‘Might reap an acre of his neighbour’s corn.’
Nor is this any peculiarity43 of Kant’s. It is common to the whole family of prose writers of Germany, unless when they happen to have studied French models, who cultivate the opposite extreme. As a caution, therefore, practically applied44 to this particular anomaly in German prose-writing, I advise all beginners to choose between two classes of composition—ballad45 poetry, or comedy—as their earliest school of exercise; ballad poetry, because the form of the stanza (usually a quatrain) prescribes a very narrow range to the sentences; comedy, because the form of dialogue, and the imitation of daily life in its ordinary tone of conversation, and the spirit of comedy naturally suggesting a brisk interchange of speech, all tend to short sentences. These rules I soon drew from my own experience and observation. And the one sole purpose towards which I either sought or wished for aid, respected the pronunciation; not so much for attaining46 a just one (which I was satisfied could not be realised out of Germany, or, at least, out of a daily intercourse47 with Germans) as for preventing the formation, unawares, of a radically48 false one. The guttural and palatine sounds of the ch, and some other German peculiarities, cannot be acquired without constant practice. But the false Westphalian or Jewish pronunciation of the vowels49, diphthongs, &c., may easily be forestalled50, though the true delicacy51 of Meissen should happen to be missed. Thus much guidance I purchased, with a very few guineas, from my young Dresden tutor, who was most anxious for permission to extend his assistance; but this I would not hear of: and, in the spirit of fierce (perhaps foolish) independence, which governed most of my actions at that time of life, I did all the rest for myself.
‘It was a banner broad unfurl’d,
The picture of that western world.’
These, or words like these, in which Wordsworth conveys the sudden apocalypse, as by an apparition52, to an ardent53 and sympathising spirit, of the stupendous world of America, rising, at once, like an exhalation, with all its shadowy forests, its endless savannas54, and its pomp of solitary55 waters—well and truly might I have applied to my first launching upon that vast billowy ocean of the German literature. As a past literature, as a literature of inheritance and tradition, the German was nothing. Ancestral titles it had none; or none comparable to those of England, Spain, or even Italy; and there, also, it resembled America, as contrasted with the ancient world of Asia, Europe, and North Africa.2 But, if its inheritance were nothing, its prospects56, and the scale of its present development, were in the amplest style of American grandeur57. Ten thousand new books, we are assured by Menzel, an author of high reputation—a literal myriad—is considerably58 below the number annually59 poured from all quarters of Germany, into the vast reservoir of Leipsic; spawn60 infinite, no doubt, of crazy dotage61, of dreaming imbecility, of wickedness, of frenzy62, through every phasis of Babylonian confusion; yet, also, teeming63 and heaving with life and the instincts of truth—of truth hunting and chasing in the broad daylight, or of truth groping in the chambers64 of darkness; sometimes seen as it displays its cornucopia65 of tropical fruitage; sometimes heard dimly, and in promise, working its way through diamond mines. Not the tropics, not the ocean, not life itself, is such a type of variety, of infinite forms, or of creative power, as the German literature, in its recent motions (say for the last twenty years), gathering66, like the Danube, a fresh volume of power at every stage of its advance. A banner it was, indeed, to me of miraculous67 promise, and suddenly unfurled. It seemed, in those days, an El Dorado as true and undeceiving as it was evidently inexhaustible. And the central object in this interminable wilderness68 of what then seemed imperishable bloom and verdure—the very tree of knowledge in the midst of this Eden—was the new or transcendental philosophy of Immanuel Kant.
I have described the gorgeousness of my expectations in those early days of my prelusive acquaintance with German literature. I have a little lingered in painting that glad aurora69 of my first pilgrimage to the fountains of the Rhine and of the Danube, in order adequately to shadow out the gloom and blight70 which soon afterwards settled upon the hopes of that golden dawn. In Kant, I had been taught to believe, were the keys of a new and a creative philosophy. Either ‘ejus ductu,’ or ‘ejus auspiciis‘—that is, either directly under his guidance, or indirectly71 under any influence remotely derived72 from his principles—I looked confidingly73 to see the great vistas74 and avenues of truth laid open to the philosophic75 inquirer. Alas76! all was a dream. Six weeks’ study was sufficient to close my hopes in that quarter for ever. The philosophy of Kant—so famous, so commanding in Germany, from about the period of the French Revolution—already, in 1805, I had found to be a philosophy of destruction, and scarcely, in any one chapter, so much as tending to a philosophy of reconstruction77. It destroys by wholesale78, and it substitutes nothing. Perhaps, in the whole history of man, it is an unexampled case, that such a scheme of speculation79—which offers nothing seducing80 to human aspirations81, nothing splendid to the human imagination, nothing even positive and affirmative to the human understanding—should have been able to found an interest so broad and deep among thirty-five millions of cultivated men. The English reader who supposes this interest to have been confined to academic bowers82, or the halls of philosophic societies, is most inadequately83 alive to the case. Sects84, heresies85, schisms86, by hundreds, have arisen out of this philosophy—many thousands of books have been written by way of teaching it, discussing it, extending it, opposing it. And yet it is a fact, that all its doctrines88 are negative—teaching, in no case, what we are, but simply what we are not to believe—and that all its truths are barren. Such being its unpopular character, I cannot but imagine that the German people have received it with so much ardour, from profound incomprehension of its meaning, and utter blindness to its drift—a solution which may seem extravagant89, but is not so; for, even amongst those who have expressly commented on this philosophy, not one of the many hundreds whom I have myself read, but has retracted90 from every attempt to explain its dark places. In these dark places lies, indeed, the secret of its attraction. Were light poured into them, it would be seen that they are culs-de-sac, passages that lead to nothing; but, so long as they continue dark, it is not known whither they lead, how far, in what direction, and whether, in fact, they may not issue into paths connected directly with the positive and the infinite. Were it known that upon every path a barrier faces you insurmountable to human steps—like the barriers which fence in the Abyssinian valley of Rasselas—the popularity of this philosophy would expire at once; for no popular interest can long be sustained by speculations91 which, in every aspect, are known to be essentially92 negative and essentially finite. Man’s nature has something of infinity within itself, which requires a corresponding infinity in its objects. We are told, indeed, by Mr. Bulwer, that the Kantian system has ceased to be of any authority in Germany—that it is defunct93, in fact—and that we have first begun to import it into England, after its root had withered94, or begun to wither95, in its native soil. But Mr. Bulwer is mistaken. The philosophy has never withered in Germany. It cannot even be said that its fortunes have retrograded: they have oscillated: accidents of taste and ability in particular professors, or caprices of fashion, have given a momentary97 fluctuation98 to this or that new form of Kantianism,—an ascendency, for a period, to various, and, in some respects, conflicting, modifications99 of the transcendental system; but all alike have derived their power mediately4 from Kant. No weapons, even if employed as hostile weapons, are now forged in