus teaches the reader nothing, it can only awaken the Idea itself within him, and furnish it with a fitting embodiment; otherwise it would be but an empty play of words, and have no real meaning. Whatever may be the subject of a scientific work, the Author of such a work must not conceive of Knowledge in a mere historical fashion, and only as received from others; but he must for himself have spiritually penetrated to the Idea of Knowledge on some one of its sides, and produce it in a self-creative, new, and hitherto un known form. If he be but a link in the chain of his torical tradition, and can do no more than hand down to others the knowledge which he himself has received, and only in the form in which it already exists in some work whence he has obtained it, — then let him leave others in peace to draw from this fountain whence he also has drawn. What need is there of his officious LECTURE X. 359 LECTURE X. 359 intermeddling? To do over again that which has been done already, is to do nothing; and no man who pos sesses common honesty and conscientiousness will allow himself to indulge in such idleness. Can the Age, then, furnish him with no occupation which is suited to his powers, that he must thus employ himself in doing what he ought not to do? It is not necessary that he should write an entirely new work in any branch of Knowledge, but only a better work than any hitherto existing. He who cannot do this, should absolutely not write; — it is a crime — a want of ho nesty, to do so, which at the most can only be excused by his thoughtlesness and utter want of any true un derstanding of the vocation which he assumes.
He must express the Idea in language, in a generally intelligible manner, in a perfect form. The Idea must therefore have become in him so clear, living, and independent, that it already clothes itself to him in words; and, penetrating to the innermost spirit of his language, frames from thence a vesture for itself, by its own inherent power. The Idea itself must speak, not the Author. His will, his individuality, his pecu liar method and art, must disappear from his page, so that only the method and art of his Idea may live the highest life which it can attain in his language and in his time. As he is free from the obligation under which the Oral Teacher lies, — to accommodate himself to the capacities of others, — so he has not this apology to plead before himself. He has no specific reader in view, but he himself must mould his reader, and lay down to him the law which he must obey. There may be printed productions addressed only to a certain age and a certain circle; — we shall see afterwards un- 360 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
der what conditions such writings may be necessary; but these do not belong to the class of essentially Literary Works of which we now speak, but are printed discourses, — printed because the circle to which they are addressed cannot be brought together.
In order that in this way the Idea may in his per son become master of his language, it is necessary that he shall first have acquired a mastery over that lan guage. The Idea does not rule the language directly, but only through him as possessor of the language. This indispensable mastery of the Author over his language is only acquired by preparatory exercises, long continued and persevered in; which exercises are studies for future works, but are not themselves works, — which the conscientious Scholar writes indeed, but will never allow to be printed. It requires, I say, long and persevering exercise; but, happily, these conditions mutually promote each other; — as the Idea becomes more vivid, language spontaneously appears; and as facility of expression is increased, the Idea flows forth in greater clearness.
These are the first and most necessary conditions of all true Authorship. The Idea itself, — of express ing his Idea in language in the manner which we have described, — is that which lives, and alone lives in him within whom the presentiment has arisen that he may one day send forth a Literary Work; — it is this which animates him in his preparations and studies for that work, as well as in the future com pletion of his design.
By this Idea he is inspired with a dignified and sacred conception of the Literary calling. The work of the Oral Teacher is, in its immediate application, LECTURE X. 361 only a work for the time, modified by the degree of culture possessed by those who are entrusted to his care. Only in so far as he can venture to suppose that he is moulding future Teachers worthy of their calling, who, in their turn, will train others for the same task, and so on without end, can he regard himself as work ing for Eternity. But the work of the Author is in itself a work for Eternity. Even should future ages transcend the Knowledge which is revealed in his work, still in that work he "has not recorded his knowledge alone, but also the fixed and settled character of a certain age in its relation to Knowledge; and this will preserve its interest so long as the human race en dures. Independent of all vicissitude and change, his pages speak in every age to all men who are able to realize his thought; and thus continue their in spiring, elevating, and ennobling work, even to the end of time.
