The Basis of Morality

CHAPTER VI.

ON THE DERIVED FORMS OF THE LEADING PRINCIPLE OF THE KANTIAN ETHICS.

It is well known that Kant put the leading principle of his Ethics into another quite different shape, in which it is expressed directly; the first being indirect, indeed nothing more than an indication as to how the principle is to be sought for. Beginning at p. 63 (R., p. 55), he prepares the way for his second formula by means of very strange, ambiguous, not to say distorted,[1] definitions of the conceptions End and Means, which may be much more simply and correctly denoted thus: an End is the direct motive of an act of the Will, a Means the indirect: simplex sigillum veri (simplicity is the seal of truth). Kant, however, slips through his wonderful enunciations to the statement: "Man, indeed every rational being, exists as an end in himself." On this I must remark that "to exist as an end in oneself" is an unthinkable expression, a contradictio in adjecto.[2] To be an end means to be an object of volition. Every end can only exist in relation to a will, whose end, i.e., (as above stated), whose direct motive it is. Only thus can the idea, "end" have any sense, which is lost as soon as such connection is broken. But this relation, which is essential to the thing, necessarily excludes every "in itself." "End in oneself" is exactly like saying: "Friend in oneself;—enemy in oneself;—uncle in oneself;—north or east in itself;—above or below in itself;" and so on. At bottom the "end in itself" is in the same case as the "absolute ought"; the same thought—the theological—secretly, indeed, unconsciously lies at the root of each as its condition. Nor is the "absolute worth," which is supposed to be attached to this alleged, though unthinkable, "end in itself," at all better circumstanced. It also must be characterised, without pity, as a contradictio in adjecto. Every "worth" is a valuation by comparison, and its bearing is necessarily twofold. First, it is relative, since it exists for some one; and secondly, it is comparative, as being compared with something else, and estimated accordingly. Severed from these two conditions, the conception, "worth," loses all sense and meaning, and so obviously, that further demonstration is needless. But more: just as the phrases "end in itself" and "absolute worth" outrage logic, so true morality is outraged by the statement on p. 65 (R., p. 56), that irrational beings (that is, animals) are things, and should therefore be treated simply as means, which are not at the same time ends. In harmony with this, it is expressly declared in the Metaphysische Anfanggründe der Tugendlehre, § 16: "A man can have no duties towards any being, except towards his fellow-men;" and then, § 17, we read: "To treat animals cruelly runs counter to the duty of man towards himself; because it deadens the feeling of sympathy for them in their sufferings, and thus weakens a natural tendency which is very serviceable to morality in relation to other men." So one is only to have compassion on animals for the sake of practice, and they are as it were the pathological phantom on which to train one's sympathy with men! In common with the whole of Asia that is not tainted by Islâm (which is tantamount to Judaism), I regard such tenets as odious and revolting. Here, once again, we see withal how entirely this philosophical morality, which is, as explained above, only a theological one in disguise, depends in reality on the biblical Ethics. Thus, because Christian morals leave animals out of consideration (of which more later on); therefore in philosophical morals they are of course at once outlawed; they are merely "things," simply means to ends of any sort; and so they are good for vivisection, for deer-stalking, bull-fights, horse-races, etc., and they may be whipped to death as they struggle along with heavy quarry carts. Shame on such a morality which is worthy of Pariahs, Chandalas and Mlechchas[3]; which fails to recognise the Eternal Reality immanent in everything that has life, and shining forth with inscrutable significance from all eyes that see the sun! This is a morality which knows and values only the precious species that gave it birth; whose characteristic—reason—it makes the condition under which a being may be an object of moral regard.

By this rough path, then,—indeed, per fas et nefas (by fair means and by foul), Kant reaches the second form in which he expresses the fundamental principle of his Ethics: "Act in such a way that you at all times treat mankind, as much in your own person, as in the person of every one else, not only as a Means, but also as an End." Such a statement is a very artificial and roundabout way of saying: "Do not consider yourself alone, but others also;" this in turn is a paraphrase for: Quod tibi fieri non vis, alteri ne feceris (do not to another what you are unwilling should be done to yourself); and the latter, as I have said, contains nothing but the premises to the conclusion, which is the true and final goal of all morals and of all moralising; Neminem laede, immo omnes, quantum potes juva (do harm to no one; but rather help all people as far as lies in your power). Like all beautiful things, this proposition looks best unveiled. Be it only observed that the alleged duties towards oneself are dragged into this second Kantian edict intentionally and not without difficulty. Some place of course had to be found for them.[4]

Another objection that could be raised against the formula is that the malefactor condemned to be executed is treated merely as an instrument, and not as an end, and this with perfectly good reason; for he is the indispensable means of upholding the terror of the law by its fulfilment, and of thus accomplishing the law's end—the repression of crime.