any armoury but that of Kant; and, to repeat a Roman figure which I used above, all the modern polemic100 tactics of what is called metaphysics, are trained and made to move either ejus ductu or ejus auspiciis. Not one of the new systems affects to call back the Leibnitzian philosophy, the Cartesian, or any other of earlier or later date, as adequate to the purposes of the intellect in this day, or as capable of yielding even a sufficient terminology101. Let this last fact decide the question of Kant’s vitality102. Qui bene distinguit bene docet. This is an old adage103. Now, he who imposes new names upon all the acts, the functions, and the objects of the philosophic understanding, must be presumed to have distinguished104 most sharply, and to have ascertained105 with most precision, their general relations—so long as his terminology continues to be adopted. This test, applied to Kant, will show that his spirit yet survives in Germany. Frederic Schlegel, it is true, twenty years ago, in his lectures upon literature, assures us that even the disciples106 of the great philosopher have agreed to abandon his philosophic nomenclature. But the German philosophic literature, since that date, tells another tale. Mr. Bulwer is, therefore, wrong; and, without going to Germany, looking only to France, he will see cause to revise his sentence. Cousin—the philosophic Cousin, the only great name in philosophy for modern France—familiar as he is with North Germany, can hardly be presumed unacquainted with a fact so striking, if it were a fact, as the extinction107 of a system once so triumphantly109 supreme110 as that of Kant; and yet Mr. Bulwer, admiring Cousin as he does, cannot but have noticed his efforts to naturalise Kant in France. Meantime, if it were even true that transcendentalism had lost its hold of the public mind in Germany, primâ facie, this would prove little more than the fickleness111 of that public which must have been wrong in one of the two cases—either when adopting the system, or when rejecting it. Whatever there may be of truth and value in the system, will remain unimpeached by such caprices, whether of an individual or of a great nation; and England would still be in the right to import the philosophy, however late in the day, if it were true even (which I doubt greatly) that she is importing it.
Both truth and value there certainly is in one part of the Kantian philosophy; and that part is its foundation. I had intended, at this point, to introduce an outline of the transcendental philosophy—not, perhaps, as entering by logical claim of right into any biographical sketch113, but as a very allowable digression in the record of that man’s life to whom, in the way of hope and of profound disappointment, it had been so memorable114 an object. For two or three years before I mastered the language of Kant,3 it had been a pole-star to my hopes, and in hypothesi agreeably to the uncertain plans of uncertain knowledge, the luminous115 guide to my future life—as a life dedicated116 and set apart to philosophy. Such it was some years before I knew it: for, at least ten long years after I came into a condition of valueing its true pretensions117 and measuring its capacities, this same philosophy shed the gloom of something like misanthropy upon my views and estimates of human nature; for man was an abject118 animal, if the limitations which Kant assigned to the motions of his speculative119 reason were as absolute and hopeless as, under his scheme of the understanding and his genesis of its powers, too evidently they were. I belonged to a reptile120 race, if the wings by which we had sometimes seemed to mount, and the buoyancy which had seemed to support our flight, were indeed the fantastic delusions121 which he represented them. Such, and so deep and so abiding122 in its influence upon my life, having been the influence of this German philosophy, according to all logic112 of proportions, in selecting the objects of my notice, I might be excused for setting before the reader, in its full array, the analysis of its capital sections. However, in any memorial of a life which professes123 to keep in view (though but as a secondary purpose) any regard to popular taste, the logic of proportions must bend, after all, to the law of the occasion—to the proprieties124 of time and place. For the present, therefore, I shall restrict myself to the few sentences in which it may be proper to gratify the curiosity of some readers, the two or three in a hundred, as to the peculiar31 distinctions of this philosophy. Even to these two or three out of each hundred, I shall not venture to ascribe a larger curiosity than with respect to the most general ‘whereabouts’ of its position—from what point it starts—whence and from what aspect it surveys the ground—and by what links from this starting-point it contrives125 to connect itself with the main objects of philosophic inquiry126.
Immanuel Kant was originally a dogmatist in the school of Leibnitz and Wolf; that is, according to his trisection of all philosophy into dogmatic, sceptical, and critical, he was, upon all questions, disposed to a strong affirmative creed127, without courting any particular examination into the grounds of this creed, or into its assailable128 points. From this slumber129, as it is called by himself, he was suddenly aroused by the Humian doctrine87 of cause and effect. This celebrated131 essay on the nature of necessary connection—so thoroughly132 misapprehended at the date of its first publication to the world by its soi-disant opponents, Oswald, Beattie, &c., and so imperfectly comprehended since then by various soi-disant defenders—became in effect the ‘occasional cause’ (in the phrase of the logicians) of the entire subsequent philosophic scheme of Kant—every section of which arose upon the accidental opening made to analogical trains of thought, by this memorable effort of scepticism, applied by Hume to one capital phenomenon among the necessities of the human understanding. What is the nature of Hume’s scepticism as applied to this phenomenon? What is the main thesis of his celebrated essay on cause and effect? For few, indeed, are they who really know anything about it. If a man really understands it, a very few words will avail to explain the nodus. Let us try. It is a necessity of the human understanding (very probably not a necessity of a higher order of intelligences) to connect its experiences by means of the idea of cause and its correlate, effect: and when Beattie, Oswald, Reid, &c. were exhausting themselves in proofs of the indispensableness of this idea, they were fighting with shadows; for no man had ever questioned the practical necessity for such an idea to the coherency of human thinking. Not the practical necessity, but the internal consistency134 of this notion, and the original right to such a notion, was the point of inquisition. For, attend, courteous135 reader, and three separate propositions will set before your eyes the difficulty. First Prop29., which, for the sake of greater precision, permit me to throw into Latin:—Non datur aliquid [A] quo posito ponitur aliud [B] à priori; that is, in other words, You cannot lay your hands upon that one object or phenomenon [A] in the whole circle of natural existences, which, being assumed, will entitle you to assume à priori, any other object whatsoever136 [B] as succeeding it. You could not, I say, of any object or phenomenon whatever, assume this succession à priori—that is, previously137 to experience. Second Prop. But, if the succession of B to A be made known to you, not à priori (by the involution of B in the idea of A), but by experience, then you cannot ascribe necessity to the succession: the connection between them is not necessary but contingent138. For the very widest experience—an experience which should stretch over all ages, from the beginning to the end of time—can never establish a nexus139 having the least approximation to necessity; no more than a rope of sand could gain the cohesion140 of adamant141, by repeating its links through a billion of successions. Prop. Third. Hence (i. e. from the two preceding propositions), it appears that no instance or case of nexus that ever can have been offered