Their literatures show fewer obvious falsities and monstrosities than that of Germany.  Think of the german literature of aesthetics, with the preposterousness of such an unaesthetic personage as Immanuel Kant enthroned in its centre!  Think of german books on religions-philosophie, with the heart’s battles translated into conceptual jargon and made dialectic.  The most persistent setter of questions, feeler of objections, insister on satisfactions, is the religious life.  Yet all its troubles can be treated with absurdly little technicality.  The wonder is that, with their way of working philosophy, individual Germans should preserve any spontaneity of mind at all.  That they still manifest freshness and originality in so eminent a degree, proves the indestructible richness of the german cerebral endowment.

Let me repeat once more that a man’s vision is the great fact about him.  Who cares for Carlyle’s reasons, or Schopenhauer’s, or Spencer’s?  A philosophy is the expression of a man’s intimate character, and all definitions of the universe are but the deliberately adopted reactions of human characters upon it.  In the recent book from which I quoted the words of Professor Paulsen, a book of successive chapters by various living german philosophers,[4] we pass from one idiosyncratic personal atmosphere into another almost as if we were turning over a photograph album.

If we take the whole history of philosophy, the systems reduce themselves to a few main types which, under all the technical verbiage in which the ingenious intellect of man envelops them, are just so many visions, modes of feeling the whole push, and seeing the whole drift of life, forced on one by one’s total character and experience, and on the whole preferred—­there is no other truthful word—­as one’s best working attitude.  Cynical characters take one general attitude, sympathetic characters another.  But no general attitude is possible towards the world as a whole, until the intellect has developed considerable generalizing power and learned to take pleasure in synthetic formulas.  The thought of very primitive men has hardly any tincture of philosophy.  Nature can have little unity for savages.  It is a Walpurgis-nacht procession, a checkered play of light and shadow, a medley of impish and elfish friendly and inimical powers.  ‘Close to nature’ though they live, they are anything but Wordsworthians.  If a bit of cosmic emotion ever thrills them, it is likely to be at midnight, when the camp smoke rises straight to the wicked full moon in the zenith, and the forest is all whispering with witchery and danger.  The eeriness of the world, the mischief and the manyness, the littleness of the forces, the magical surprises, the unaccountability of every agent, these surely are the characters most impressive at that stage of culture, these communicate the thrills of curiosity and the earliest intellectual stirrings.  Tempests and conflagrations, pestilences and earthquakes, reveal