But if this second definition helps nothing towards laying a foundation for Ethics, if it cannot even pass muster as its leading principle, that is, as an adequate and direct summary of ethical precepts; it has nevertheless the merit of containing a fine aperçu of moral psychology, for it marks egoism by an exceedingly characteristic token, which is quite worth while being here more closely considered. This egoism, then, of which each of us is full, and to conceal which, as our partie honteuse, we have invented politeness, is perpetually peering through every veil cast over it, and may especially be detected in the fact that our dealings with all those, who come across our path, are directed by the one object of trying to find, before everything else, and as if by instinct, a possible means to any of the numerous ends with which we are always engrossed. When we make a new acquaintance, our first thought, as a rule, is whether the man can be useful to us in some way. If he can do nothing for our benefit, then as soon as we are convinced of this, he himself generally becomes nothing to us. To seek in all other people a possible means to our ends, in other words, to make them our instruments, is almost part of the very nature of human eyes; and whether the instrument will have to suffer more or less in the using, is a thought which comes much later, sometimes not at all. That we assume others to be similarly disposed is shown in many ways; e.g., by the fact that, when we ask any one for information or advice, we lose all confidence in his words directly we discover that he may have some interest in the matter, however small or remote. For then we immediately take for granted that he will make us a means to his ends, and hence give his advice not in accordance with his discernment, but with his desire, and this, no matter how exact the former may be, or how little the latter seem involved; since we know only too well that a cubic inch of desire weighs much more than a cubic yard of discernment. Conversely, when we ask in such cases: "What ought I to do?" as a rule, nothing else will occur to our counsellor, but how we should shape our action to suit his own ends; and to this effect he will give his reply immediately, and as it were mechanically, without so much as bestowing a thought on our ends; because it is his Will that directly dictates the answer, or ever the question can come before the bar of his real judgment. Hence he tries to mould our conduct to his own benefit, without even being conscious of it, and while he supposes that he is speaking out of the abundance of his discernment, in reality he is nothing but the mouth-piece of his own desire; indeed, such self-deception may lead him so far as to utter lies, without being aware of it. So greatly does the influence of the Will preponderate that of the Intelligence. Consequently, it is not the testimony of our own consciousness, but rather, for the most part, that of our interest, which avails to determine whether our language be in accordance with what we discern, or what we desire. To take another case. Let us suppose that a man pursued by enemies and in danger of life, meets a pedlar and inquires for some by-way of escape; it may happen that the latter will answer him by the question: "Do you need any of my wares?" It is not of course meant that matters are always like this. On the contrary, many a man is found to show a direct and real participation in another's weal and woe, or (in Kant's language) to regard him as an end and not as a means. How far it seems natural, or the reverse, to each one to treat his neighbour for once in the way as an end, instead of (as usual) a means,—this is the criterion of the great ethical difference existing between character and character; and that on which the mental attitude of sympathy rests in the last resort will be the true basis of Ethics, and will form the subject of the third part of this Essay.

Thus, in his second formula, Kant distinguishes Egoism and its opposite by a very characteristic trait; and this point of merit I have all the more gladly brought out into strong light and illustrated, because in other respects there is little in the groundwork of his Ethics that I can admit.

The third and last form in which Kant put forward his Moral Principle is the Autonomy of the Will: "The Will of every rational being is universally legislative for all rational beings." This of course follows from the first form. As a consequence of the third, however, we are asked to believe (see p. 71; R., p. 60) that the specific characteristic of the Categorical Imperative lies in the renunciation of all interest by the Will when acting from a sense of duty. All previous moral principles had thus (he says) broken down, "because the latter invariably attributed to human actions at bottom a certain interest, whether originating in compulsion, or in pleasurable attraction—an interest which might be one's own, or another's" (p. 73; R., p. 62). (Another's: let this be particularly noticed.) "Whereas a universally legislative Will must prescribe actions which are not based on any interest at all, but solely on a feeling of duty." I beg the reader to think what this really means. As a matter of fact, nothing less than volition without motive, in other words, effect without cause. Interest and Motive are interchangeable ideas; what is interest but quod mea interest, that which is of importance to me? And is not this, in one word, whatever stirs and sets in motion my Will? Consequently, what is an interest other than the working of a motive upon the Will? Therefore where a motive moves the Will, there the latter has an interest; but where the Will is affected by no motive, there in truth it can be as little active, as a stone is able to leave its place without being pushed or pulled. No educated person will require any demonstration of this. It follows that every action, inasmuch as it necessarily must have a motive, necessarily also presupposes an interest. Kant, however, propounds a second entirely new class of actions which are performed without any interest, i.e., without motive. And these actions are—all deeds of justice and loving-kindness! It will be seen that this monstrous assumption, to be refuted, needed only to be reduced to its real meaning, which was concealed through the word "interest" being trifled with. Meanwhile Kant celebrates (p. 74 sqq.; R., p. 62) the triumph of his Autonomy of the Will by setting up a moral Utopia called the Kingdom of Ends, which is peopled with nothing but rational beings in abstracto. These, one and all, are always willing, without willing any actual thing (i.e., without interest): the only thing that they will is that they may all perpetually will in accordance with one maxim (i.e., Autonomy). Difficile est satiram non scribere[5] (it is difficult to refrain from writing a satire).

