Within the last twelve years several books, both large and small, have appeared, dealing1 either with the philosophy of Aristotle as a whole, or with the general principles on which it is constructed. The Berlin edition of Aristotle’s collected works was supplemented in 1870 by the publication of a magnificent index, filling nearly nine hundred quarto pages, for which we have to thank the learning and industry of Bonitz.161 Then came the unfinished treatise2 of George Grote, planned on so vast a scale that it would, if completely carried out, have rivalled the author’s History of Greece in bulk, and perhaps exceeded the authentic3 remains4 of the Stagirite himself. As it is, we have a full account, expository and critical, of the Organon, a chapter on the De Anima, and some fragments on other Aristotelian writings, all marked by Grote’s wonderful sagacity and good sense. In 1879 a new and greatly enlarged edition brought that portion of Zeller’s work on Greek Philosophy which deals with Aristotle and the Peripatetics162 fully6 up to the level of its companion volumes; and we are glad to see that, like them, it is shortly to appear in an English dress. The older work of Brandis163 goes over the same ground, and, though much behind the present state of knowledge, may still be consulted with advantage, on account of its copious7 and clear analyses of the Aristotelian texts.276 Together with these ponderous8 tomes, we have to mention the little work of Sir Alexander Grant,164 which, although intended primarily for the unlearned, is a real contribution to Aristotelian scholarship, and, probably as such, received the honours of a German translation almost immediately after its first publication. Mr. Edwin Wallace’s Outlines of the Philosophy of Aristotle165 is of a different and much less popular character. Originally designed for the use of the author’s own pupils, it does for Aristotle’s entire system what Trendelenburg has done for his logic10, and Ritter and Preller for all Greek philosophy—that is to say, it brings together the most important texts, and accompanies them with a remarkably11 lucid12 and interesting interpretation13. Finally we have M. Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire’s Introduction to his translation of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, republished in a pocket volume.166 We can safely recommend it to those who wish to acquire a knowledge of the subject with the least possible expenditure14 of trouble. The style is delightfully16 simple, and that the author should write from the standpoint of the French spiritualistic school is not altogether a disadvantage, for that school is partly of Aristotelian origin, and its adherents17 are, therefore, most likely to reproduce the master’s theories with sympathetic appreciation18.
In view of such extensive labours, we might almost imagine ourselves transported back to the times when Chaucer could describe a student as being made perfectly19 happy by having
‘At his beddes hed
Twenty bookes clothed in blake or red
Of Aristotle and his philosophie.’
It seems as if we were witnessing a revival20 of Mediaevalism277 under another form; as if, after neo-Gothic architecture, pre-Raphaelitism, and ritualism, we were threatened with a return to the scholastic21 philosophy which the great scientific reformers of the seventeenth century were supposed to have irrevocably destroyed. And, however chimerical22 may seem the hopes of such a restoration, we are bound to admit that they do actually exist. One of the most cultivated champions of Ultramontanism in this country, Prof. St. George Mivart, not long ago informed us, at the close of his work on Contemporary Evolution, that, ‘if metaphysics are possible, there is not, and never was or will be, more than one philosophy which, properly understood, unites all truths and eliminates all errors—the Philosophy of the Philosopher—Aristotle.’ It may be mentioned also, as a symptom of the same movement, that Leo XIII. has recently directed the works of St. Thomas Aquinas to be reprinted for use in Catholic colleges; having, according to the newspapers, laid aside 300,000 lire for that purpose—a large sum, considering his present necessities; but not too much for the republication of eighteen folio volumes. Now, it is well known that the philosophy of Aquinas is simply the philosophy of Aristotle, with such omissions23 and modifications24 as were necessary in order to piece it on to Christian25 theology. Hence, in giving his sanction to the teaching of the Angelic Doctor, Leo XIII. indirectly26 gives it to the source from which so much of that teaching is derived27.
It may, perhaps, be considered natural that obsolete28 authorities should command the assent29 of a Church whose boast is to maintain the traditions of eighteen centuries intact. But the Aristotelian reaction extends to some who stand altogether aloof30 from Catholicism. M. Saint-Hilaire speaks in his preface of theology with dislike and suspicion; he has recently held office in a bitterly anti-clerical Government; yet his acceptance of Aristotle’s metaphysics is almost unreserved. The same tone is common to all official teaching278 in France; and any departure from the strict Peripatetic5 standard has to be apologised for as if it were a dangerous heresy31. On turning to our own country, we find, indeed, a marked change since the time when, according to Mr. Matthew Arnold, Oxford32 tutors regarded the Ethics33 as absolutely infallible. The great place given to Plato in public instruction, and the rapidly increasing ascendency of evolutionary34 ideas, are at present enough to hold any rival authority in check; still, not only are the once neglected portions of Aristotle’s system beginning to attract fresh attention—which is an altogether commendable35 movement—but we also find the eminent36 Oxford teacher, whose work on the subject has been already referred to, expressing himself as follows:—
We are still anxious to know whether our perception of a real world comes to us by an exercise of thought, or by a simple impression of sense—whether it is the universal that gives the individual reality, or the individual that shapes itself, by some process not explained, into a universal—whether bodily movements are the causal antecedents of mental functions, or mind rather the reality which gives truth to body—whether the highest life is a life of thought or a life of action—whether intellectual also involves moral progress—whether the state is a mere37 combination for the preservation38 of goods and property, or a moral organism developing the idea of right. And about these and such like questions Aristotle has still much to tell us.... His theory of a creative reason, fragmentary as that theory is left, is the answer to all materialistic39 theories of the universe. To Aristotle, as to a subtle Scottish preacher [Principal Caird] ‘the real pre-supposition of all knowledge, or the thought which is the prius of all things, is not the individual’s consciousness of himself as individual, but a thought or self-consciousness which is beyond all individual selves, which is the unity40 of all individual selves and their objects, of all thinkers and all objects of all thought.’167
Our critics are not content with bringing up Aristotle as an authority on the metaphysical controversies41 of the present day, and reading into him theories of which he never dreamed:279 they proceed to credit him with modern opinions which he would have emphatically repudiated42, and modern methods which directly reverse his scientific teaching. Thus Sir A. Grant takes advantage of an ambiguity43 in the word Matter, as used respectively by Aristotle and by contemporary writers, to claim his support for the peculiar44 theories of Prof. Ferrier; although the Stagirite has recorded his belief in the reality and independence of material objects (if not of what he called matter) with a positiveness which one would have thought left no possibility of misunderstanding him.168 And Mr. Wallace says that Aristotle ‘recognises the genesis of things by evolution and development;’ a statement which, standing45 where it does, and with no more qualifications than are added to it, would make any reader not versed46 in the subject think of the Stagirite rather as a forerunner47 of Mr. Darwin and Mr. Herbert Spencer, than as the intellectual ancestor of their opponents; while, on a subsequent occasion, he quotes a passage about the variations of plants under domestication48, from a work considered to be un-Aristotelian by the best critics, apparently49 with no other object than that of finding a piece of Darwinism in his author.169
In Germany, Neo-Aristotelianism has already lived out the appointed term of all such movements; having, we believe, been brought into fashion by Trendelenburg about forty years ago. Since then, the Aristotelian system in all its branches has been studied with such profound scholarship that any illusions respecting its value for our present needs must, by this time, have been completely dissipated; while the Hegelian dialectic, which it was originally intended to combat, no longer requires a counterbalance, having been entirely51 driven from German university teaching. Moreover, Lange’s famous History of Materialism52 has dealt a staggering blow to the reputation of Aristotle, not merely in itself, but relatively53 to the services of early Greek thought; although280 Lange goes too far into the opposite extreme when exalting55 Democritus at his expense.170 We have to complain, however, that Zeller and other historians of Greek philosophy start with an invariable prejudice in favour of the later speculators as against the earlier, and especially in favour of Aristotle as against all his predecessors56, even Plato included, which leads them to slur57 over his weak points, and to bring out his excellencies into disproportionate relief.171
It is evident, then, that Aristotle cannot be approached with the same perfect dispassionateness as the other great thinkers of antiquity59. He is, if not a living force, still a force which must be reckoned with in contemporary controversy60. His admirers persist in making an authority of him, or at least of quoting him in behalf of their own favourite convictions. We are, therefore, bound to sift62 his claims with a severity which would not be altogether gracious in a purely63 historical review. At the same time it is hoped that historical justice will not lose, but gain, by such a procedure. We shall be the better able to understand what Aristotle was, after first showing what he neither was nor could be. And the utility of our investigations65 will be still further enhanced if we can show that he represents a fixed66 type regularly recurring67 in the revolutions of thought.
II.