The Idea, in this its acknowledged sacredness, moves him, — and it alone moves him. He does not think that he has attained anything, until he has attained all, — until his work stands before him in the purity and perfectness after which he has struggled. Devoid of love for his own person, faithfully devoted to the Idea by which he is continually guided, he recognises with certain glance, and in its true character, every trace of his former nature which remains in his expression of the Idea, and unceasingly strives to free himself from it. So long as he is not conscious of this absolute freedom and purity, he has not attained his object, but still works on. In such an age as we have already described, in which the publication of Knowledge has greatly increased, and has even fallen into the hands of i i 362 THE NATURE OF THE SCHOLAR.
some who are better fitted for any other occupation than for this, it may be necessary for him to give some preliminary account of his labours; other modes of communication, too, — that of the Teacher for instance, — may present themselves to him; but he will never put forth these occasional writings for anything else than what they are, — preliminary announcements ad apted to a certain age and certain circumstances; he will never regard them as finished works, destined for immortality.
The Idea alone urges him forward; — nothing else. All personal regards have disappeared from his view. I do not speak of his own person, — of his having entirely forgotten himself in his vocation; — this has been already sufficiently set forth. The personality of others has no more weight with him than his own, when opposed to truth and the Idea. I do not men tion that he will not encroach upon the rights of other Scholars or Authors in their civic or personal relations: that is altogether below his dignity who has to do only with realities: — it is also below the dignity of these discourses to make mention of that. But this I will remark, that he will not allow himself to be restrained, by forbearance towards any person whatever, from demolishing error and establishing truth in its place. The worst insult that can be offered, even to a half- educated man, is to suppose that he can be offended by the exposure of an error which he has entertained, or the proclamation of a truth which has escaped his notice. From this bold and open profession of truth, as he perceives it, without regard to any man, he will suffer nothing to lead him astray, not even the politely expressed contempt of the so-called fashionable world, LECTURE X. 363 LECTURE X. 363 which can only conceive of the Literary Vocation by analogy with its own social circles, and would impose the etiquette of the Court upon the conduct of the Scholar.
I here close these Lectures. If a thought of mine have entered into any now present, and shall abide there as a guide to higher truth, perhaps it may sometimes awaken the memory of these lectures and of me, — and only in this way do I desire to live in your re collection.
THE VOCATION OF MAN.
BY JOHAKCT GOTTLIEB FICHTE.
Kk PREFACE.
WHATEVER in the more recent Philosophy can be useful beyond the limits of the schools is intended to form the contents of this work, set forth in that order in which it would naturally present itself to unscientific thought. The more profound arguments by which the subtle objections and extravagances of over-refined minds are to be met, — whatever is but the foundation of other Positive Science, — and lastly, whatever belongs to Pedagogy in its widest sense, that is, to the deliberate and arbitrary Education of the Human Race, — shall remain beyond the limits of our task. These objections are not made by the natural un derstanding; — Positive Science it leaves to Scholars by profession; and the Education of the Human Race, in so far as that depends upon human effort, to its appointed Teachers and Statesmen.
This book is therefore not intended for philosophers by profession, who will find nothing in it that has not been already set forth in other works of the same author. It ought to be intelligible to all readers who are able generally 368 PREFACE.
to understand a book at all. To those who only wish to repeat, in somewhat varied order, certain phrases which they have already learned by rote, and who mistake this business of the memory for understanding, it will probably be found unintelligible.
It ought to attract and animate the reader, and to elevate him above the world of sense, to a transcendental region; — at least the author is conscious that he has not entered upon his task without such inspiration. Often, indeed, the fire with which we commence an undertaking disappears during the toil of execution; and thus, at the conclusion of a work, we are in danger of doing ourselves injustice upon this point. In short, whether the author has succeeded in attaining his object or not, can only be determined by the effect which the work shall produce on the readers to whom it is addressed, — and in this the author has no voice.