But there is something else to which Kant is led by his autonomy of the will; and it involves more serious consequences than the little innocent Kingdom of Ends, which is perfectly harmless and may be left in peace. I mean the conception of human dignity. Now this "dignity" is made to rest solely on man's autonomy, and to lie in the fact that the law which he ought to obey is his own work, his relation to it thus being the same as that of the subjects of a constitutional government to their statutes. As an ornamental finish to the Kantian system of morals such a theory might after all be passed over. Only this expression "Human Dignity," once it was uttered by Kant, became the shibboleth of all perplexed and empty-headed moralists. For behind that imposing formula they concealed their lack, not to say, of a real ethical basis, but of any basis at all which was possessed of an intelligible meaning; supposing cleverly enough that their readers would be so pleased to see themselves invested with such a "dignity" that they would be quite satisfied.[6] Let us, however, look at this conception a little more carefully, and submit it to the test of reality. Kant (p. 79; R., p. 66) defines dignity as "an unconditioned, incomparable value." This is an explanation which makes such an effect by its magnificent sound that one does not readily summon up courage to examine it at close quarters; else we should find that it too is nothing but a hollow hyperbole, within which there lurks like a gnawing worm, the contradictio in adjecto. Every value is the estimation of one thing compared with another; it is thus a conception of comparison, and consequently relative; and this relativity is precisely that which forms the essence of the idea. According to Diogenes Laertius (Book VII., chap. 106),[7] this was already correctly taught by the Stoics. He says: τὴn δὲ ἀξίαν εἶναι ἀμοιβὴν δοκιμάστου, ἢν ἂν ὁ ἔμπειρος τῶν Πραγμάτων τάξῃ ὅμοιον εἐπεῑν, ἀμείβεσθαι πυροὺς πρὸς τὰς σὺν ἡμιονô κριθάς.[8] An incomparable, unconditioned, absolute value, such as "dignity" is declared by Kant to be, is thus, like so much else in Philosophy, the statement in words of a thought which is really unthinkable; just as much as "the highest number," or "the greatest space."

"Doch eben wo Begriffe fehlen,
Da stellt ein WORT zu rechter Zeit sich ein."
(But where conceptions fail,
Just there a WORD comes in to fill the blank.)

So it was with this expression, "Human Dignity." A most acceptable phrase was brought into currency. Thereon every system of Morals, that was spun out through all classes of duty, and all forms of casuistry, found a broad basis; from which serene elevation it could comfortably go on preaching.

At the end of his exposition (p. 124; E., p. 97), Kant says: "But how it is that Pure Reason without other motives, that may have their derivation elsewhere, can by itself be practical; that is, how, without there being any object for the Will to take an antecedent interest in, the simple principle of the universal validity of all the precepts of Pure Reason, as laws, can of itself provide a motive and bring about an interest which may be called purely moral; or, in other words, how it is that Pure Reason can be practical;—to explain this problem, all human reason is inadequate, and all trouble and work spent on it are vain." Now it should be remembered that, if any one asserts the existence of a thing which cannot even be conceived as possible, it is incumbent on him to prove that it is an actual reality; whereas the Categorical Imperative of Practical Reason is expressly not put forward as a fact of consciousness, nor otherwise founded on experience. Rather are we frequently cautioned not to attempt to explain it by having recourse to empirical anthropology. (Cf. e.g., p. vi. of the preface; R., p. 5; and pp. 59, 60; R., p. 52). Moreover, we are repeatedly (e.g., p. 48; R., p. 44) assured "that no instance can show, and consequently there can be no empirical proof, that an Imperative of this sort exists everywhere." And further, on p. 49 (R., p. 45), we read, "that the reality of the Categorical Imperative is not a fact of experience." Now if we put all this together, we can hardly avoid the suspicion that Kant is jesting at his readers' expense. But although this practice may be allowed by the present philosophical public of Germany, and seem good in their eyes, yet in Kant's time it was not so much in vogue; and besides, Ethics, then, as always, was precisely the subject that least of all could lend itself to jokes. Hence we must continue to hold the conviction that what can neither be conceived as possible, nor proved as actual, is destitute of all credentials to attest its existence. And if, by a strong effort of the imagination, we try to picture to ourselves a man, possessed, as it were, by a daemon, in the form of an absolute Ought, that speaks only in Categorical Imperatives, and, confronting his wishes and inclinations, claims to be the perpetual controller of his actions; in this figure we see no true portrait of human nature, or of our inner life; what we do discern is an artificial substitute for theological Morals, to which it stands in the same relation as a wooden leg to a living one.