Personally, we know more about Aristotle than about any other Greek philosopher of the classic period; but what we know does not amount to much. It is little more than the skeleton of a life, a bald enumeration68 of names and dates and places, with a few more or less doubtful anecdotes69 interspersed70. These we shall now relate, together with whatever inferences the facts seem to warrant. Aristotle was born 384 B.C., at Stageira, a Greek colony in Thrace. It is remarkable71 that every single Greek thinker of note, Socrates and Plato alone281 excepted, came from the confines of Hellenedom and barbarism. It has been conjectured72 by Auguste Comte, we know not with how much reason, that religious traditions were weaker in the colonies than in the parent states, and thus allowed freer play to independent speculation74. Perhaps, also, the accumulation of wealth was more rapid, thus affording greater leisure for thought; while the pettiness of political life liberated75 a fund of intellectual energy, which in more powerful communities might have been devoted76 to the service of the State. Left an orphan77 in early youth, Aristotle was brought up by one Proxenus, to whose son, Nicanor, he afterwards repaid the debt of gratitude78. In his eighteenth year he settled at Athens, and attended the school of Plato until the death of that philosopher twenty years afterwards. It is not clear whether the younger thinker was quite conscious of his vast intellectual debt to the elder, and he continually emphasises the points on which they differ; but personally his feeling towards the master was one of deep reverence79 and affection. In some beautiful lines, still extant, he speaks of ‘an altar of solemn friendship dedicated80 to one of whom the bad should not speak even in praise; who alone, or who first among mortals, proved by his own life and by his system, that goodness and happiness go hand in hand;’ and it is generally agreed that the reference can only be to Plato. Again, in his Ethics, Aristotle expresses reluctance81 to criticise82 the ideal theory, because it was held by dear friends of his own; adding the memorable83 declaration, that to a philosopher truth should be dearer still. What opinion Plato formed of his most illustrious pupil is less certain. According to one tradition, he surnamed Aristotle the Nous of his school. It could, indeed, hardly escape so penetrating84 an observer that the omnivorous85 appetite for knowledge, which he regarded as most especially characteristic of the philosophic86 temperament87, possessed88 this young learner to a degree never before paralleled among the sons of men. He may,282 however, have considered that the Stagirite’s method of acquiring knowledge was unfavourable to its fresh and vivid apprehension89. An expression has been preserved which can hardly be other than genuine, so distinguished90 is it by that delicate mixture of compliment and satire91 in which Plato particularly excelled. He is said to have called Aristotle’s house the ‘house of the reader.’ The author of the Phaedrus, himself a tolerably voluminous writer, was, like Carlyle, not an admirer of literature. Probably it occurred to him that a philosophical92 student, who had the privilege of listening to his own lectures, might do better than shut himself up with a heap of manuscripts, away from the human inspiration of social intercourse93, and the divine inspiration of solitary94 thought. We moderns have no reason to regret a habit which has made Aristotle’s writings a storehouse of ancient speculations95; but from a scientific, no less than from an artistic96 point of view, those works are overloaded97 with criticisms of earlier opinions, some of them quite undeserving of serious discussion.
Philosophy was no sooner domiciled at Athens than its professors came in for their full share of the scurrilous98 personalities99 which seem to have formed the staple100 of conversation in that enlightened capital. Aristotle, himself a trenchant101 and sometimes a bitterly scornful controversialist, did not escape; and some of the censures102 passed on him were, rightly or wrongly, attributed to Plato. The Stagirite, who had been brought up at or near the Macedonian Court, and had inherited considerable means, was, if report speaks truly, somewhat foppish104 in his dress, and luxurious105, if not dissipated in his habits. It would not be surprising if one who was left his own master at so early an age had at first exceeded the limits of that moderation which he afterwards inculcated as the golden rule of morals; but the charge of extravagance was such a stock accusation106 at Athens, where the continued influence of country life seems to have bred a prejudice in favour283 of parsimony107, that it may be taken almost as an exoneration108 from graver imputations; and, perhaps, an admonition from Plato, if any was needed, sufficed to check his disciple109’s ambition for figuring as a man of fashion.
We cannot tell to what extent the divergences110 which afterwards made Plato and Aristotle pass for types of the most extreme intellectual opposition111 were already manifested during their personal intercourse.172 The tradition is that the teacher compared his pupil to a foal that kicks his mother after draining her dry. There is a certain rough truth as well as rough wit about the remark; but the author of the Parmenides could hardly have been much affected112 by criticisms on the ideal theory which he had himself reasoned out with equal candour and acuteness; and if, as we sometimes feel tempted113 to conjecture73, those criticisms were first suggested to him by Aristotle in conversation, it will be still more evident that they were received without offence.173
In some respects, Aristotle began not only as a disciple but as a champion of Platonism. On the popular side, that doctrine114 was distinguished by its essentially115 religious character, and by its opposition to the rhetorical training then in vogue117. Now, Aristotle’s dialogues, of which only a few fragments have been preserved, contained elegant arguments in favour of a creative First Cause, and of human immortality118; although in the writings which embody119 his maturer views, the first of these theories is considerably120 modified, and the second is absolutely rejected. Further, we are informed that Aristotle expressed himself in terms of rather violent contempt for Isocrates, the greatest living professor of declamation121; and284 opened an opposition school of his own. This step has, curiously122 enough, been adduced as a further proof of disagreement with Plato, who, it is said, objected to all rhetorical teaching whatever. It seems to us that what he condemned123 was rather the method and aim of the then fashionable rhetoric116; and a considerable portion of his Phaedrus is devoted to proving how much more effectually persuasion124 might be produced by the combined application of dialectics and psychology125 to oratory126. Now, this is precisely128 what Aristotle afterwards attempted to work out in the treatise on Rhetoric still preserved among his writings; and we may safely assume that his earlier lectures at Athens were composed on the same principle.
In 347 Plato died, leaving his nephew Speusippus to succeed him in the headship of the Academy. Aristotle then left Athens, accompanied by another Platonist, Xenocrates, a circumstance tending to prove that his relations with the school continued to be of a cordial character. The two settled in Atarneus, at the invitation of its tyrant129 Hermeias, an old fellow-student from the Academy. Hermeias was a eunuch who had risen from the position of a slave to that of vizier, and then, after his master’s death, to the possession of supreme130 power. Three years subsequently a still more abrupt131 turn of fortune brought his adventurous132 career to a close. Like Polycrates, he was treacherously133 seized and crucified by order of the Persian Government. Aristotle, who had married Pythias, his deceased patron’s niece, fled with her to Mitylênê. Always grateful, and singularly enthusiastic in his attachments134, he celebrated135 the memory of Hermeias in a manner which gave great offence to the religious sentiment of Hellas, by dedicating a statue to him at Delphi, and composing an elegy136, still extant, in which he compares the eunuch-despot to Heracles, the Dioscuri, Achilles, and Ajax; and promises him immortality from the Muses137 in honour of Xenian Zeus.
When we next hear of Aristotle he is at the Macedonian285 Court,174 acting138 as tutor to Alexander, the future conqueror139 of Asia, who remained under his charge between the ages of thirteen and sixteen years. The philosopher is more likely to have obtained this appointment by Court interest—his father was Court-physician to Alexander’s grandfather, Amyntas—than by his reputation, which could hardly have been made until several years afterwards. Much has been made of a connexion which, although it did not last very long, appeals strongly to the imagination, and opens a large field for surmise140. The greatest speculative141 and the greatest practical genius of that age—some might say of all ages—could not, one would think, come into such close contact without leaving a deep impression on each other. Accordingly, the philosopher is supposed to have prepared the hero for his future destinies. Milton has told us how Aristotle ‘bred great Alexander to subdue142 the world.’ Hegel tells us that this was done by giving him the consciousness of himself, the full assurance of his own powers; for which purpose, it seems, the infinite daring of thought was required; and he observes that the result is a refutation of the silly talk about the practical inutility of philosophy.175 It would be unfortunate if philosophy had no better testimonial to show for herself than the character of Alexander. It is not the least merit of Grote’s History to have brought out in full relief the savage143 traits by which his conduct was marked from first to last. Arrogant144, drunken, cruel, vindictive145, and grossly superstitious146, he united the vices54 of a Highland147 chieftain to the frenzy148 of an Oriental despot. No man ever stood further from the gravity, the gentleness, the moderation—in a word, the S?phrosynê of a true Hellenic hero. The time came when Aristotle himself would have run the most imminent149 personal risk had he been within the tyrant’s immediate9 grasp. His286 nephew, Callisthenes, had incurred150 deep displeasure by protesting against the servile adulation, or rather idolatry, which Alexander exacted from his attendants. A charge of conspiracy151 was trumped152 up against him, and even the exculpatory153 evidence, taken under torture, of his alleged154 accomplices155 did not save him. ‘I will punish the sophist,’ wrote Alexander, ‘and those who sent him out.’ It was understood that his old tutor was included in the threat. Fortunately, as Grote observes, Aristotle was not at Ecbatana but at Athens; he therefore escaped the fate of Callisthenes, who suffered death in circumstances, according to some accounts, of great atrocity156.
Zeller finds several good qualities in Alexander—precocious statesmanship, zeal157 for the extension of Hellenic civilisation158, long-continued self-restraint under almost irresistible159 temptation, and through all his subsequent aberrations160 a nobility, a moral purity, a humanity, and a culture, which raise him above every other great conqueror; and these he attributes, in no small degree, to the fostering care of Aristotle;176 yet, with the exception of moral purity, which was probably an affair of temperament, and has been remarked to an equal extent in other men of the same general character, he was surpassed, in all these respects, by Julius Caesar; while the ruthless vindictiveness161, which was his worst passion, exhibited itself at the very beginning of his reign162 by the destruction of Thebes. A varnish163 of literary culture he undoubtedly164 had, and for this Aristotle may be thanked; but any ordinary sophist would probably have effected as much. As to the Hellenising of Western Asia, this, according to Grote, was the work, not of Alexander, but of the Diadochi after him.