to the notice of any human understanding, has in it, or, by possibility, could have had anything of necessity. Had the nexus been necessary, you would have seen it beforehand; whereas, by Prop. I. Non datur aliquid, quo posito ponitur aliud à priori. This being so, now comes the startling fact, that the notion of a cause includes the notion of necessity. For, if A (the cause) be connected with B (the effect) only in a casual or accidental way, you do not feel warranted in calling it a cause. If heat applied to ice (A) were sometimes followed by a tendency to liquefaction (B) and sometimes not, you would not consider A connected with B as a cause, but only as some variable accompaniment of the true and unknown cause, which might allowably be present or be absent. This, then, is the startling and mysterious phenomenon of the human understanding—that, in a certain notion, which is indispensable to the coherency of our whole experience, indispensable to the establishing any nexus between the different parts and successions of our whole train of notices, we include an accessary notion of necessity, which yet has no justification142 or warrant, no assignable derivation from any known or possible case of human experience. We have one idea at least—viz. the idea of causation—which transcends143 our possible experience by one important element, the element of necessity, that never can have been derived from the only source of ideas recognised by the philosophy of this day. A Lockian never can find his way out of this dilemma144. The experience (whether it be the experience of sensation or the experience of reflection) which he adopts for his master-key, never will unlock this case; for the sum total of human experience, collected from all ages, can avail only to tell us what is, but never what must be. The idea of necessity is absolutely transcendant to experience, per se, and must be derived from some other source. From what source? Could Hume tell us? No: he, who had started the game so acutely (for with every allowance for the detection made in Thomas Aquinas, of the original suggestion, as recorded in the Biographia Literaria of Coleridge, we must still allow great merit of a secondary kind to Hume for his modern revival145 and restatement of the doctrine), this same acute philosopher broke down confessedly in his attempt to hunt the game down. His solution is worthless.
Kant, however, having caught the original scent146 from Hume, was more fortunate. He saw, at a glance, that here was a test applied to the Lockian philosophy, which showed, at the very least, its insufficiency. If it were good even for so much as it explained—which Burke is disposed to receive as a sufficient warrant for the favourable147 reception of a new hypothesis—at any rate, it now appeared that there was something which it could not explain. But next, Kant took a large step in advance proprio morte. Reflecting upon the one idea adduced by Hume, as transcending148 the ordinary source of ideas, he began to ask himself, whether it were likely that this idea should stand alone? Were there not other ideas in the same predicament; other ideas including the same element of necessity, and, therefore, equally disowning the parentage assigned by Locke? Upon investigation149, he found that there were: he found that there were eleven others in exactly the same circumstances. The entire twelve he denominated categories; and the mode by which he ascertained their number—that there were so many and no more—is of itself so remarkable150 as to merit notice in the most superficial sketch. But, in fact, this one explanation will put the reader in possession of Kant’s system, so far as he could understand it without an express and toilsome study. With this explanation, therefore, of the famous categories, I shall close my slight sketch of the system. Has the reader ever considered the meaning of the term Category—a term so ancient and so venerable from its connection with the most domineering philosophy that has yet appeared amongst men? The doctrine of the Categories (or, in its Roman appellation151, of the Predicaments), is one of the few wrecks152 from the Peripatetic153 philosophy which still survives as a doctrine taught by public authority in the most ancient academic institutions of Europe. It continues to form a section in the code of public instruction; and perhaps under favour of a pure accident. For though, strictly154 speaking, a metaphysical speculation, it has always been prefixed as a sort of preface to the Organon (or logical treatises) of Aristotle, and has thus accidentally shared in the immortality156 conceded to that most perfect of human works. Far enough were the Categories from meriting such distinction. Kant was well aware of this: he was aware that the Aristotelian Categories were a useless piece of scholastic lumber130: unsound in their first conception; and, though illustrated157 through long centuries by the schoolmen, and by still earlier Grecian philosophers, never in any one known instance turned to a profitable account. Why, then, being aware that even in idea they were false, besides being practically unsuitable, did Kant adopt or borrow a name laden158 with this superfetation of reproach—all that is false in theory superadded to all that is useless in practice? He did so for a remarkable reason: he felt, according to his own explanation, that Aristotle had been groping [the German word expressive159 of his blind procedure is herumtappen]—groping in the dark, but under a semi-conscious instinct of truth. Here is a most remarkable case or situation of the human intellect, happening alike to individuals and to entire generations—in the situation of yearning160 or craving161, as it were, for a great idea as yet unknown, but dimly and uneasily prefigured. Sometimes the very brink162, as it may be called, of such an idea is approached; sometimes it is even imperfectly discovered; but with marks in the very midst of its imperfections, which serve as indications to a person coming better armed for ascertaining163 the sub-conscious thought which had governed their tentative motions. As it stands in Aristotle’s scheme, the idea of a category is a mere164 lifeless abstraction. Rising through a succession of species to genera, and from these to still higher genera, you arrive finally at a highest genus—a naked abstraction, beyond which no further regress is possible. This highest genus, this genus generalissimum, is, in peripatetic language, a category; and no purpose or use has ever been assigned to any one of these categories, of which ten were enumerated165 at first, beyond that of classification—i. e. a purpose of mere convenience. Even for as trivial a purpose as this, it gave room for suspecting a failure, when it was afterwards found that the original ten categories did not exhaust the possibilities of the case; that other supplementary166 categories (post-prædicamenti) became necessary. And, perhaps, ‘more last words’ might even yet be added, supplementary supplements, and so forth167, by a hair-splitting intellect. Failures as gross as these, revisals still open to revision, and amendments168 calling for amendments, were at once a broad confession169 that here there was no falling in with any great law of nature. The paths of nature may sometimes be arrived at in a tentative way; but they are broad and determinate; and, when found, vindicate170 themselves. Still, in all this erroneous subtilisation, and these abortive172 efforts, Kant perceived a grasping at some real idea—fugitive indeed and coy, which had for the present absolutely escaped; but he caught glimpses of it continually in the rear; he felt its necessity to any account of the human understanding that could be satisfactory to one who had meditated174 on Locke’s theory as probed and searched by Leibnitz. And in this uneasy state—half sceptical, half creative, rejecting and substituting, pulling down and building up—what was in sum and finally the course which he took for bringing his trials and essays to a crisis? He states this himself, somewhere in the Introduction to his Critik der reinen Vernunft; and the passage is a memorable one. Fifteen years at the least have passed since I read