Our conclusion, therefore, is, that the Kantian Ethics, like all anterior systems, is devoid of any sure foundation. As I showed at the outset, in my examination of its imperative Form, the structure is at bottom nothing but an inversion of theological Morals, cloaked in very abstract formulae of an apparently a priori origin. That this disguise was most artificial and unrecognisable is the more certain, from the fact that Kant, in all good faith, was actually himself deceived by it, and really believed that he could establish, independently of all theology, and on the basis of pure intelligence a priori, those conceptions of the Law and of the hests of Duty, which obviously have no meaning except in theological Ethics; whereas I have sufficiently proved that with him they are destitute of all real foundation, and float loosely in mid air. However, the mask at length falls away in his own workshop, and theological Ethics stands forth unveiled, as witness his doctrine of the Highest Good, the Postulates of Practical Reason; and lastly, his Moral Theology. But this revelation freed neither Kant nor the public from their illusion as to the real state of things; on the contrary, both he and they rejoiced to see all those precepts, which hitherto had been sanctioned by Faith, now ratified and established by Ethics (although only idealiter, and for practical purposes). The truth is that they, in all sincerity, put the effect for the cause, and the cause for the effect, inasmuch as they failed to perceive that at the root of this system of Morals there lay, as absolutely necessary assumptions, however tacit and concealed, all the alleged consequences that had been drawn from it.

At the end of this severe investigation, which must also have been tiring to my readers, perhaps I may be allowed, by way of diversion, to make a jesting, indeed frivolous comparison. I would liken Kant, in his self-mystification, to a man who at a ball has been flirting the whole evening with a masked beauty, in hopes of making a conquest; till at last, throwing off her disguise, she reveals herself—as his wife.

CHAPTER VII.

KANT'S DOCTRINE OF CONSCIENCE.

The alleged Practical Reason with its Categorical Imperative, is manifestly very closely connected with Conscience, although essentially different from it in two respects. In the first place, the Categorical Imperative, as commanding, necessarily speaks before the act, whereas Conscience does not till afterwards. Before the act Conscience can at best only speak indirectly, that is, by means of reflection, which holds up to it the recollection of previous cases, in which similar acts after they were committed received its disapproval. It is on this that the etymology of the word Gewissen (Conscience) appears to me to rest, because only what has already taken place is gewiss[1] (certain). Undoubtedly, through external inducement and kindled emotion, or by reason of the internal discord of bad humour, impure, base thoughts, and evil desires rise up in all people, even in the best. But for these a man is not morally responsible, and need not load his conscience with them; since they only show what the genus homo, not what the individual, who thinks them, would be capable of doing. Other motives, if not simultaneously, yet almost immediately, come into his consciousness, and confronting the unworthy inclinations prevent them from ever being crystallised into deeds; thus causing them to resemble the out-voted minority of an acting committee. By deeds alone each person gains an empirical knowledge no less of himself than of others, just as it is deeds alone that burden the conscience. For, unlike thoughts, these are not problematic; on the contrary, they are certain (gewiss), they are unchangeable, and are not only thought, but known (gewusst). The Latin conscientia,[2] and the Greek συνείδησις[3] have the same sense. Conscience is thus the knowledge that a man has about what he has done.

The second point of difference between the alleged Categorical Imperative and Conscience is, that the latter always draws its material from experience; which the former cannot do, since it is purely a priori. Nevertheless, we may reasonably suppose that Kant's Doctrine of Conscience will throw some light on this new conception of an absolute Ought which he introduced. His theory is most completely set forth in the Metaphysische Anfangsgründe zur Tugendlehre, § 13, and in the following criticism I shall assume that the few pages which contain it are lying before the reader.