The profit reaped by Aristotle from the connexion seems equally doubtful. Tradition tells us that enormous sums of money were spent in aid of his scientific researches, and a whole army of crown servants deputed to collect information287 bearing on his zoological studies. Modern explorations, however, have proved that the conquests of Alexander, at least, did not, as has been pretended, supply him with any new specimens165; nor does the knowledge contained in his extant treatises166 exceed what could be obtained either by his own observations or by private enquiries. At the same time we may suppose that his services were handsomely rewarded, and that his official position at the Macedonian Court gave him numerous opportunities for conversing167 with the grooms168, huntsmen, shepherds, fishermen, and others, from whom most of what he tells us about the habits of animals was learned. In connexion with the favour enjoyed by Aristotle, it must be mentioned as a fresh proof of his amiable169 character, that he obtained the restoration of Stageira, which had been ruthlessly destroyed by Philip, together with the other Greek cities of the Chalcidic peninsula.
Two passages in Aristotle’s writings have been supposed to give evidence of his admiration170 for Alexander. One is the description of the magnanimous man in the Ethics. The other is a reference in the Politics to an ideal hero, whose virtue171 raises him so high above the common run of mortals that their duty is to obey him as if he were a god. But the magnanimous man embodies172 a grave and stately type of character quite unlike the chivalrous173, impulsive174 theatrical175 nature of Alexander,177 while probably not unfrequent among real Hellenes; and the god-like statesman of the Politics is spoken of rather as an unattainable ideal than as a contemporary fact. On the whole, then, we must conclude that the intercourse between these two extraordinary spirits has left no distinct trace on the actions of the one or on the thoughts of the other.
On Alexander’s departure for the East, Aristotle returned to Athens, where he now placed himself at the head of a new philosophical school. The ensuing period of thirteen years288 was fully occupied by the delivery of public lectures, and by the composition of those encyclopaedic writings which will preserve his memory for ever, along, perhaps, with many others which have not survived. Like Anaxagoras, he was not allowed to end his days in the city of his adoption177. His youthful attacks on Isocrates had probably made him many enemies among that rhetor’s pupils. It is supposed by Grote, but warmly disputed by Zeller, that his trenchant criticisms on Plato had excited a similar animosity among the sectaries of the Academy.178 Anyhow, circumstances had unavoidably associated him with the detested178 Macedonian party, although his position, as a metic, or resident alien, debarred him from taking any active part in politics. With Alexander’s death the storm broke loose. A charge was trumped up against Aristotle, on the strength of his unlucky poem in honour of Hermeias, which was described as an insult to religion. That such an accusation should be chosen is characteristic of Athenian bigotry179, even should there be no truth in the story that certain philosophical opinions of his were likewise singled out for prosecution180. Before the case came on for trial, Aristotle availed himself of the usual privilege allowed on such occasions, and withdrew to Chalcis, in order, as he said, that the Athenians need not sin a second time against philosophy. But his constitution, naturally a feeble one, was nearly worn out. A year afterwards he succumbed181 to a stomach complaint, aggravated182, if not produced, by incessant183 mental application. His contemporary, Demosthenes, perished about the same time, and at the same age, sixty-two. Within little more than a twelvemonth the world had lost its three greatest men; and after three centuries of uninterrupted glory, Hellas was left unrepresented by a single individual of commanding genius.
We are told that when his end began to approach, the dying philosopher was pressed to choose a successor in the headship of the School. The manner in which he did this is289 characteristic of his singular gentleness and unwillingness184 to give offence. It was understood that the choice must lie between his two most distinguished pupils, Theophrastus of Lesbos, and Eudêmus of Rhodes. Aristotle asked for specimens of the wine grown in those islands. He first essayed the Rhodian vintage, and praised it highly, but remarked after tasting the other, ‘The Lesbian is sweeter,’ thus revealing his preference for Theophrastus, who accordingly reigned185 over the Lyceum in his stead.179
A document purporting186 to be Aristotle’s will has been preserved by Diogenes Laertius, and although some objections to its authenticity187 have been raised by Sir A. Grant, they have, in our opinion, been successfully rebutted188 by Zeller.180 The philosopher’s testamentary dispositions189 give one more proof of his thoughtful consideration for the welfare of those about him, and his devotion to the memory of departed friends. Careful provision is made for the guardianship190 of his youthful children, and for the comfort of his second wife, Herpyllis, who, he says, had ‘been good to’ him. Certain slaves, specified192 by name, are to be emancipated193, and to receive legacies194. None of the young slaves who waited on him are to be sold, and on growing up they are to be set free ‘if they deserve it.’ The bones of his first wife, Pythias, are, as she herself desired, to be laid by his. Monuments are to be erected195 in memory of his mother, and of certain friends, particularly Proxenus, who had been Aristotle’s guardian191, and his family.
In person Aristotle resembled the delicate student of modern times rather than the athletic196 figures of his predecessors. He was not a soldier like Socrates, nor a gymnast like Plato. To judge from several allusions197 in his works, he put great faith in walking as a preservative198 of health—even when lecturing he liked to pace up and down a shady avenue. And, probably, a constitutional was the severest exercise that290 he ever took. He spoke176 with a sort of lisp, and the expression of his mouth is said to have been sarcastic199; but the traits preserved to us in marble tell only of meditation200, and perhaps of pain. A free-spoken and fearless critic, he was not over-sensitive on his own account. When told that somebody had been abusing him in his absence, the philosopher replied, ‘He may beat me, too, if he likes—in my absence.’ He might be abused, even in his own presence, without departing from the same attitude of calm disdain201, much to the disappointment of his petulant202 assailants. His equanimity203 was but slightly disturbed by more public and substantial affronts204. When certain honorary distinctions, conferred on him by a popular vote at Delphi, were withdrawn205, probably on the occasion of his flight from Athens, he remarked with his usual studied moderation, that, while not entirely indifferent, he did not feel very deeply concerned; a trait which illustrates207 the character of the ‘magnanimous man’ far better than anything related of Alexander. Two other sayings have an almost Christian tone; when asked how we should treat our friends, he replied, ‘As we should wish them to treat us;’ and on being reproached with wasting his bounty208 on an unworthy object, he observed, ‘it was not the person, but the human being that I pitied.’181
Still, taking it altogether, the life of Aristotle gives one the impression of something rather desultory209 and dependent, not proudly self-determined210, like the lives of the thinkers who went before him. We are reminded of the fresh starts and the appeals to authority so frequent in his writings. He is first detained at Athens twenty years by the attraction of Plato; and no sooner is Plato gone, than he falls under the influence of an entirely different character—Hermeias. Even when his services are no longer needed he lingers near the Macedonian Court, until Alexander’s departure leaves him once more without a patron. The most dignified211 period of291 his whole career is that during which he presided over the Peripatetic School; but he owes this position to foreign influence, and loses it with the temporary revival of Greek liberty. A longer life would probably have seen him return to Athens in the train of his last patron Antipater, whom, as it was, he appointed executor to his will. This was just the sort of character to lay great stress on the evidentiary value of sensation and popular opinion. It was also the character of a conservative who was likely to believe that things had always been very much what they were in his time, and would continue to remain so ever afterwards. Aristotle was not the man to imagine that the present order of nature had sprung out of a widely different order in the remote past, nor to encourage such speculations when they were offered to him by others. He would not readily believe that phenomena212, as he knew them, rested on a reality which could neither be seen nor felt. Nor, finally, could he divine the movements which were slowly undermining the society in which he lived, still less construct an ideal polity for its reorganisation on a higher and broader basis. And here we at once become conscious of the chief difference separating him from his master, Plato.
III.
It is an often-quoted observation of Friedrich Schlegel’s that every man is born either a Platonist or an Aristotelian. If we narrow the remark to the only class which, perhaps, its author recognised as human beings, namely, all thinking men, it will be found to contain a certain amount of truth, though probably not what Schlegel intended; at any rate something requiring to be supplemented by other truths before its full meaning can be understood. The common opinion seems to be that Plato was a transcendentalist, while Aristotle was an experientialist; and that this constitutes the most typical distinction between them. It would, however, be a mistake to292 suppose that the à priori and à posteriori methods were marked off with such definiteness in Plato’s time as to render possible a choice between them. The opposition was not between general propositions and particular facts, but between the most comprehensive and the most limited notions. It was as if the question were now to be raised whether we should begin to teach physiology214 by at once dividing the organic from the inorganic215 world, or by directing the learner’s attention to some one vital act. Now, we are expressly told that Plato hesitated between these two methods; and in his Dialogues, at least, we find the easier and more popular one employed by preference. It is true that he often appeals to wide principles which do not rest on an adequate basis of experimental evidence; but Aristotle does so also, more frequently even, and, as the event proved, with more fatal injury to the advance of knowledge. In his Rhetoric he even goes beyond Plato, constructing the entire art from the general principles of dialectics, psychology, and ethics, without any reference, except for the sake of illustration, to existing models of eloquence216.