it; and, therefore, I cannot pretend to produce the words; but the substance I shall give; and I appeal to the candour of all his readers, whether they have been able to apprehend133 his meaning. I certainly did not for years. But, now that I do, the passage places his procedure in a most striking and edifying175 light. Astronomers176, says Kant, had gone on for ages, assuming that the earth was the central body of our system; and insuperable were the difficulties which attended that assumption. At length, it occurred to try what would result from inverting177 the assumption. Let the earth, instead of offering a fixed centre for the revolving motions of other heavenly bodies, be supposed itself to revolve178 about some one of these, as the sun. That supposition was tried, and gradually all the phenomena179 which, before, had been incoherent, anomalous180, or contradictory181, began to express themselves as parts of a most harmonious182 system. ‘Something,’ he goes on to say, ‘analogous to this I have practised with regard to the subject of my inquiry—the human understanding. All others had sought their central principle of the intellectual phenomena out of the understanding, in something external to the mind. I first turned my inquiries183 upon the mind itself. I first applied my examination to the very analysis of the understanding.’ In words, not precisely184 these, but pretty nearly equivalent to them, does Kant state, by contradistinction, the value and the nature of his own procedure. He first, according to his own representation, thought of applying his investigation to the mind itself. Here was a passage which for years (I may say) continued to stagger and confound me. What! he, Kant, in the latter end of the 18th century, about the year 1787—he the first who had investigated the mind! This was not arrogance185 so much as it was insanity186. Had he said—I, first, upon just principles, or with a fortunate result, investigated the human understanding, he would have said no more than every fresh theorist is bound to suppose, as his preliminary apology for claiming the attention of a busy world. Indeed, if a writer, on any part of knowledge, does not hold himself superior to all his predecessors187, we are entitled to say—Then, why do you presume to trouble us? It may look like modesty188, but is, in effect, downright effrontery189 for you to think yourself no better than other critics; you were at liberty to think so whilst no claimant of public notice—as being so, it is most arrogant190 in you to be modest. This would be the criticism applied justly to a man who, in Kant’s situation, as the author of a new system, should use a language of unseasonable modesty or deprecation. To have spoken boldly of himself was a duty; we could not tolerate his doing otherwise. But to speak of himself in the exclusive terms I have described, does certainly seem, and for years did seem to myself, little short of insanity. Of this I am sure that no student of Kant, having the passage before him, can have known heretofore what consistent, what rational interpretation191 to give it; and, in candour, he ought to own himself my debtor192 for the light he will now receive. Yet, so easy is it to imagine, after a meaning is once pointed193 out, and the station given from which it shows itself as the meaning—so easy, under these circumstances, is it to imagine that one has, or that one could have, found it for one’s self—that I have little expectation of reaping much gratitude194 for my explanation. I say this, not as of much importance one way or the other in a single case of the kind, but because a general consideration of this nature has sometimes operated to make me more indifferent or careless as to the publication of commentaries on difficult systems, when I had found myself able to throw much light on the difficulties. The very success with which I should have accomplished195 the task—the perfect removal of the obstacles in the student’s path—were the very grounds of my assurance-that the service would be little valued. For I have found what it was occasionally, in conversation, to be too luminous—to have explained, for instance, too clearly a dark place in Ricardo. In such a case, I have known a man of the very greatest powers, mistake the intellectual effort he had put forth to apprehend my elucidation196, and to meet it half way, for his own unassisted conquest over the difficulties; and, within an hour or two after, I have had, perhaps, to stand, as an attack upon myself, arguments entirely197 and recently furnished by myself. No case is more possible: even to apprehend a complex explanation, a man cannot be passive; he must exert considerable energy of mind; and, in the fresh consciousness of this energy, it is the most natural mistake in the world for him to feel the argument which he has, by considerable effort, appropriated to be an argument which he has originated. Kant is the most unhappy champion of his own doctrines, the most infelicitous198 expounder199 of his own meaning, that has ever existed. Neither has any other commentator200 succeeded in throwing a moonlight radiance upon his philosophy. Yet certain I am, that, were I, or any man, to disperse201 all his darkness, exactly in that proportion in which we did so—exactly in the proportion in which we smoothed all hindrances202—exactly in that proportion would it cease to be known or felt that there had ever been any hindrances to be smoothed. This, however, is digression, to which I have been tempted203 by the interesting nature of the grievance204. In a jesting way, this grievance is obliquely205 noticed in the celebrated couplet—
‘Had you seen but these roads before they were made,
You’d lift up your hands and bless Marshal Wade206.’
The pleasant bull here committed conceals207 a most melancholy208 truth, and one of large extent. Innumerable are the services to truth, to justice, or society, which never can be adequately valued by those who reap their benefits, simply because the transition from the early and bad state to the final or improved state cannot be retraced209 or kept alive before the eyes. The record perishes. The last point gained is seen; but the starting-point, the points from which it was gained, is forgotten. And the traveller never can know the true amount of his obligations to Marshal Wade, because, though seeing the roads which the Marshal has created, he can only guess at those which he superseded210. Now, returning to this impenetrable passage of Kant, I will briefly211 inform the reader that he may read it into sense by connecting it with a part of Kant’s system, from which it is in his own delivery entirely dislocated. Going forwards some thirty or forty pages, he will find Kant’s development of his own categories. And, by placing in juxtaposition212 with that development this blind sentence, he will find a reciprocal light arising. All philosophers, worthy213 of that name, have found it necessary to allow of some great cardinal214 ideas that transcended215 all the Lockian origination—ideas that were larger in their compass than any possible notices of sense or any reflex notices of the understanding; and those who have denied such ideas, will be found invariably to have supported their denial by a vitium subreptionis, and to have deduced their pretended genealogies216 of such ideas by means of a petitio principii—silently and stealthily putting into some step of their leger-de-main process everything that they would pretend to have extracted from it. But, previously to Kant, it is certain that all philosophers had left the origin of these higher or transcendent ideas unexplained. Whence came they? In the systems to which, Locke replies, they had been called innate217 or connate. These were the Cartesian systems. Cudworth, again, who maintained certain ‘immutable ideas‘ of morality, had said nothing about their origin; and Plato had supposed them to be reminiscences from some higher mode of existence. Kant first attempted to assign them an origin within the mind itself, though not in any Lockian fashion of reflection upon sensible impressions. And this is doubtless what he means by saying that he first had investigated the mind—that is, he first for such a purpose.