The Kantian interpretation of Conscience makes an exceedingly imposing effect, before which one used to stand with reverential awe, and all the less confidence was felt in demurring to it, because there lay heavy on the mind the ever-present fear of having theoretical objections construed as practical, and, if the correctness of Kant's view were denied, of being regarded as devoid of conscience. I, however, cannot be led astray in this manner, since the question here is of theory, not of practice; and I am not concerned with the preaching of Morals, but with the exact investigation of the ultimate ethical basis.

We notice at once that Kant employs exclusively Latin legal terminology, which, however, would seem little adapted to reflect the most secret stirrings of the human heart. Yet this language, this judicial way of treating the subject, he retains from first to last, as though it were essential and proper to the matter. And so we find brought upon the stage of our inner self a complete Court of justice, with indictment, judge, plaintiff, defendant, and sentence;—nothing is wanting. Now if this tribunal, as portrayed by Kant, really existed in our breasts, it would be astonishing if a single person could be found to be, I do not say, so bad, but so stupid, as to act against his conscience. For such a supernatural assize, of an entirely special kind, set up in our consciousness, such a secret court—like another Fehmgericht[4]—held in the dark recesses of our inmost being, would inspire everybody with a terror and fear of the gods strong enough to really keep him from grasping at short transient advantages, in face of the dreadful threats of superhuman powers, speaking in tones so near and so clear. In real life, on the contrary, we find, that the efficiency of conscience is generally considered such a vanishing quantity that all peoples have bethought themselves of helping it out by means of positive religion, or even of entirely replacing it by the latter. Moreover, if Conscience were indeed of this peculiar nature, the Royal Society could never have thought of the question put for the present Prize Essay.

But if we look more closely at Kant's exposition, we shall find that its imposing effect is mainly produced by the fact that he attributes to the moral verdict passed on ourselves, as its peculiar and essential characteristic, a form which in fact is not so at all. This metaphorical bar of judgment is no more applicable to moral self-examination than it is to every other reflection as regards what we have done, and might have done otherwise, where no ethical question is involved. For it is not only true that the same procedure of indictment, defence, and sentence is occasionally assumed by that obviously spurious and artificial conscience which is based on mere superstition; as, for instance, when a Hindu reproaches himself with having been the murderer of a cow, or when a Jew remembers that he has smoked his pipe at home on the Sabbath; but even the self-questioning which springs from no ethical source, being indeed rather unmoral than moral, often appears in a shape of this sort, as the following case may exemplify. Suppose I, good-naturedly, but thoughtlessly, have made myself surety for a friend, and suppose there comes with evening the clear perception of the heavy responsibility I have taken on myself—a responsibility that may easily involve me in serious trouble, as the wise old saying, ἐγγύα παρά δ' ἃτα![5] predicts; then at once there rise up within me the Accuser and the Counsel for the defence, ready to confront each other. The latter endeavours to palliate my rashness in giving bail so hastily, by pointing out the stress of circumstance or of obligation, or, it may be, the simple straightforwardness of the transaction; perhaps he even seeks excuse by commending my kind heart. Last of all comes the Judge who inexorably passes the sentence: "A fool's piece of work!" and I am overwhelmed with confusion So much for this judicial form of which Kant is so fond; his other modes of expression are, for the most part, open to the same criticism. For instance, that which he attributes to conscience, at the beginning of the paragraph, as its peculiar property, applies equally to all other scruples of an entirely different sort. He says: "It (conscience) follows him like his shadow, try though he may to escape. By pleasures and distractions he may be stupefied and billed to sleep, but he cannot avoid occasionally waking up and coming to himself; and then he is immediately aware of the terrible voice," etc. Obviously, this may be just as well understood, word for word, of the secret consciousness of some person of private means, who feels that his expenses far exceed his income, and that thus his capital is being affected, and will gradually melt away.

We have seen that Kant represents the use of legal terms as essential to the subject, and that he keeps to them from beginning to end; let it now be noted how he employs the same style for the following finely devised sophism. He says: "That a person accused by his conscience should be identified with the judge is an absurd way of portraying a court of justice; for in that case the accuser would invariably lose." And he adds, by way of elucidating this statement, a very ambiguous and obscure note. His conclusion is that, if we would avoid falling into a contradiction, we must think of the judge (in the judicial conscience-drama that is enacted in our breasts) as different from us, in fact, as another person; nay more, as one that is an omniscient knower of hearts, whose hests are obligatory on all, and who is almighty for every purpose of executive authority.[6] He thus passes by a perfectly smooth path from conscience to superstition, making the latter a necessary consequence of the former; while he is secretly sure that he will be all the more willingly followed because the reader's earliest training will have certainly rendered him familiar with such ideas, if not have made them his second nature. Here, then, Kant finds an easy task,—a thing he ought rather to have despised; for he should have concerned himself not only with preaching, but also with practising truthfulness. I entirely reject the above quoted sentence, and all the conclusions consequent thereon, and I declare it to be nothing but a shuffling trick. It is not true that the accuser must always lose, when the accused is the same person as the judge; at least not in the court of judgment in our hearts. In the instance I gave of one man going surety for another, did the accuser lose? Or must we in this case also, if we wish to avoid a contradiction, really assume a personification after Kant's fashion, and be driven to view objectively as another person that voice whose deliverance would have been those terrible words: "A fool's piece of work!"? A sort of Mercury, forsooth, in living flesh? Or perhaps a prosopopoeia of the Μῆτις (cunning) recommended by Homer (Il. xxiii. 313 sqq.)?[7] But thus we should only be landed, as before, on the broad path of superstition, aye, and pagan superstition too.