According to Sir A. Grant, it is by the mystical and poetical217 side of his nature that Plato differs from Aristotle. The one ‘aspired to a truth above the truth of scientific knowledge’; the other to ‘methodised experience and the definite.’182 Now, setting aside the question whether there is any truth above the truth of scientific knowledge, we doubt very much whether Plato believed in its existence. He held that the most valuable truth was that which could be imparted to others by a process even more rigorous than mathematical reasoning; and there was no reality, however transcendent, that he did not hope to bring within the grasp of a dialectic without which even the meanest could not be understood. He did, indeed, believe that, so far, the best and wisest of mankind had owed much more to a divinely implanted instinct than to any conscious chain of reflection; but he distinctly293 asserted the inferiority of such guidance to the light of scientific knowledge, if this could be obtained, as he hoped that it could. On the other hand, Aristotle was probably superior to Plato as a poet; and in speaking about the highest realities he uses language which, though less rich and ornate than his master’s, is not inferior to it in force and fervour; while his metaphysical theories contain a large element of what would now be considered mysticism, that is, he often sees evidence of purpose and animation218 where they do not really exist. His advantage in definiteness is, of course, indisputable, but this was, perhaps, because he came after Plato and profited by his lessons.
Yet there was a difference between them, marking off each as the head of a whole School much wider than the Academy or the Lyceum; a difference which we can best express by saying that Plato was pre-eminently a practical, Aristotle pre-eminently a speculative genius. The object of the one was to reorganise all human life, that of the other to reorganise all human knowledge. Had the one lived earlier, he would more probably have been a great statesman or a great general than a great writer; the other would at no time have been anything but a philosopher, a mathematician219, or a historian. Even from birth they seemed to be respectively marked out for an active and for a contemplative life: the one, a citizen of the foremost State in Hellas, sprung from a family in which political ambition was hereditary220, himself strong, beautiful, fascinating, eloquent221, and gifted with the keenest insight into men’s capacities and motives222; the other a Stagirite and an Asclepiad, that is to say, without opportunities for a public career, and possessing a hereditary aptitude223 for anatomy224 and natural history, fitted by his insignificant225 person and delicate constitution for sedentary pursuits, and better able to acquire a knowledge even of human nature from books than from a living converse226 with men and affairs. Of course, we are not for a moment denying to Plato a fore294most place among the masters of those who know; he embraced all the science of his age, and to a great extent marked out the course which the science of future ages was to pursue; nevertheless, for him, knowledge was not so much an end in itself as a means for the attainment227 of other ends, among which the preservation of the State seems to have been, in his eyes, the most important.M Aristotle, on the other hand, after declaring happiness to be the supreme end, defines it as an energising of man’s highest nature, which again he identifies with the reasoning process or cognition in its purest form.
The same fundamental difference comes out strongly in their respective theologies. Plato starts with the conception that God is good, and being good wishes everything to resemble himself; an assumption from which the divine origin and providential government of the world are deduced. Aristotle thinks of God as exclusively occupied in self-contemplation, and only acting on Nature through the love which his perfection inspires. If, further, we consider in what relation the two philosophies stand to ethics, we shall find that, to Plato, its problems were the most pressing of any, that they haunted him through his whole life, and that he made contributions of extraordinary value towards their solution; while to Aristotle, it was merely a branch of natural history, a study of the different types of character to be met with in Greek society, without the faintest perception that conduct required to be set on a wider and firmer basis than the conventional standards of his age. Hence it is that, in reading Plato, we are perpetually reminded of the controversies still raging among ourselves. He gives us an exposition, to which nothing has ever been added, of the theory now known as Egoistic Hedonism; he afterwards abandons that theory, and passes on to the social side of conduct, the necessity of justice, the relation of private to public interest, the bearing of religion, education, and social institutions on morality, along with other kindred topics, which need not be further specified, as295 they have been discussed with sufficient fulness in the preceding chapter. Aristotle, on the contrary, takes us back into old Greek life as it was before the days of Socrates, noticing the theories of that great reformer only that he may reject them in favour of a narrow, common-sense standard. Virtuous228 conduct, he tells us, consists in choosing a mean between two extremes. If we ask how the proper mean is to be discovered, he refers us to a faculty229 called φρ?νησι?, or practical reason; but on further enquiry it turns out that this faculty is possessed by none who are not already virtuous. To the question, How are men made moral? he answers, By acquiring moral habits; which amounts to little more than a restatement of the problem, or, at any rate, suggests another more difficult question—How are good habits acquired?
An answer might conceivably have been supplied, had Aristotle been enable to complete that sketch230 of an ideal State which was originally intended to form part of his Politics. But the philosopher evidently found that to do so was beyond his powers. If the seventh and eighth books of that treatise, which contain the fragmentary attempt in question, had originally occupied the place where they now stand in our manuscripts, it might have been supposed that Aristotle’s labours were interrupted by death. Modern criticism has shown, however, that they should follow immediately after the first three books, and that the author broke off, almost at the beginning of his ideal polity, to take up the much more congenial task of analysing and criticising the actually existing Hellenic constitutions. But the little that he has done proves him to have been profoundly unfitted for the task of a practical reformer. What few actual recommendations it contains are a compromise—somewhat in the spirit of Plato’s Laws—between the Republic and real life. The rest is what he never fails to give us—a mass of details about matters of fact, and a summary of his speculative ethics, along with counsels of moderation in the spirit of his practical ethics; but not one296 practical principle of any value, not one remark to show that he understood what direction history was taking, or that he had mastered the elements of social reform as set forth231 in Plato’s works. The progressive specialisation of political functions; the necessity of a spiritual power; the formation of a trained standing army; the admission of women to public employments; the elevation232 of the whole race by artificial selection; the radical233 reform of religion; the reconstitution of education, both literary and scientific, the redistribution of property; the enactment234 of a new code; the use of public opinion as an instrument of moralisation;—these are the ideas which still agitate235 the minds of men, and they are also the ideas of the Republic, the Statesman, and the Laws. Aristotle, on the other hand, occupies himself chiefly with discussing how far a city should be built from the sea, whether it should be fortified236; how its citizens should not be employed; when people should not marry; what children should not be permitted to see; and what music they should not be taught. Apart from his enthusiasm for philosophy, there is nothing generous, nothing large-minded, nothing inspiring. The territory of the city is to be self-sufficing, that it may be isolated237 from other States; the citizens are to keep aloof from all industrial occupations; science is put out of relation to the material well-being238 of mankind. It was, in short, to be a city where every gentleman should hold an idle fellowship; a city where Aristotle could live without molestation239, and in the enjoyment240 of congenial friendships; just as the God of his system was a still higher Aristotle, perpetually engaged in the study of formal logic.
Even in his much-admired criticisms on the actually existing types of government our philosopher shows practical weakness and vacillation241 of character. There is a good word for them all—for monarchy242, for aristocracy, for middle-class rule, and even for pure democracy.183 The fifth book, treating of297 political revolutions, is unquestionably the ablest and most interesting in the whole work; but when Aristotle quits the domain243 of natural history for that of practical suggestions, with a view to obviate244 the dangers pointed50 out, he can think of nothing better than the old advice—to be moderate, even where the constitutions which moderation is to preserve are by their very nature so excessive that their readjustment and equilibration would be equivalent to their destruction. And in fact, Aristotle’s proposals amount to this—that government by the middle class should be established wherever the ideal aristocracy of education is impracticable; or else a government in which the class interests of rich and poor should be so nicely balanced as to obviate the danger of oligarchic245 or democratic injustice246. His error lay in not perceiving that the only possible means of securing such a happy mean was to break through the narrow circle of Greek city life; to continue the process which had united families into villages, and villages into towns; to confederate groups of cities into larger298 states; and so, by striking an average of different inequalities, to minimise the risk of those incessant revolutions which had hitherto secured the temporary triumph of alternate factions247 at the expense of their common interest. And, in fact, the spontaneous process of aggregation248, which Aristotle did not foresee, has alone sufficed to remedy the evils which he saw, but could not devise any effectual means of curing, and at the same time has bred new evils of which his diagnosis249 naturally took no account.
But, if this be so, it follows that Mr. Edwin Wallace’s appeal to Aristotle as an authority worth consulting on our present social difficulties cannot be upheld. Take the question quoted by Mr. Wallace himself: ‘Whether the State is a mere combination for the preservation of goods and property, or a moral organism developing the idea of right?’ Aristotle certainly held very strong opinions in favour of State interference with education and private morality, if that is what the second alternative implies; but does it follow that he would agree with those who advocate a similar supervision250 at the present day? By no means; because experience has shown that in enormous industrial societies like ours, protection is attended with difficulties and dangers which he could no more foresee than he could foresee the discoveries on which our physical science is based. Or, returning for a moment to ethics, let us take another of Mr. Wallace’s problems: ‘Whether intellectual also involves moral progress?’ What possible light can be thrown on it by Aristotle’s exposure of the powerlessness of right knowledge to make an individual virtuous, when writers like Buckle251 have transferred the whole question from a particular to a general ground; from the conduct of individuals to the conduct of men acting in large masses, and over vast periods of time? Or, finally, take the question which forms a point of junction252 between Aristotle’s ethics and his politics: ‘Whether the highest life is a life of thought or a life of action?’ Of what importance is his299 decision to us, who attend far more to the social than to the individual consequences of actions; who have learned to take into account the emotional element of happiness, which Aristotle neglected; who are uninfluenced by his appeal to the blissful theorising of gods in whom we do not believe; for whom, finally, experience has altogether broken down the antithesis253 between knowledge and practice, by showing that speculative ideas may revolutionise the whole of life? Aristotle is an interesting historical study; but we are as far beyond him in social as in physical science.