Where, then, is it, in what act or function of the mind, that Kant finds the matrix of these transcendent ideas? Simply in the logical forms of the understanding. Every power exerts its agency under some laws—that is, in the language of Kant, by certain forms. We leap by certain laws—viz. of equilibrium218, of muscular motion, of gravitation. We dance by certain laws. So also we reason by certain laws. These laws, or formal principles, under a particular condition, become the categories.
Here, then, is a short derivation, in a very few words, of those ideas transcending sense, which all philosophy, the earliest, has been unable to dispense219 with, and yet none could account for. Thus, for example, every act of reasoning must, in the first place, express itself in distinct propositions; that is, in such as contain a subject (or that concerning which you affirm or deny something), a predicate (that which you affirm or deny), and a copula, which connects them. These propositions must have what is technically220 called, in logic, a certain quantity, or compass (viz. must be universal, particular, or singular); and again they must have what is called quality (that is, must be affirmative, or negative, or infinite): and thus arises a ground for certain corresponding ideas, which are Kant’s categories of quantity and quality.
But, to take an illustration more appropriately from the very idea which first aroused Kant to the sense of a vast hiatus in the received philosophies—the idea of cause, which had been thrown as an apple of discord221 amongst the schools, by Hume. How did Kant deduce this? Simply thus: it is a doctrine of universal logic, that there are three varieties of syllogism222—viz. 1st, Categoric, or directly declarative [A is B]; 2nd, Hypothetic, or conditionally223 declarative [If C is D, then A is B]; 3rd, Disjunctive, or declarative, by means of a choice which exhausts the possible cases [A is either B, or C, or D; but not C or D; ergo B]. Now, the idea of causation, or, in Kant’s language, the category of Cause and Effect, is deduced immediately, and most naturally, as the reader will acknowledge on examination, from the 2nd or hypothetic form of syllogism, when the relation of dependency is the same as in the idea of causation, and the necessary connection a direct type of that which takes place between a cause and its effect.
Thus, then, without going one step further, the reader will find grounds enough for reflection and for reverence224 towards Kant in these two great results: 1st, That an order of ideas has been established, which all deep philosophy has demanded, even when it could not make good its claim. This postulate225 is fulfilled. 2ndly, The postulate is fulfilled without mysticism or Platonic226 reveries. Ideas, however indispensable to human needs, and even to the connection of our thoughts, which came to us from nobody knew whence, must for ever have been suspicious; and, as in the memorable instance cited from Hume, must have been liable for ever to a question of validity. But, deduced as they now are from a matrix within our own minds, they cannot reasonably fear any assaults of scepticism.
Here I shall stop. A reader new to these inquiries may think all this a trifle. But he who reflects a little, will see that, even thus far, and going no step beyond this point, the Kantian doctrine of the Categories answers a standing13 question hanging aloof227 as a challenge to human philosophy, fills up a lacuna pointed out from the era of Plato. It solves a problem which has startled and perplexed228 every age: viz. this—that man is in possession, nay229, in the hourly exercise, of ideas larger than he can show any title to. And in another way, the reader may measure the extent of this doctrine, by reflecting that, even so far as now stated, it is precisely coextensive with the famous scheme of Locke. For what is the capital thesis of that scheme? Simply this—that all necessity for supposing immediate3 impressions made upon our understandings by God, or other supernatural, or antenatal, or connatal, agencies, is idle and romantic; for that, upon examining the furniture of our minds, nothing will be found there which cannot adequately be explained out of our daily experience; and, until we find something that cannot be solved by this explanation, it is childish to go in quest of higher causes. Thus says Locke: and his whole work, upon its first plan, is no more than a continual pleading of this single thesis, pursuing it through all the plausible230 objections. Being, therefore, as large in its extent as Locke, the reader must not complain of the transcendental scheme as too narrow, even in that limited section of it here brought under his notice.
For the purpose of repelling231 it, he must do one of two things: either he must show that these categories or transcendent notions are not susceptible232 of the derivation and genesis here assigned to them—that is, from the forms of the logos or formal understanding; or, if content to abide233 by that derivation, he must allege234 that there are other categories besides those enumerated, and unprovided with any similar parentage.
Thus much in reply to him who complains of the doctrine here stated; as, 1st, Too narrow; or, 2nd, As insufficiently235 established. But, 3rd, in reply to him who wishes to see it further pursued or applied, I say that the possible applications are perhaps infinite. With respect to those made by Kant himself, they are chiefly contained in his main and elementary work, the Critik der reinen Vernunft; and they are of a nature to make any man melancholy. Indeed, let a man consider merely this one notion of causation; let him reflect on its origin; let him remember that, agreeably to this origin, it follows that we have no right to view anything in rerum naturâ as objectively, or in itself a cause; that when, upon the fullest philosophic proof, we call A the cause of B, we do in fact only subsume A under the notion of a cause; we invest it with that function under that relation, that the whole proceeding236 is merely with respect to a human understanding, and by way of indispensable nexus to the several parts of our experience; finally, that there is the greatest reason to doubt, whether the idea of causation is at all applicable to any other world than this, or any other than a human experience. Let a man meditate173 but a little on this or other aspects of this transcendental philosophy, and he will find the steadfast237 earth itself rocking as it were beneath his feet; a world about him, which is in some sense a world of deception238; and a world before him, which seems to promise a world of confusion, or ‘a world not realised.’ All this he might deduce for himself without further aid from Kant. However, the particular purposes to which Kant applies his philosophy, from the difficulties which beset239 them, are unfitted for anything below a regular treatise155. Suffice it to say here, that, difficult as these speculations are from one or two embarrassing doctrines on the Transcendental Consciousness, and depressing as they are from their general tendency, they are yet painfully irritating to the curiosity, and especially so from a sort of experimentum crucis, which they yield in the progress of their development on behalf of the entire doctrine of Kant—a test which, up to this hour, has offered defiance240 to any hostile hand. The test or defiance which I speak of, takes the shape of certain antinomies (so they are termed), severe adamantine arguments, affirmative and negative, on two or three celebrated problems, with no appeal to any possible decision, but one, which involves the Kantian doctrines. A quæstio vexata is proposed—for instance, the infinite divisibility of matter; each side of this question, thesis and antithesis241, is argued; the logic is irresistible242, the links are perfect, and for each side alternately there is a verdict, thus terminating in the most triumphant108 reductio ad absurdum—viz. that A, at one and the same time and in the same sense, is and is not B, from which no escape is available, but through a Kantian solution. On any other philosophy, it is demonstrated that this opprobrium243 of the human understanding, this scandal of logic, cannot be removed. This celebrated chapter of antinomies has been of great service to the mere polemics244 of the transcendental philosophy: it is a glove or gage245 of defiance, constantly lying on the ground, challenging the rights of victory and supremacy246 so long as it is not taken up by any antagonist247, and bringing matters to a short decision when it is.