It is in this passage that Kant indicates his Moral Theology, briefly indeed, yet not without all its vital points. The fact that he takes care, not to attribute to it any objective validity, but rather to present it merely as a form subjectively unavoidable, does not free him from the arbitrariness with which he constructs it, even though he only claims its necessity for human consciousness. His fabric rests, as we have seen, on a tissue of baseless assumptions.

So much, then, is certain. The entire imagery—that of a judicial drama—whereby Kant depicts conscience is wholly unessential and in no way peculiar to it; although he keeps this figure, as if it were proper to the subject, right through to the end, in order finally to deduce certain conclusions from it. As a matter of fact it is a sufficiently common form, which our thoughts easily take when we consider any circumstance of real life. It is due for the most part to the conflict of opposing motives which usually spring up, and which are successively weighed and tested by our reflecting reason. And no difference is made whether these motives are moral or egoistic in their nature, nor whether our deliberations are concerned with some action in the past, or in the future. Now if we strip from Kant's exposition its dress of legal metaphor, which is only an optional dramatic appendage, the surrounding nimbus with all its imposing effect immediately disappears as well, and there remains nothing but the fact that sometimes, when we think over our actions, we are seized with a certain self-dissatisfaction, which is marked by a special characteristic. It is with our conduct per se that we are discontented, not with its result, and this feeling does not, as in every other case in which we regret the stupidity of our behaviour, rest on egoistic grounds. For on these occasions the cause of our dissatisfaction is precisely because we have been too egoistic, because we have taken too much thought for ourselves, and not enough for our neighbour; or perhaps even because, without any resulting advantage, we have made the misery of others an object in itself. That we may be dissatisfied with ourselves, and saddened by reason of sufferings which we have inflicted, not undergone, is a plain fact and impossible to be denied. The connection of this with the only ethical basis that can stand an adequate test we shall examine further on. But Kant, like a clever special pleader, tried by magnifying and embellishing the original datum to make all that he possibly could of it, in order to prepare a very broad foundation for his Ethics and Moral Theology.

CHAPTER VIII.

KANT'S DOCTRINE OF THE INTELLIGIBLE [1] AND EMPIRICAL CHARACTER. THEORY OF FREEDOM.

The attack I have made, in the cause of truth, on Kant's system of Morals, does not, like those of my predecessors, touch the surface only, but penetrates to its deepest roots. It seems, therefore, only just that, before I leave this part of my subject, I should bring to remembrance the brilliant and conspicuous service which he nevertheless rendered to ethical science. I allude to his doctrine of the co-existence of Freedom and Necessity. We find it first in the Kritik der Reinen Vernunft (pp. 533-554 of the first, and pp. 561-582 of the fifth, edition); but it is still more clearly expounded in the Kritik der Praktischen Vernunft (fourth edition, pp. 169-179; R., pp. 224-231).

The strict and absolute necessity of the acts of Will, determined by motives as they arise, was first shown by Hobbes, then by Spinoza, and Hume, and also by Dietrich von Holbach in his Système de la Nature; and lastly by Priestley it was most completely and precisely demonstrated. This point, indeed, has been so clearly proved, and placed beyond all doubt, that it must be reckoned among the number of perfectly established truths, and only crass ignorance could continue to speak of a freedom, of a liberum arbitrium indifferentiae (a free and indifferent choice) in the individual acts of men. Nor did Kant, owing to the irrefutable reasoning of his predecessors, hesitate to consider the Will as fast bound in the chains of Necessity, the matter admitting, as he thought, of no further dispute or doubt. This is proved by all the passages in which he speaks of freedom only from the theoretical standpoint. Nevertheless, it is true that our actions are attended with a consciousness of independence and original initiative, which makes us recognise them as our own work, and every one with ineradicable certainty feels that he is the real author of his conduct, and morally responsible for it. But since responsibility implies the possibility of having acted otherwise, which possibility means freedom in some sort or manner; therefore in the consciousness of responsibility is indirectly involved also the consciousness of freedom. The key to resolve the contradiction, that thus arises out of the nature of the case, was at last found by Kant through the distinction he drew with profound acumen, between phaenomena and the Thing in itself (das Ding an sich). This distinction is the very core of his whole philosophy, and its greatest merit.