IV.
On turning to Aristotle’s Rhetoric we find that, from a practical point of view, his failure here is, if possible, still more complete. This treatise contains, as we have already observed, an immense mass of more or less valuable information on the subject of psychology, ethics, and dialectic, but gives exceedingly little advice about the very essence of rhetoric as an art, which is to say whatever you have to say in the most telling manner, by the arrangement of topics and arguments, by the use of illustrations, and by the choice of language; and that little is to be found in the third book, the genuineness of which is open to very grave suspicion. It may be doubted whether any orator127 or critic of oratory was ever benefited in the slightest degree by the study of Aristotle’s rules. His collections of scientific data add nothing to our knowledge, but only throw common experience into abstract formulas; and even as a body of memoranda254 they would be useless, for no memory could contain them, or if any man could remember them he would have intellect enough not to require them.184 The professional teachers whom300 Aristotle so heartily255 despised seem to have followed a much more effectual method than his; they gave their pupils ready-made speeches to analyse and learn by heart, rightly trusting to the imitative instinct to do the rest. He compares them to a master who should teach his apprentices256 how to make shoes by supplying them with a great variety of ready-made pairs. But this would be a much better plan than to give them an elaborate lecture on the anatomy of the foot, with a full enumeration of its bones, muscles, tendons, nerves, and blood-vessels, which is the most appropriate parallel to his system of instruction.
The Poetics of Aristotle contains some hints on the subject of composition which entitle it to be mentioned in the present connexion. The deficiencies, even from a purely theoretical point of view, of this work, once pronounced infallible, have at last become so obvious that elaborate hypotheses have been constructed, according to which the recension handed down to us is a mere mutilated extract from the original treatise. Enough, however, remains to convince us that poetry was not, any more than eloquence, a subject with which Aristotle was fitted to cope. He begins by defining it, in common with all other art, as an imitation. Here, we at once recognise the spirit of a philosophy, the whole power and interest of which lay in knowledge; and, in fact, he tells us that the love of art is derived from the love of knowledge. But the truth seems to be that aesthetic257 enjoyment is due to an ideal exercise of our faculties258, among which the power of perceiving identities is sometimes, though not always, included. That the materials of which every artistic creation is composed are taken from the world of our experience makes no difference; for it is by the new forms in which they are arranged that we are interested, not because we remember having met them in301 some natural combination already. Aristotle could not help seeing that this was true in the case of music at least; and he can only save his principle by treating musical effects as representations of passions in the soul. To say, however, that musical pleasure arises from a perception of resemblance between certain sounds and the emotions with which they are associated, would be an extremely forced interpretation; the pleasure is due rather to a sympathetic participation259 in the emotion itself. And when Aristotle goes on to tell us that the characters imitated in epic260 and dramatic poetry may be either better or worse than in ordinary life, he is obviously admitting other aesthetic motives not accounted for by his general theory. If, on the other hand, we start with ideal energising as the secret of aesthetic emotion, we can easily understand how an imaginary exaltation of our faculties is yielded by the spectacle of something either rising above, or falling below, the level on which we stand. In the one case we become momentarily invested with the strength put into action before our eyes; in the other, the consciousness of our own superiority amounts to a fund of reserve power, which not being put into action, is entirely available for ideal enjoyment. And, if this be the correct view, it will follow that Aristotle was quite wrong when he declared the plot to be more important than the characters of a drama. The reason given for his preference is, even on the principles of his own philosophy, a bad one. He says that there can be plot without character-drawing, but never character-drawing without plot. Yet he has taught us elsewhere that the human soul is of more value than the physical organism on which its existence depends. This very parallel suggests itself to him in his Poetics; but, by an almost inconceivable misjudgment, it is the plot which he likens to the soul of the piece, whereas in truth it should be compared to the body. The practice and preference of his own time may have helped to mislead him, for he argues (rather inconsistently, by the way) that plot302 must be more indispensable, as young writers are able to construct good stories before they are able to portray262 character; and more artistic, as it was developed much later in the historical evolution of tragedy. Fortunately for us, the Alexandrian critics were guided by other canons of taste, or the structurally264 faulty pieces of Aeschylus might have been neglected, and the ingeniously constructed pieces of Agathon preserved in their place.
It is probable, however, that Aristotle’s partiality was determined more by the systematising and analytical265 character of his own genius than by the public opinion of his age; or rather, the same tendency was at work in philosophy and in art at the same time, and the theories of the one were unconsciously pre-adapted to the productions of the other. In both there was a decay of penetration266 and of originality267, of life and of inspiration; in both a great development of whatever could be obtained by technical proficiency268; in both an extension of surface at the expense of depth, a gain of fluency269, and a loss of force. But poetry lost far more than philosophy by the change; and so the works of the one have perished while the works of the other have survived.
Modern literature offers abundant materials for testing Aristotle’s theory, and the immense majority of critics have decided270 against it. Even among fairly educated readers few would prefer Molière’s L’étourdi to his Misanthrope271, or Schiller’s Maria Stuart to Goethe’s Faust, or Lord Lytton’s Lucretia to George Eliot’s Romola, or Dickens’s Tale of Two Cities to the same writer’s Nicholas Nickleby, or his Great Expectations to his David Copperfield, although in each instance the work named first has the better plot of the two.
Characters, then, are not introduced that they may perform actions; but actions are represented for the sake of the characters who do them, or who suffer by them. It is not so much a ghostly apparition272 or a murder which interests us as the fact that the ghost appears to Hamlet, and that the murder303 is committed by Macbeth. And the same is true of the Greek drama, though not perhaps to the same extent. We may care for Oedipus chiefly on account of his adventures; but we care far more for what Prometheus or Clytemnestra, Antigone or Ajax, say about themselves than for what they suffer or what they do. Thus, and thus only, are we enabled to understand the tragic273 element in poetry, the production of pleasure by the spectacle of pain. It is not the satisfaction caused by seeing a skilful274 imitation of reality, for few have witnessed such awful events in real life as on the stage; nor is it pain, as such, which interests us, for the scenes of torture exhibited in some Spanish and Bolognese paintings do not gratify, they revolt and disgust an educated taste. The true tragic emotion is produced, not by the suffering itself, but by the reaction of the characters against it; for this gives, more than anything else, the idea of a force with which we can synergise, because it is purely mental; or by the helpless submission275 of the victims whom we wish to assist because they are lovable, and whom we love still more from our inability to assist them, through the transformation276 of arrested action into feeling, accompanied by the enjoyment proper to tender emotion. Hence the peculiar importance of the female parts in dramatic poetry. Aristotle tells us that it is bad art to represent women as nobler and braver than men, because they are not so in reality.185 Nevertheless, he should have noticed that on the tragic stage of Athens women first competed with men, then equalled, and finally far surpassed them in loftiness of character.186 But with his philosophy he could not see that, if heroines did not exist, it would be necessary to create them. For, if women are conceived as reacting against outward circumstances at all, their very helplessness will lead to the304 storing of a greater mental tension in the shape of excited thought and feeling debarred from any manifestation277 except in words; and it is exactly with this mental tension that the spectator can most easily synergise. The wrath278 of Orestes is not interesting, because it is entirely absorbed into the premeditation and execution of his vengeance280. The passion of Electra is profoundly interesting, because it has no outlet281 but impotent denunciations of her oppressors, and abortive282 schemes for her deliverance from their yoke283. Hence, also, Shakspeare produces some of his greatest effects by placing his male characters, to some extent, in the position of women, either through their natural weakness and indecision, as with Hamlet, and Brutus, and Macbeth, or through the paralysis284 of unproved suspicion, as with Othello; while the greatest of all his heroines, Lady Macbeth, is so because she has the intellect and will to frame resolutions of dauntless ambition, and eloquence to force them on her husband, without either the physical or the moral force to execute them herself. In all these cases it is the arrest of an electric current which produces the most intense heat, or the most brilliant illumination. Again, by their extreme sensitiveness, and by the natural desire felt to help them, women excite more pity, which, as we have said, means more love, than men; and this in the highest degree when their sufferings are undeserved. We see, then, how wide Aristotle went of the mark when he made it a rule that the sufferings of tragic characters should be partly brought on by their own fault, and that, speaking generally, they should not be distinguished for justice or virtue, nor yet for extreme wickedness.187 The ‘immoderate moderation’ of the Stagirite was never more infelicitously285 exhibited. For, in order to produce truly tragic effects, excess of every kind not only may, but must, be employed. It is by the reaction of heroic fortitude286, either against unmerited outrage287, or against the whole pressure of social law, that our synergetic interest is wound up305 to the intensest pitch. It is when we see a beautiful soul requited288 with evil for good that our eyes are filled with the noblest tears. Yet so absolutely perverted289 have men’s minds been by the Aristotelian dictum that Gervinus, the great Shakspearian critic, actually tries to prove that Duncan, to some extent, deserved his fate by imprudently trusting himself to the hospitality of Macbeth; that Desdemona was very imprudent in interceding290 for Cassio; and that it was treasonable for Cordelia to bring a French army into England! The Greek drama might have supplied Aristotle with several decisive contradictions of his canons. He should have seen that the Prometheus, the Antigone, and the Hippolytus are affecting in proportion to the pre-eminent virtue of their protagonists291. The further fallacy of excluding very guilty characters is, of course, most decisively refuted by Shakspeare, whose Richard III., whose Iago, and whose Macbeth excite keen interest by their association of extraordinary villainy with extraordinary intellectual gifts.
