only they contemplated the same idea. Mind itself ceased in this way to
mean a series of existing feelings and was identified with intelligence;
and intelligence in its turn was identified with the Idea or Logos which
might be the ultimate theme of intelligence. There could be only one mind,
so conceived, since there could be only one total system in the universe
visible to omniscience.

As to romantic scepticism, we may see by contrast what it would be, when
left to itself, if we consider those lucid Italians who have taken up
their idealism late and with open eyes. In Croce and Gentile the
transcendental attitude is kept pure: for them there is really no universe
save spirit creating its experience; and if we ask whence or on what
principle occasions arise for all this compulsory fiction, we are reminded
that this question, with any answer which spirit might invent for it,
belongs not to philosophy but to some special science like physiology,
itself, of course, only a particular product of creative thought. Thus the
more impetuously the inquisitive squirrel would rush from his cage, the
faster and faster he causes the cage to whirl about his ears. He has not
the remotest chance of reaching his imaginary bait--God, nature, or
truth; for to seek such things is to presuppose them, and to presuppose
anything, if spirit be absolute, is to invent it. Even those philosophies
of history which the idealist may for some secret reason be impelled to
construct would be superstitious, according to his own principles, if he
took them for more than poetic fictions of the historian; so that in the
study of history, as in every other study, all the diligence and sober
learning which the philosopher may possess are non-philosophical, since
they presuppose independent events and material documents. Thus perfect
idealism turns out to be pure literary sport, like lyric poetry, in which
no truth is conveyed save the miscellaneous truths taken over from common
sense or the special sciences; and the gay spirit, supposed to be living
and shining of its own sweet will, can find nothing to live or shine upon
save the common natural world.

Such at least would be the case if romantic superstition did not
supervene, demanding that the spirit should impose some arbitrary rhythm
or destiny on the world which it creates: but this side of idealism has
been cultivated chiefly by the intrepid Germans: some of them, like
Spengler and Keyserling, still t