The individual, with his immutable, innate character strictly determined in all his modes of expression by the law of Causality, which, as acting through the medium of the intellect, is here called by the name of Motivation,—the individual so constituted is only the phaenomenon (Erscheinung). The Thing in itself which underlies this phaenomenon is outside of Time and Space, consequently free from all succession and plurality, one, and changeless. Its constitution in itself is the intelligible character, which is equally present in all the acts of the individual, and stamped on every one of them, like the impress of a signet on a thousand seals. The empirical character of the phaenomenon—the character which manifests itself in time, and in succession of acts—is thus determined by the intelligible character; and consequently, the individual, as phaenomenon, in all his modes of expression, which are called forth by motives, must show the invariableness of a natural law. Whence it results that all his actions are governed by strict necessity. Now it used to be commonly maintained that the character of a man may be transformed by moral admonitions and remonstrances appealing to reason; but when the distinction between the intelligible and empirical character had once been drawn, it followed that the unchangeableness, the inflexible rigidity of the empirical character, which thinking people had always observed, was explained and traced to a rational basis, and consequently accepted as an established fact by Philosophy. Thus the latter was so far harmonised with experience, and ceased to stand abashed, before popular wisdom, which long before had spoken the words of truth in the Spanish proverb: Lo que entra con el capillo, sale con la mortaja (that which comes in with the child's cap, goes out with the winding-sheet); or: Lo que en la leche se mama, en la mortaja se derrama (what is imbibed with the milk, is poured out again in the winding-sheet).

This doctrine of the co-existence of Freedom and Necessity I regard as the greatest of all the achievements of human sagacity. With the Transcendental Aesthetics it forms the two great diamonds in the crown of Kant's fame, which will never pass away. In his Treatise on Freedom, Schelling obviously served up the Kantian teaching in a paraphrase, which by reason of its lively colouring and graphic delineation, is for many people more comprehensible. The work would deserve praise if its author had had the honesty to say that he is drawing on Kant's wisdom, not on his own. As it is, a certain part of the philosophic public still credits him with the entire performance.

The theory itself, and the whole question regarding the nature of Freedom, can be better understood if we view them in connection with a general truth, which I think, is most concisely expressed by a formula frequently occurring in the scholastic writings: Operari sequitur esse.[2] In other words, everything in the world operates in accordance with what it is, in accordance with its inherent nature, in which, consequently, all its modes of expression are already contained potentially, while actually they are manifested when elicited by external causes; so that external causes are the means whereby the essential constitution of the thing is revealed. And the modes of expression so resulting form the empirical character; whereas its hidden, ultimate basis, which is inaccessible to experience, is the intelligible character, that is, the real nature per se of the particular thing in question. Man forms no exception to the rest of nature; he too has a changeless character, which, however, is strictly individual and different in each case. This character is of course empirical as far as we can grasp it, and therefore only phaenomenal; while the intelligible character is whatever may be the real nature in itself of the person. His actions one and all, being, as regards their external constitution, determined by motives, can never be shaped otherwise than in accordance with the unchangeable individual character. As a man is, so he his bound to act. Hence for a given person in every single case, there is absolutely only one way of acting possible: Operari sequitur esse[3] Freedom belongs only to the intelligible character, not to the empirical. The operari (conduct) of a given individual is necessarily determined externally by motives, internally by his character; therefore everything that he does necessarily takes place. But in his esse (i.e., in what he is), there, we find Freedom. He might have been something different; and guilt or merit attaches to that which he is. All that he does follows from what he is, as a mere corollary. Through Kant's doctrine we are freed from the primary error of connecting Necessity with esse (what one is), and Freedom with operari (what one does); we become aware that this is a misplacement of terms, and that exactly the inverse arrangement is the true one. Hence it is clear that the moral responsibility of a man, while it, first of all, and obviously, of course, touches what he does, yet at bottom touches what he is; because, what he is being the original datum, his conduct, as motives arise, could never take any other course than that which it actually does take. But, however strict be the necessity, whereby, in the individual, acts are elicited by motives, it yet never occurs to anybody—not even to him who is convinced of this necessity—to exonerate himself on that account, and cast the blame on the motives; for he knows well enough that, objectively considered, any given circumstance, and its causes, perfectly admitted quite a different, indeed, a directly opposite course of action; nay, that such a course would actually have taken place, if only he had been a different person. That he is precisely such a one as his conduct proclaims him to be, and no other—this it is for which he feels himself responsible; in his esse (what he is) lies the vulnerable place, where the sting of conscience penetrates. For Conscience is nothing but acquaintance with one's own self—an acquaintance that arises out of one's actual mode of conduct, and which becomes ever more intimate. So that it is the esse (what one is) which in reality is accused by conscience, while the operari (what one does) supplies the incriminating evidence. Since we are only conscious of Freedom through the sense of responsibility; therefore where the latter lies the former must also be; in the esse (in one's being). It is the operari (what one does) that is subject to necessity. But we can only get to know ourselves, as well as others empirically; we have no a priori knowledge of our character. Certainly our natural tendency is to cherish a very high opinion of it, because the maxim: Quisque praesumitur bonus, donec probetur contrarium (every one is presumed to be good, until the contrary is proved), is perhaps even more true of the inner court of justice than of the world's tribunals.