So far Aristotle gives us a purely superficial and sensational292 view of the drama. Yet he could not help seeing that there was a moral element in tragedy, and he was anxious to show, as against Plato, that it exercised an improving effect on the audience. The result is his famous theory of the Catharsis, so long misunderstood, and not certainly understood even now. The object of Tragedy, he tells us, is to purify (or purge293 away) pity and terror by means of those emotions themselves. The Poetics seems originally to have contained an explanation of this mysterious utterance294, now lost, and critics have endeavoured to supply the gap by writing eighty treatises on the subject. The result has been at least to show what Aristotle did not mean. The popular version of his dictum, which is that tragedy purges295 the passions by pity and terror, is clearly inconsistent with the wording of the original text. Pity and terror are both the object and the instrument of purification. Nor yet does he mean, as was once supposed,306 that each of these emotions is to counterbalance and moderate the other; for this would imply that they are opposed to one another, whereas in the Rhetoric he speaks of them as being akin61; while a parallel passage in the Politics188 shows him to have believed that the passions are susceptible296 of homoeopathic treatment. Violent enthusiasm, he tells us, is to be soothed297 and carried off by a strain of exciting, impassioned music. But whence come the pity and terror which are to be dealt with by tragic poetry? Not, apparently, from the piece itself, for to inoculate298 the patient with a new disease, merely for the sake of curing it, could do him no imaginable good. To judge from the passage in the Politics already referred to, he believes that pity and terror are always present in the minds of all, to a certain extent; and the theory apparently is, that tragedy brings them to the surface, and enables them to be thrown off with an accompaniment of pleasurable feeling. Now, of course, we have a constant capacity for experiencing every passion to which human nature is liable; but to say that in the absence of its appropriate external stimulus299 we are ever perceptibly and painfully affected by any passion, is to assert what is not true of any sane300 mind. And, even were it so, were we constantly haunted by vague presentiments301 of evil to ourselves or others, it is anything but clear that fictitious302 representations of calamity303 would be the appropriate means for enabling us to get rid of them. Zeller explains that it is the insight into universal laws controlling our destiny, the association of misfortune with a divine justice, which, according to Aristotle, produces the purifying effect;189 but this would be the purgation of pity and terror, not by themselves, but by the intellectual framework in which they are set, the concatenation of events, the workings of character, or the reference of everything to an eternal cause. The truth is that Aristotle’s explanation of the moral effect produced by tragedy is307 irrational304, because his whole conception of tragedy is mistaken. The emotions excited by its highest forms are not terror and pity, but admiration and love, which, in their ideal exercise, are too holy for purification, too high for restriction305, and too delightful15 for relief.
Before parting with the Poetics we must add that it contains one excellent piece of advice to dramatists, which is, to imagine themselves present at the scenes which they are supposing to happen, and also at the representation of their own play. This, however, is an exception which proves the rule, for Aristotle’s exclusively theoretic standpoint here, as will sometimes happen, coincides with the truly practical standpoint.
A somewhat similar observation applies to the art of reasoning, which it would be possible to compile by bringing together all the rules on the subject, scattered306 through the Organon. Aristotle has discovered and formulated307 every canon of theoretical consistency308, and every artifice309 of dialectical debate, with an industry and acuteness which cannot be too highly extolled310; and his labours in this direction have perhaps contributed more than those of any other single writer to the intellectual stimulation311 of after ages; but the kind of genius requisite312 for such a task was speculative rather than practical; there was no experience of human nature in its concrete manifestations313, no prevision of real consequences involved. Such a code might be, and probably was to a great extent, abstracted from the Platonic314 dialogues; but to work up the processes of thought into a series of dramatic contests, carried on between living individuals, as Plato has done, required a vivid perception and grasp of realities which, and not any poetical mysticism, is what positively315 distinguishes a Platonist from an Aristotelian.190
308
V.
But if Aristotle had not his master’s enthusiasm for practical reforms, nor his master’s command of all the forces by which humanity is raised to a higher life, he had, more even than his master, the Greek passion for knowledge as such, apart from its utilitarian316 applications, and embracing in its vast orb279 the lowliest things with the loftiest, the most fragmentary glimpses and the largest revelations of truth. He demanded nothing but the materials for generalisation, and there was nothing from which he could not generalise. There was a place for everything within the limits of his world-wide system. Never in any human soul did the309 theorising passion burn with so clear and bright and pure a flame. Under its inspiration his style more than once breaks into a strain of sublime317, though simple and rugged318 eloquence. Speaking of that eternal thought which, according to him, constitutes the divine essence, he exclaims:
On this principle the heavens and Nature hang. This is that best life which we possess during a brief period only, for there it is so always, which with us is impossible. And its activity is pure pleasure; wherefore waking, feeling, and thinking, are the most pleasurable states, on account of which hope and memory exist.... And of all activities theorising is the most delightful and the best, so that if God always has such happiness as we have in our highest moments, it is wonderful, and still more wonderful if he has more.191
Again, he tells us that—
If happiness consists in the appropriate exercise of our vital functions, then the highest happiness must result from the highest activity, whether we choose to call that reason or anything else which is the ruling and guiding principle within us, and through which we form our conceptions of what is noble and divine; and whether this be intrinsically divine, or only the divinest thing in us, its appropriate activity must be perfect happiness. Now this, which we call the theoretic activity, must be the mightiest319; for reason is supreme in our souls and supreme over the objects which it cognises; and it is also the most continuous, for of all activities theorising is that which can be most uninterruptedly carried on. Again, we think that some pleasure ought to be mingled320 with happiness; if so, of all our proper activities philosophy is confessedly the most pleasurable, the enjoyments321 afforded by it being wonderfully pure and steady; for the existence of those who are in possession of knowledge is naturally more delightful than the existence of those who merely seek it. Of all virtues322 this is the most self-sufficing; for while in common with every other virtue it presupposes the indispensable conditions of life, wisdom does not, like justice and temperance and courage, need human objects for its exercise; theorising may go on in perfect solitude323; for the co-operation of other men, though helpful, is not absolutely necessary to its activity. All other pursuits are exercised for some end lying outside themselves; war entirely for the sake of310 peace, and statesmanship in great part for the sake of honour and power; but theorising yields no extraneous324 profit great or small, and is loved for itself alone. If, then, the energising of pure reason rises above such noble careers as war and statesmanship by its independence, by its inherent delightfulness325, and, so far as human frailty326 will permit, by its untiring vigour327, this must constitute perfect human happiness; or rather such a life is more than human, and man can only partake of it through the divine principle within him; wherefore let us not listen to those who tell us that we should have no interests except what are human and mortal like ourselves; but so far as may be put on immortality, and bend all our efforts towards living up to that element of our nature which, though small in compass, is in power and preciousness supreme.192
Let us now see how he carries this passionate58 enthusiasm for knowledge into the humblest researches of zoology328:—
Among natural objects, some exist unchanged through all eternity329, while others are generated and decay. The former are divinely glorious, but being comparatively inaccessible330 to our means of observation, far less is known of them than we could wish; while perishable331 plants and animals offer abundant opportunities of study to us who live under the same conditions with them. Each science has a charm of its own. For knowledge of the heavenly bodies is so sublime a thing that even a little of it is more delightful than all earthly science put together; just as the smallest glimpse of a beloved beauty is more delightful than the fullest and nearest revelation of ordinary objects; while, on the other hand, where there are greater facilities for observation, science can be carried much further; and our closer kinship with the creatures of earth is some compensation for the interest felt in that philosophy which deals with the divine. Wherefore, in our discussions on living beings we shall, so far as possible, pass over nothing, whether it rank high or low in the scale of estimation. For even such of them as displease332 the senses, when viewed with the eye of reason as wonderful works of Nature afford an inexpressible pleasure to those who can enter philosophically333 into the causes of things. For, surely, it would be absurd and irrational to look with delight at the images of such objects on account of our interest in the pictorial334 or plastic skill which they exhibit, and not to take still greater pleasure in a scien311tific explanation of the realities themselves. We ought not then to shrink with childish disgust from an examination of the lower animals, for there is something wonderful in all the works of Nature; and we may repeat what Heracleitus is reported to have said to certain strangers who had come to visit him, but hung back at the door when they saw him warming himself before a fire, bidding them come in boldly, for that there also there were gods; not allowing ourselves to call any creature common or unclean, because there is a kind of natural beauty about them all. For, if anywhere, there is a pervading335 purpose in the works of Nature, and the realisation of this purpose is the beauty of the thing. But if anyone should look with contempt on the scientific examination of the lower animals, he must have the same opinion about himself; for the greatest repugnance336 is felt in looking at the parts of which the human body is composed, such as blood, muscles, bones, veins337, and the like.193 Similarly, in discussing any part or organ we should consider that it is not for the matter of which it consists that we care, but for the whole form; just as in talking about a house it is not bricks and mortar338 and wood that we mean; and so the theory of Nature deals with the essential structure of objects, not with the elements which, apart from that structure, would have no existence at all.194
It is well for the reputation of Aristotle that he could apply himself with such devotion to the arduous339 and, in his time, inglorious researches of natural history and comparative anatomy, since it was only in those departments that he made any real contributions to physical science. In the studies which were to him the noblest and most entrancing of any, his speculations are one long record of wearisome, hopeless, unqualified delusion340. If, in the philosophy of practice and the philosophy of art, he afforded no real guidance at all, in the philosophy of Nature his guidance has312 always led men fatally astray. So far as his means of observation extended, there was nothing that he did not attempt to explain, and in every single instance he was wrong. He has written about the general laws of matter and motion, astronomy, chemistry, meteorology, and physiology, with the result that he has probably made more blunders on those subjects than any human being ever made before or after him. And, if there is one thing more astounding341 than his unbroken infelicity of speculation, it is the imperturbable342 self-confidence with which he puts forward his fallacies as demonstrated scientific certainties. Had he been right, it was no ‘slight or partial glimpses of the beloved’ that would have been vouchsafed343 him, but the ‘fullest and nearest revelation’ of her beauties. But the more he looked the less he saw. Instead of drawing aside he only thickened and darkened the veils of sense which obscured her, by mistaking them for the glorious forms that lay concealed344 beneath.