One section, and that the introductory section, of the transcendental philosophy, I have purposely omitted, though in strictness not to be insulated or dislocated from the faithful exposition even of that which I have given. It is the doctrine of Space and Time. These profound themes, so confounding to the human understanding, are treated by Kant under two aspects—1st, as Anchauungen, or Intuitions (so the German word is usually translated for want of a better); 2ndly, as forms, à priori, of all our other intuitions. Often have I laughed internally at the characteristic exposure of Kant’s style of thinking—that he, a man of so much worldly sagacity, could think of offering, and of the German scholastic habits, that any modern nation could think of accepting such cabalistical phrases, such a true and very ‘Ignotium per Ignotius,’ in part payment of an explanatory account of Time and Space. Kant repeats these words—as a charm before which all darkness flies; and he supposes continually the case of a man denying his explanations or demanding proofs of them, never once the sole imaginable case—viz. of all men demanding an explanation of these explanations. Deny them! Combat them! How should a man deny, why should he combat, what might, for anything to the contrary appearing, contain a promissory note at two months after date for 100 guineas? No; it will cost a little preliminary work before such explanations will much avail any scheme of philosophy, either for the pro or the con5. And yet I do myself really profess96 to understand the dark words; and a great service it would be to sound philosophy amongst us, if this one word anschauung were adequately unfolded and naturalised (as naturalised it might be) in the English philosophic dictionary, by some full Grecian equivalent. Strange that no man acquainted with German philosophy, should yet have been struck by the fact—or, being struck, should not have felt it important to call public attention to the fact of our inevitable feebleness in a branch of study for which as yet we want the indispensable words. Our feebleness is at once argued by this want, and partly caused. Meantime, as respects the Kantian way of viewing space, by much the most important innovation which it makes upon the old doctrines is—that it considers space as a subjective248 not an objective aliquid; that is, as having its whole available foundation lying ultimately in ourselves, not in any external or alien tenure249. This one distinction, as applied to space, for ever secures (what nothing else can secure or explain) the cogency250 of geometrical evidence. Whatever is true for any determinations of a space originally included in ourselves, must be true for such determinations for ever, since they cannot become objects of consciousness to us but in and by that very mode of conceiving space, that very form of schematism which originally presented us with these determinations of space, or any whatever. In the uniformity of our own space-conceiving faculty251, we have a pledge of the absolute and necessary uniformity (or internal agreement among themselves) of all future or possible determinations of space; because they could not otherwise become to us conceivable forms of space, than by adapting themselves to the known conditions of our conceiving faculty. Here we have the necessity which is indispensable to all geometrical demonstration252: it is a necessity founded in our human organ, which cannot admit or conceive a space, unless as preconforming to these original forms or schematisms. Whereas, on the contrary, if space were something objective, and consequently being a separate existence, independent of a human organ, then it is altogether impossible to find any intelligible253 source of obligation or cogency in the evidence—such as is indispensable to the very nature of geometrical demonstration. Thus we will suppose that a regular demonstration has gradually, from step to step downwards254, through a series of propositions—No. 8 resting upon 7, that upon 5, 5 upon 3—at length reduced you to the elementary axiom, that Two straight lines cannot enclose a space. Now, if space be subjective originally—that is to say, founded (as respects us and our geometry) in ourselves—then it is impossible that two such lines can enclose a space, because the possibility of anything whatever relating to the determinations of space is exactly co-extensive with (and exactly expressed by) our power to conceive it. Being thus able to affirm its impossibility universally, we can build a demonstration upon it. But, on the other hypothesis, of space being objective, it is impossible to guess whence we are to draw our proof of the alleged255 inaptitude in two straight lines for enclosing a space. The most we could say is, that hitherto no instance has been found of an enclosed space circumscribed256 by two straight lines. It would not do to allege our human inability to conceive, or in imagination to draw, such a circumscription257. For, besides that such a mode of argument is exactly the one supposed to have been rejected, it is liable to this unanswerable objection, so long as space is assumed to have an objective existence, viz. that the human inability to conceive such a possibility, only argues (what in fact is often found in other cases) that the objective existence of space—i. e. the existence of space in itself, and in its absolute nature—is far larger than its subjective existence—i. e. than its mode of existing quoad some particular subject. A being more limited than man might be so framed as to be unable to conceive curve lines; but this subjective inaptitude for those determinations of space would not affect the objective reality of curves, or even their subjective reality for a higher intelligence. Thus, on the hypothesis of an objective existence for space, we should be thrown upon an ocean of possibilities, without a test for saying what was—what was not possible. But, on the other hypothesis, having always in the last resort what is subjectively258 possible or impossible (i. e. what is conceivable or not by us, what can or cannot be drawn259 or circumscribed by a human imagination), we have the means of demonstration in our power, by having the ultimate appeals in our power to a known uniform test—viz. a known human faculty.
This is no trifling260 matter, and therefore no trifling advantage on the side of Kant and his philosophy, to all who are acquainted with the disagreeable controversies261 of late years among French geometricians of the first rank, and sometimes among British ones, on the question of mathematical evidence. Legendre and Professor Leslie took part in one such a dispute; and the temper in which it was managed was worthy of admiration262, as contrasted with the angry controversies of elder days, if, indeed, it did not err171 in an opposite spirit, by too elaborate and too calculating a tone of reciprocal flattery. But think as we may of the discussion in this respect, most assuredly it was painful to witness so infirm a philosophy applied to an interest so mighty263. The whole aerial superstructure—the heaven-aspiring pyramid of geometrical synthesis—all tottered264 under the palsying logic of evidence, to which these celebrated mathematicians265 appealed. And wherefore?—From the want of any philosophic account of space, to which they might have made a common appeal, and which might have so far discharged its debt to truth, as at least to reconcile its theory with the great outstanding phenomena in the most absolute of sciences. Geometry is the science of space: therefore, in any philosophy of space, geometry is entitled to be peculiarly considered, and used as a court of appeal. Geometry has these two further claims to distinction—that, 1st, It is the most perfect of the sciences, so far as it has gone; and, 2ndly, That it has gone the farthest. A philosophy of space, which does not consider and does not reconcile to its own doctrines the facts of geometry, which, in the two points of beauty and of vast extent, is more like a work of nature than of man, is, primâ facie, of no value. A philosophy of space might be false, which should harmonise with the facts of geometry—it must be false, if it contradict them. Of Kant’s philosophy it is a capital praise, that its very opening section—that section which treats the question of space, not only quadrates with the facts of geometry, but also, by the subjective character which it attributes to space, is the very first philosophic scheme which explains and accounts for the cogency of geometrical evidence.