I must, however, remind my reader that the " I " who speaks in the book is not the author himself, but it is his earnest wish that the reader should himself assume this character, and that he should not rest contented with a mere historical apprehension of what is here said, but really and truly, during reading, hold converse with himself, de liberate, draw conclusions, and form resolutions, like his representative in the book, and, by his own labour and reflection, develope out of his own soul, and build up within himself, that mode of thought the mere picture of which is laid before him in the work.
BOOK FIRST DOUBT.
BOOK I.
DOUBT.
I BELIEVE that I am now tolerably well acquainted with no inconsiderable part of the world that surrounds me, and I have certainly employed sufficient labour and care in the acquisition of this knowledge. I have put faith only in the concurrent testimony of my senses, only in repeated and unvarying experience; — what I have beheld, I have touched — what I have touched, I have analyzed; — I have repeated my ob servations again and again; I have compared the va rious phenomena with each other; and only when I could understand their mutual connexion, when I could explain and deduce the one from the other, and cal culate the result beforehand, and the examination of the result had proved the accuracy of my calculations, have I been satisfied. Therefore I am now as well assured of the accuracy of this part of my knowledge, as of my own existence; I walk with a firm step in these understood spheres of my world, and do actually every moment venture welfare and life itself on the certainty of my convictions.
But — what am I myself, and what is my vocation?
372 THE VOCATION OF MAN.
Superfluous question! It is long since I have re ceived complete instruction upon these points, and it would take much time to repeat all that I have heard, learned, and believed concerning them.
And in what way then have I attained this know ledge, which I have this dim remembrance of pos sessing? Have I, impelled by a burning desire of knowledge, toiled on through uncertainty, doubt, and contradiction? — have I, when anything credible pre sented itself before me, withheld my assent until I had examined and reexamined, sifted and compared it, — until an inward voice proclaimed to me, irresistibly and without the possibility of mistake, — " So is it, as surely as thou livest and art!" — No! I remember no such state of mind. Those instructions were be stowed on me before I sought them, the answers were given before I had put the questions. I heard, for I could not avoid doing so, and what was taught me remained in my memory just as chance had disposed it; — without examination, and without interference, I allowed everything to take its place in my mind.
How then could I persuade myself that I really possessed any knowledge upon these matters? If I know that only of which I am convinced, which I have myself discovered, myself experienced, then I cannot truly say that I possess even the slightest knowledge of my vocation; — I know only what others assert they know about it, and all that I can really be assured of is, that I have heard this or that said upon the subject.
Thus, while I have inquired for myself with the most anxious care, into comparatively trivial matters, 1 have relied wholly on the care and fidelity of others BOOK I. DOUBT.
375 in things of the weightiest importance. I have Hi, a tributed to others an interest in the highest affairs ot humanity, an earnestness and an exactitude which I have by no means discovered in myself. I have es teemed them as indescribably higher than myself.
Whatever truth they really possess, whence can they have obtained it but through their own reflection? And why may not I, by means of the same reflection, discover the same truth, since I too have a being as well as they? How much have I hitherto undervalued and slighted myself!
It shall be no longer thus. From this moment I will enter on my rights, and assume the dignity which belongs to me. Let all foreign aids be cast aside! I will examine for myself. If any secret wishes con cerning the result of my inquiries, any partial leaning towards certain conclusions, should arise within me, I forget and renounce them, and I will accord them no influence over the direction of my thoughts. I will perform my task with firmness and integrity; — I will candidly admit all that I really discover. What I find to be truth, let it sound as it may, shall be welcome to me. I will knoiv. With the same certainty with which I can calculate that this ground will sup port me when I tread on it, that this fire will burn me if I approach too near it, will I know what I am, and what I shall be. And should it prove impossible for me to know this, then I will know this much at least, that I cannot know it. Even to this conclusion of my inquiry will I submit, should it approve itself to me as the truth. I hasten to the fulfilment of my task.
372 THE VOCATION OF MAN.