Modern admirers of Aristotle labour to prove that his errors were inevitable345, and belonged more to his age than to himself; that without the mechanical appliances of modern times science could not be cultivated with any hope of success. But what are we to say when we find that on one point after another the true explanation had already been surmised346 by Aristotle’s predecessors or contemporaries, only to be scornfully rejected by Aristotle himself? Their hypotheses may often have been very imperfect, and supported by insufficient347 evidence; but it must have been something more than chance which always led him wrong when they were so often right. To begin with, the infinity348 of space is not even now, nor will it ever be, established by improved instruments of observation and measurement; it is deduced by a very simple process of reasoning, of which Democritus and others were capable, while Aristotle apparently was not. He rejects the idea because it is inconsistent with certain very arbitrary assumptions and definitions of his own, whereas he should have313 rejected them because they were inconsistent with it. He further rejects the idea of a vacuum, and with it the atomic theory, entirely on à priori grounds, although, even in the then existing state of knowledge, atomism explained various phenomena in a perfectly rational manner which he could only explain by unmeaning or nonsensical phrases.195 It had been already maintained, in his time, that the apparent movements of the heavenly bodies were due to the rotation349 of the earth on its own axis350.196 Had Aristotle accepted this theory one can imagine how highly his sagacity would have been extolled. We may, therefore, fairly take his rejection351 of it as a proof of blind adherence352 to old-fashioned opinions. When he argues that none of the heavenly bodies rotate, because we can see that the moon does not, as is evident from her always turning the same side to us,197 nothing is needed but the simplest mathematics to demonstrate the fallacy of his reasoning. Others had surmised that the Milky353 Way was a collection of stars, and that comets were bodies of the same nature as planets. Aristotle is satisfied that both are appearances like meteors, and the aurora354 borealis—caused by the friction355 of our atmosphere against the solid aether above it. A similar origin is ascribed to the heat and light derived from the sun and stars; for it would be derogatory to the dignity of those luminaries356 to suppose, with Anaxagoras, that they are formed of anything so familiar and perishable as fire. On the contrary, they consist of pure aether like the spheres on which they are fixed as protuberances; though314 how such an arrangement can co-exist with absolute contact between each sphere and that next below it, or how the effects of friction could be transmitted through such enormous thicknesses of solid crystal, is left unexplained.198 By a happy anticipation357 of Roemer, Empedocles conjectured that the transmission of light occupied a certain time: Aristotle declares it to be instantaneous.199
On passing to terrestrial physics, we find that Aristotle is, as usual, the dupe of superficial appearances, against which other thinkers were on their guard. Seeing that fire always moved up, he assumed that it did so by virtue of a natural tendency towards the circumference358 of the universe, as opposed to earth, which always moved towards the centre. The atomists erroneously held that all matter gravitated downwards359 through infinite space, but correctly explained the ascent360 of heated particles by the pressure of surrounding matter, in accordance, most probably, with the analogy of floating bodies.200 Chemistry as a science is, of course, an entirely modern creation, but the first approach to it was made by Democritus, while no ancient philosopher stood farther from its essential principles than Aristotle. He analyses bodies, not into their material elements, but into the sensuous361 qualities, hot and cold, wet and dry, between which he supposes the underlying362 substance to be perpetually oscillating; a theory which, if it were true, would make any fixed laws of nature impossible.
It might have been expected that, on reaching physiology, the Stagirite would stand on firmer ground than any of his contemporaries. Such, however, is not the case. As already observed, his achievements belong entirely to the dominion363 of anatomy and descriptive zoology. The whole internal economy of the animal body is, according to him, designed for the purpose of creating and moderating the vital heat;315 and in apportioning364 their functions to the different organs he is entirely dominated by this fundamental error. It was a common notion among the Greeks, suggested by sufficiently365 obvious considerations, that the brain is the seat of the psychic366 activities. These, however, Aristotle transports to the heart, which, in his system, not only propels the blood through the body, but is also the source of heat, the common centre where the different special sensations meet to be compared, and the organ of imagination and of passion. The sole function of the brain is to cool down the blood—a purpose which the lungs also subserve. Some persons believe that air is a kind of food, and is inhaled367 in order to feed the internal fire; but their theory would involve the absurd consequence that all animals breathe, for all have some heat. Anaxagoras and Diogenes did, indeed, make that assertion, and the latter even went so far as to say that fish breathe with their gills, absorbing the air held in solution by the water passed through them—a misapprehension, says Aristotle, which arose from not having studied the final cause of respiration368.201 His physiological369 theory of generation is equally unfortunate. In accordance with his metaphysical system, hereafter to be explained, he distinguishes two elements in the reproductive process, of which one, that contributed by the male, is exclusively formative; and the other, that contributed by the female, exclusively material. The prevalent opinion was evidently, what we know now to be true, that each parent has both a formative and a material share in the composition of the embryo370. Again, Aristotle, strangely enough, regards the generative element in both sexes as an unappropriated portion of the animal’s nutriment, the last and most refined product of digestion371, and therefore not a portion of the parental372 system at all; while other biologists, anticipating Mr. Darwin’s theory of pangenesis in a very wonderful manner, taught that the semen is a con316flux of molecules373 derived from every part of the body, and thus strove to account for the hereditary transmission of individual peculiarities374 to offspring.202
All these, however, are mere questions of detail. It is on a subject of the profoundest philosophical importance that Aristotle differs most consciously, most radically375, and most fatally from his predecessors. They were evolutionists, and he was a stationarist. They were mechanicists, and he was a teleologist376. They were uniformitarians, and he was a dualist. It is true that, as we mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, Mr. Edwin Wallace makes him ‘recognise the genesis of things by evolution and development,’ but the meaning of this phrase requires to be cleared up. In one sense it is, of course, almost an identical proposition. The genesis of things must be by genesis of some kind or other. The great question is, what things have been evolved, and how have they been evolved? Modern science tells us, that not only have all particular aggregates377 of matter and motion now existing come into being within a finite period of time, but also that the specific types under which we arrange those aggregates have equally been generated; and that their characteristics, whether structural263 or functional379, can only be understood by tracing out their origin and history. And it further teaches us that the properties of every aggregate378 result from the properties of its ultimate elements, which, within the limits of our experience, remain absolutely unchanged. Now, Aristotle taught very nearly the contrary of all this. He believed that the cosmos380, as we now know it, had existed, and would continue to exist, unchanged through all eternity. The sun, moon, planets, and stars, together with the orbs381 containing them, are composed of an absolutely ungenerable, incorruptible substance. The earth, a cold, heavy, solid sphere, though liable to superficial changes, has always occupied its present position in the centre of the universe.317 The specific forms of animal life—except a few which are produced spontaneously—have, in like manner, been preserved unaltered through an infinite series of generations. Man shares the common lot. There is no continuous progress of civilisation. Every invention and discovery has been made and lost an infinite number of times. Our philosopher could not, of course, deny that individual living things come into existence and gradually grow to maturity382; but he insists that their formation is teleologically383 determined by the parental type which they are striving to realise. He asks whether we should study a thing by examining how it grows, or by examining its completed form: and Mr. Wallace quotes the question without quoting the answer.203 Aristotle tells us that the genetic384 method was followed by his predecessors, but that the other method is his. And he goes on to censure103 Empedocles for saying that many things in the animal body are due simply to mechanical causation; for example, the segmented structure of the backbone385, which that philosopher attributes to continued doubling and twisting—the very same explanation, we believe, that would be given of it by a modern evolutionist.204 Finally, Aristotle assumes the only sort of transformation which we deny, and which Democritus equally denied—that is to say, the transformation of the ultimate elements into one another by the oscillation of an indeterminate matter between opposite qualities.
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VI.