These are the two primary merits of the transcendental theory—1st, Its harmony with mathematics, and the fact of having first, by its doctrine of space, applied philosophy to the nature of geometrical evidence; 2ndly, That it has filled up, by means of its doctrine of categories, the great hiatus in all schemes of the human understanding from Plato downwards. All the rest, with a reserve as to the part which concerns the practical reason (or will), is of more questionable266 value, and leads to manifold disputes. But I contend, that, had transcendentalism done no other service than that of laying a foundation, sought but not found for ages, to the human understanding—namely, by showing an intelligible genesis to certain large and indispensable ideas—it would have claimed the gratitude of all profound inquiries. To a reader still disposed to undervalue Kant’s service in this respect, I put one parting question—Wherefore he values Locke? What has he done, even if value is allowed in full to his pretensions? Has the reader asked himself that? He gave a negative solution at the most. He told his reader that certain disputed ideas were not deduced thus and thus. Kant, on the other hand, has given him at the least a positive solution. He teaches him, in the profoundest revelation, by a discovery in the most absolute sense on record, and the most entirely a single act—without parts, or contributions, or stages, or preparations from other quarters—that these long disputed ideas could not be derived from the experience assigned by Locke, inasmuch as they are themselves previous conditions under which any experience at all is possible: he teaches him that these ideas are not mystically originated, but are, in fact, but another phasis of the functions, or, forms of his own understanding; and, finally, he gives consistency, validity, and a charter of authority, to certain modes of nexus, without which the sum total of human experience would be a rope of sand.
In terminating this slight account of the Kantian philosophy, I may mention that in or about the year 1818-19, Lord Grenville, when visiting the lakes of England, observed to Professor Wilson that, after five years’ study of this philosophy, he had not gathered from it one clear idea. Wilberforce, about the same time, made the same confession to another friend of my own.
It is not usual for men to meet with their capital disappointments in early life, at least not in youth. For, as to disappointments in love, which are doubtless the most bitter and incapable267 of comfort, though otherwise likely to arise in youth, they are in this way made impossible at a very early age, that no man can be in love to the whole extent of his capacity, until he is in full possession of all his faculties268, and with the sense of dignified269 maturity270. A perfect love, such as is necessary to the anguish271 of a perfect disappointment, presumes also for its object not a mere girl, but woman, mature both in person and character, and womanly dignity. This sort of disappointment, in a degree which could carry its impression through life, I cannot therefore suppose occurring earlier than at twenty-five or twenty-seven. My disappointment—the profound shock with which I was repelled272 from German philosophy, and which thenceforwards tinged273 with cynical274 disgust towards man in certain aspects, a temper which, originally, I will presume to consider the most benign275 that can ever have been created—occurred when I was yet in my twentieth year. In a poem under the title of Saul, written many years ago by Mr. Sotheby, and perhaps now forgotten, having never been popular, there occurs a passage of some pathos276, in which Saul is described as keeping amongst the splendid equipments of a royal wardrobe, that particular pastoral habit which he had worn in his days of earliest manhood, whilst yet humble277 and undistinguished by honour, but also yet innocent and happy. There, also, with the same care, he preserved his shepherd’s crook278, which, in hands of youthful vigour279, had been connected with remembrances of heroic prowess. These memorials, in after times of trouble or perplexity, when the burthen of royalty280, its cares, or its feverish281 temptations, pointed his thoughts backwards282, for a moment’s relief, to scenes of pastoral gaiety and peace, the heart-wearied prince would sometimes draw from their repository, and in solitude283 would apostrophise them separately, or commune with the bitter-sweet remembrances which they recalled. In something of the same spirit—but with a hatred284 to the German philosopher such as men are represented as feeling towards the gloomy enchanter, Zamiel or whomsoever, by whose hateful seductions they have been placed within a circle of malign285 influences—did I at times revert286 to Kant: though for me his power had been of the very opposite kind; not an enchanter’s, but the power of a disenchanter—and a disenchanter the most profound. As often as I looked into his works, I exclaimed in my heart, with the widowed queen of Carthage, using her words in an altered application—
‘Quæsivit lucem—ingemuitque repertâ.’
Had the transcendental philosophy corresponded to my expectations, and had it left important openings for further pursuit, my purpose then was, to have retired287, after a few years spent in Oxford288, to the woods of Lower Canada. I had even marked out the situation for a cottage and a considerable library, about seventeen miles from Quebec. I planned nothing so ambitious as a scheme of Pantisocracy. My object was simply profound solitude, such as cannot now be had in any part of Great Britain—with two accessary advantages, also peculiar to countries situated289 in the circumstances and under the climate of Canada: viz. the exalting290 presence in an under-consciousness of forests endless and silent, the everlasting291 sense of living amongst forms so ennobling and impressive, together with the pleasure attached to natural agencies, such as frost, more powerfully manifested than in English latitudes292, and for a much longer period. I hope there is nothing fanciful in all this. It is certain that, in England, and in all moderate climates, we are too slightly reminded of nature or the focus of nature. Great heats, or great colds (and in Canada there are both), or great hurricanes, as in the West Indian latitudes, recall us continually to the sense of a powerful presence, investing our paths on every side; whereas, in England, it is possible to forget that we live amongst greater agencies than those of men and human institutions. Man, in fact, ‘too much man,’ as Timon complained most reasonably in Athens, was then, and is now, our greatest grievance in England. Man is a weed everywhere too rank. A strange place must that be with us, from which the sight of a hundred men is not before us, or the sound of a thousand about us.
