e brain as the gall to the
liver and the excretions of the other organs, met with the greater
approval the more confidently and wittily it was promulgated. The
philosopher could not help asserting that the nature of the soul could be
disclosed neither by the scalpel nor the microscope; yet the discoveries
of the naturalist, which had led to the perception of the relation
existing between the psychical and material life seemed to give the most
honest, among whom Carl Vogt held the first rank; a right to uphold their
dogmas.

Materialism versus Antimaterialism was the subject under discussion in
the learned circles of Germany. Nay, I remember scarcely any other
powerful wave of the intellect visible during this period of stagnation.

Philosophy could not fail to be filled with pity and disapproval to see
the independent existence of the soul, as it were, authoritatively
reaffirmed by a purely empirical science, and also brought into the field
all the defensive forces at her command. But throngs flocked to the camp
of Materialism, for the trumpets of her leaders had a clearer, more
confident sound than the lower and less readily understood opposing cries
of the philosophers.

Vogt's wrath was directed with special keenness against my teacher,
Lotze. These topics were rarely discussed at the tavern or among the
members of the corps. I first heard them made the subject of an animated
exchange of thought in the Dirichlet household, where Professor Baum
emerged from his aristocratic composure to denounce vehemently
materialism and its apostles. Of course I endeavoured to gain information
about things which so strongly moved intellectual men, and read in
addition to Lotze's books the polemical writings which were at that time
in everybody's hands.

Vogt's caustic style charmed me, but it was not due solely to the
religious convictions which I had brought from my home and from Keilhau
that I perceived that here a sharp sword was swung by a strong arm to cut
water. The wounds it dealt would not bleed, for they were inflicted upon
a body against which it had as little power as Satan against the cross.

When, before I became acquainted with Feuerbach, I flung my books aside,
wearied or angered, I often seized in the middle of the night my monster
Poem of the World, my tragedy of Panthea and Abradatus, or some other
poetical work, and did not retire till the wick of the lamp burned out at
three in the morning.

When I think h