NOTE.

He who is capable of recognising the essential part of a thought, though clothed in a dress very different from what he is familiar with, will see, as I do, that this Kantian doctrine of the intelligible and empirical character is a piece of insight already possessed by Plato. The difference is, that with Kant it is sublimated to an abstract clearness; with Plato it is treated mythically, and connected with metempsychosis, because, as he did not perceive the ideality of Time, he could only represent it under a temporal form. The identity of the one doctrine with the other becomes exceedingly plain, if we read the explanation and illustration of the Platonic myth, which Porphyrius has given with such clear exactitude, that its agreement with the abstract language of Kant comes out unmistakably. In the second book of his Eclogues, chap. 8, §§ 37-40,[4] Stobaeus has preserved for us in extenso that part of one of Porphyrius' lost writings which specially comments on the myth in question, as Plato gives it in the second half of the tenth book of the Republic.[5] The whole section is eminently worth reading. As a specimen I shall quote the short § 39, in the hope of inducing any one who cares for these things to study Stobaeus for himself. It will then immediately become apparent that this Platonic myth is nothing less than an allegory of the profound truth which Kant stated in its abstract purity, as the doctrine of the intelligible and empirical character, and consequently that the latter had been reached, in its essentials, by Plato thousands of years ago. Indeed, this view seems to go back much further still, for Porphyrins is of opinion that Plato took it from the Egyptians. Certainly we already find the same theory in the Brahmanical doctrine of metempsychosis, and it is from this Indian source that the Egyptian priests, in all probability, derived their wisdom. § 39 is as follows:—

Τὸ γὰρ ὅλον βούλημα τοιοῡτ' ἔοικεν εἶναι τὸ τοῡ Πλάτωνος ἔχειν μὲν τὸ αὐτεξουσιον τὰς ψυχὰς, πρὶν εἰς σώματα καὶ βίους διαϕέρους ἐμπεσεῖν, εἰς τὸ ἢ τοῡτoν τὸν βίον ἕλεσθαι, ἢ ἄλλον, ὅν, μετὰ ποιᾱς ζωῆς καὶ σώματος οἰκείον τῇ ζωῇ, κτέλεσειν μέλλει (καὶ γὰρ λέοντος βίον ἐπ' αὐτῇ εἶνai ἔλεσθαι, καὶ ἀνδρὸς). Kakeῑνο μέντοι τὸ αὐτeξoύσιον, ἅμα τῇ πρός τινα τῶν τοιούτων βίων πτώσει, ἐμπεπόδισται. Κατελθοῡσαι γὰρ εἰς τὰ σώματα, καὶ ἀντὶ ψυχῶν aπολυτῶν γεγονῑυαι ψυχαὶ ζώων, τὸ αὐτεξούσιον ϕέρουσιν οἰκείον τῇ τοῡ ζώον κατασκευῇ, καὶ ἐϕ' ὧν μὲν εἶνai πολύνουν καὶ πολυκίνητον, ὡς ἐπ' ἀνθρώπον, ἐϕ' ὡν δὲ λυγοκίνηττον καὶ μονότροπον, ὡς ἐπὶ τῶν ἄλλον σχεδὸν πάντων ζώων. Ήρτῆσθαι δὲ τὸ αὐτeξoύσιον τοῡτo ἀπὸ τῆς κατασκετῆς, κινούμενον μὲν ἐξ αὐτοῡ, ϕερόμενον δὲ κατὰ τὰς ἐκ τῆς κατασκευῇς γυγνομένας προθυμίας.[6]