Nevertheless, being in this hotbed of man inevitably293 for some years, no sooner had I dismissed my German philosophy than I relaxed a little that spirit of German abstraction which it had prompted; and, though never mixing freely with society, I began to look a little abroad. It may interest the reader, more than anything else which I can record of this period, to recall what I saw within the ten first years of the century, that was at all noticeable or worthy of remembrance amongst the literati, the philosophers, or the poets of the time. For, though I am not in my academic period from 1804 to 1808, my knowledge of literary men—or men distinguished in some way or other, either by their opinions, their accomplishments294, or their position and the accidents of their lives—began from the first year of the century, or, more accurately295, from the year 1800; which, with some difficulty and demurs296, and with some arguments from the Laureate Pye, the world was at length persuaded to consider the last year of the eighteenth century.4
1 Επεα πτεροεντα, literally297 winged words. To explain the use and origin of this phrase to non-classical readers, it must be understood that, originally, it was used by Homer to express the few, rapid, and significant words which conveyed some hasty order, counsel, or notice, suited to any sudden occasion or emergency: e. g. 'To him flying from the field the hero addressed these winged words—"Stop, coward, or I will transfix thee with my spear."' But by Horne Tooke, the phrase was adopted on the title-page of his Diversions of Purley, as a pleasant symbolic298 expression for all the non-significant particles, the articuli or joints299 of language, which in his well-known theory are resolved into abbreviations or compendious300 forms (and therefore rapid, flying, winged forms), substituted for significant forms of greater length. Thus, if is a non-significant particle, but it is an abbreviated301 form of an imperative302 in the second person—substituted for gif, or give, or grant the case—put the case that. All other particles are shown by Horne Tooke to be equally shorthand (or winged) substitutions.
2 It has been rather too much forgotten, that Africa, from the northern margin303 of Bilidulgerid and the Great Desert, southwards—everywhere, in short, beyond Egypt, Cyrene, and the modern Barbary States—belongs, as much as America, to the New World—the world unknown to the ancients.
3 I might have mastered the philosophy of Kant, without waiting for the German language, in which all his capital works are written; for there is a Latin version of the whole, by Born, and a most admirable digest of the cardinal work (admirable for its fidelity304 and the skill by which that fidelity is attained), in the same language, by Rhiseldek, a Danish professor. But this fact, such was the slight knowledge of all things connected with Kant in England, I did not learn for some years.
4 Those who look back to the newspapers of 1799 and 1800, will see that considerable discussion went on at that time upon the question, whether the year 1800 was entitled to open the 19th century, or to close the 18th. Mr. Laureate Pye wrote a poem, with a long and argumentative preface on the point.
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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mediately
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| 在中间，间接 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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inevitable
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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standing
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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infinitely
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periphery
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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doziness
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utterly
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rudiments
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polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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testaments
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| n.遗嘱( testament的名词复数 )；实际的证明 | |
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embarrassment
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license
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audacity
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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prop
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peculiarities
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peculiar
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stanza
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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infinity
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sate
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housekeeper
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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corruption
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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40
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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41
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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42
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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43
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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44
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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45
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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46
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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47
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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48
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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49
vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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50
forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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52
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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53
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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54
savannas
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| n.（美国东南部的）无树平原( savanna的名词复数 )；（亚）热带的稀树大草原 | |
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55
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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56
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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57
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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58
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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59
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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60
spawn
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|
| n.卵，产物，后代，结果；vt.产卵，种菌丝于，产生，造成；vi.产卵，大量生产 | |
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61
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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62
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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63
teeming
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|
| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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64
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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65
cornucopia
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| n.象征丰收的羊角 | |
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66
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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67
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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68
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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69
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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70
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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71
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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72
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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73
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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74
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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75
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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76
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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77
reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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78
wholesale
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|
| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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79
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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80
seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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81
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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82
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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83
inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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84
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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85
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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86
schisms
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| n.教会分立，分裂( schism的名词复数 ) | |
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87
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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88
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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89
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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90
retracted
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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91
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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92
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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93
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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94
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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95
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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96
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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97
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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98
fluctuation
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| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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99
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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100
polemic
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| n.争论，论战 | |
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101
terminology
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| n.术语；专有名词 | |
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102
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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103
adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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104
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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105
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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107
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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108
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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109
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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110
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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111
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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112
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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113
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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114
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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115
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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116
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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117
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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118
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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119
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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120
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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121
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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122
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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123
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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124
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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125
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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126
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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127
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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128
assailable
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| adj.可攻击的，易攻击的 | |
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129
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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130
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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131
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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132
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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133
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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134
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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135
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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136
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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137
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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138
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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139
nexus
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| n.联系；关系 | |
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140
cohesion
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| n.团结，凝结力 | |
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141
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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142
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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143
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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144
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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145
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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146
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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147
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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148
transcending
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的现在分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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149
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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150
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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151
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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152
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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153
peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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154
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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155
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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156
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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157
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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158
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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159
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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160
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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161
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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162
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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163
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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167
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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168
amendments
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| （法律、文件的）改动( amendment的名词复数 )； 修正案； 修改； （美国宪法的）修正案 | |
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169
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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170
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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171
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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172
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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173
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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174
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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175
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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176
astronomers
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| n.天文学者，天文学家( astronomer的名词复数 ) | |
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177
inverting
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| v.使倒置，使反转( invert的现在分词 ) | |
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178
revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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179
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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180
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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181
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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182
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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183
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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184
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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185
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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186
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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187
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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188
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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189
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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190
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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191
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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192
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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193
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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194
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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195
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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196
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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197
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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198
infelicitous
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| adj.不适当的 | |
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199
expounder
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| 陈述者，说明者 | |
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200
commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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201
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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202
hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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203
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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204
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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205
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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206
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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207
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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208
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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209
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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210
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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211
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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212
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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213
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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214
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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215
transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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216
genealogies
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| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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217
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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218
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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219
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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220
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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221
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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222
syllogism
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| n.演绎法，三段论法 | |
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223
conditionally
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| adv. 有条件地 | |
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224
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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225
postulate
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| n.假定，基本条件；vt.要求，假定 | |
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226
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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227
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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228
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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229
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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230
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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231
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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232
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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233
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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234
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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235
insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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236
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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237
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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238
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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239
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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240
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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241
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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242
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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243
opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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244
polemics
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|
| n.辩论术，辩论法；争论( polemic的名词复数 )；辩论；辩论术；辩论法 | |
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245
gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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246
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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247
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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248
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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249
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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250
cogency
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| n.说服力；adj.有说服力的 | |
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251
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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252
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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253
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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254
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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255
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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256
circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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257
circumscription
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| n.界限；限界 | |
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258
subjectively
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| 主观地； 臆 | |
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259
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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260
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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261
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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262
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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263
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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264
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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265
mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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266
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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267
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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268
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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269
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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270
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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271
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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272
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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273
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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274
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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275
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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276
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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277
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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278
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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279
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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280
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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281
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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282
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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283
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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284
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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285
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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286
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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287
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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288
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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289
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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290
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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291
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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292
latitudes
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| 纬度 | |
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293
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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294
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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295
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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296
demurs
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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297
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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298
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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299
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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300
compendious
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| adj.简要的，精简的 | |
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301
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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302
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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303
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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304
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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