The truth is that while our philosopher had one of the most powerful intellects ever possessed by any man, it was an intellect strictly386 limited to the surface of things. He was utterly387 incapable388 of divining the hidden forces by which inorganic nature and life and human society are moved. He had neither the genius which can reconstruct the past, nor the genius which partly moulds, partly foretells389 the future. But wherever he has to observe or to report, to enumerate390 or to analyse, to describe or to define, to classify or to compare; and whatever be the subject, a mollusc or a mammal, a mouse or an elephant; the structure and habits of wild animals; the different stages in the development of an embryo bird; the variations of a single organ or function through the entire zoological series; the hierarchy391 of intellectual faculties; the laws of mental association; the specific types of virtuous character; the relation of equity392 to law; the relation of reason to impulse; the ideals of friendship; the different members of a household; the different orders in a State; the possible variations of political constitutions, or within the same constitution; the elements of dramatic or epic poetry; the modes of predication; the principles of definition, classification, judgment261, and reasoning; the different systems of philosophy; all varieties of passion, all motives to action, all sources of conviction;—there we find an enormous accumulation of knowledge, an unwearied patience of research, a sweep of comprehension, a subtlety393 of discrimination, an accuracy of statement, an impartiality394 of decision, and an all-absorbing enthusiasm for science, which, if they do not raise him to the supreme level of creative genius, entitle him to rank a very little way below it.
It was natural that one who ranged with such consummate395 mastery over the whole world of apparent reality, should believe in no other reality; that for him truth should only319 mean the systematisation of sense and language, of opinion, and of thought. The visible order of nature was present to his imagination in such precise determination and fulness of detail that it resisted any attempt he might have made to conceive it under a different form. Each of his conclusions was supported by analogies from every other department of enquiry, because he carried the peculiar limitations of his thinking faculty with him wherever he turned, and unconsciously accommodated every subject to the framework which they imposed. The clearness of his ideas necessitated396 the use of sharply-drawn206 distinctions, which prevented the free play of generalisation and fruitful interchange of principles between the different sciences. And we shall have occasion to show hereafter, that, when he attempted to combine rival theories, it was done by placing them in juxtaposition397 rather than by mutual398 interpenetration. Again, with his vivid perceptions, it was impossible for him to believe in the justification399 of any method claiming to supersede400, or even to supplement, their authority. Hence he was hardly less opposed to the atomism of Democritus than to the scepticism of Protagoras or the idealism of Plato. Hence, also, his dislike for all explanations which assumed that there were hidden processes at work below the surface of things, even taking surface in its most literal sense. Thus, in discussing the question why the sea is salt, he will not accept the theory that rivers dissolve out the salt from the strata401 through which they pass, and carry it down to the sea, because river-water tastes fresh; and propounds402 in its stead the utterly false hypothesis of a dry saline evaporation403 from the earth’s surface, which he supposes to be swept seawards by the wind.205 Even in his own especial province of natural history the same tendency leads him astray. He asserts that the spider throws off its web from the surface of its body like a skin, instead of evolving it from within, as Democritus had taught.206 The same thinker had320 endeavoured to prove by analogical reasoning that the invertebrate404 animals must have viscera, and that only their extreme minuteness prevents us from perceiving them; a view which his successor will not admit.207 In fact, wherever the line between the visible and the invisible is crossed, Aristotle’s powers are suddenly paralysed, as if by enchantment405.
Another circumstance which led Aristotle to disregard the happy aper?us of earlier philosophers was his vast superiority to them in positive knowledge. It never occurred to him that their sagacity might be greater than his, precisely because its exercise was less impeded406 by the labour of acquiring and retaining such immense masses of irrelevant407 facts. And his confidence was still further enhanced by the conviction that all previous systems were absorbed into his own, their scattered truths co-ordinated, their aberrations corrected, and their discords408 reconciled. But in striking a general average of existing philosophies, he was in reality bringing them back to that anonymous409 philosophy which is embodied410 in common language and common opinion. And if he afterwards ruled the minds of men with a more despotic sway than any other intellectual master, it was because he gave an organised expression to the principle of authority, which, if it could, would stereotype411 and perpetuate412 the existing type of civilisation for all time.
Here, then, are three main points of distinction between our philosopher and his precursors413, the advantage being, so far, entirely on their side. He did not, like the Ionian physiologists414, anticipate in outline our theories of evolution. He held that the cosmos had always been, by the strictest necessity, arranged in the same manner; the starry415 revolutions never changing; the four elements preserving a constant balance; the earth always solid; land and water always distributed according to their present proportions; living321 species transmitting the same unalterable type through an infinite series of generations; the human race enjoying an eternal duration, but from time to time losing all its conquests in some great physical catastrophe416, and obliged to begin over again with the depressing consciousness that nothing could be devised which had not been thought of an infinite number of times already; the existing distinctions between Hellenes and barbarians417, masters and slaves, men and women, grounded on everlasting418 necessities of nature. He did not, like Democritus, distinguish between objective and subjective419 properties of matter; nor admit that void space extends to infinity round the starry sphere, and honeycombs the objects which seem most incompressible and continuous to our senses. He did not hope, like Socrates, for the regeneration of the individual, nor, like Plato, for the regeneration of the race, by enlightened thought. It seemed as if Philosophy, abdicating420 her high function, and obstructing421 the paths which she had first opened, were now content to systematise the forces of prejudice, blindness, immobility, and despair.
For the restrictions422 under which Aristotle thought were not determined by his personality alone; they followed on the logical development of speculation, and would have imposed themselves on any other thinker equally capable of carrying that development to its predetermined goal. The Ionian search for a primary cause and substance of nature led to the distinction, made almost simultaneously423, although from opposite points of view, by Parmenides and Heracleitus, between appearance and reality. From that distinction sprang the idea of mind, organised by Socrates into a systematic424 study of ethics and dialectics. Time and space, the necessary conditions of physical causality, were eliminated from a method having for its form the eternal relations of difference and resemblance, for its matter the present interests of humanity. Socrates taught that before enquiring425 whence things come we must first determine what it is they are.322 Hence he reduced science to the framing of exact definitions. Plato followed on the same track, and refused to answer a single question about anything until the subject of investigation64 had been clearly determined. But the form of causation had taken such a powerful hold on Greek thought, that it could not be immediately shaken off; and Plato, as he devoted more and more attention to the material universe, saw himself compelled, like the older philosophers, to explain its construction by tracing out the history of its growth. What is even more significant, he applied426 the same method to ethics and politics, finding it easier to describe how the various virtues and types of social union came into existence, than to analyse and classify them as fixed ideas without reference to time. Again, while taking up the Eleatic antithesis of reality and appearance, and re-interpreting it as a distinction between noumena and phenomena, ideas and sensations, spirit and matter, he was impelled427 by the necessity of explaining himself, and by the actual limitations of experience to assimilate the two opposing series, or, at least, to view the fleeting428, superficial images as a reflection and adumbration429 of the being which they concealed. And of all material objects, it seemed as if the heavenly bodies, with their orderly, unchanging movements, their clear brilliant light, and their remoteness from earthly impurities430, best represented the philosopher’s ideal. Thus, Plato, while on the one side he reaches back to the pre-Socratic age, on the other reaches forward to the Aristotelian system.
Nor was this all. As the world of sense was coming back into favour, the world of reason was falling into disrepute. Just as the old physical philosophy had been decomposed431 by the Sophisticism of Protagoras and Gorgias, so also the dialectic of Socrates was corrupted432 into the sophistry433 of Eubulides and Euthydêmus. Plato himself discovered that by reasoning deductively from purely abstract premises434, contradictory435 conclusions could be established with apparently323 equal force. It was difficult to see how a decision could be arrived at except by appealing to the testimony436 of sense. And a moral reform could hardly be effected except by similarly taking into account the existing beliefs and customs of mankind.
It is possible, we think, to trace a similar evolution in the history of the Attic437 drama. The tragedies of Aeschylus resemble the old Ionian philosophy in this, that they are filled with material imagery, and that they deal with remote interests, remote times, and remote places. Sophocles withdraws his action into the subjective sphere, and simultaneously works out a pervading contrast between the illusions by which men are either lulled438 to false security or racked with needless anguish439, and the terrible or consolatory440 reality to which they finally awaken441. We have also, in his well-known irony442, in the unconscious self-betrayal of his characters, that subtle evanescent allusiveness443 to a hidden truth, that gleaming of reality through appearance which constitutes, first the dialectic, then the mythical444 illustration, and finally the physics of Plato. In Aeschylus also we have the spectacle of sudden and violent vicissitudes445, the abasement446 of insolent447 prosperity, and the punishment of long successful crime; only with him the characters which attract most interest are not the blind victims, but the accomplices or the confidants of destiny—the great figures of a Prometheus, a Darius, an Eteocles, a Clytemnestra, and a Cassandra, who are raised above the common level to an eminence448 where the secrets of past and future are unfolded to their gaze. Far otherwise with Sophocles. The leading actors in his most characteristic works, Oedipus, Electra, Dejanira, Ajax, and Philoctetes, are surrounded by forces which they can neither control nor understand; moving in a world of illusion, if they help to work out their own destinies it is unconsciously, or even in direct opposition to their own designs.208 Hence in Aeschylus we have something324 like that superb self-confidence which distinguishes a Parmenides and a Heracleitus; in Sophocles that confession449 of human ignorance which the Athenian philosophers made on their own behalf, or strove to extract from others. Euripides introduces us to another mode of thought, more akin to that which characterises Aristotle. For, although there is abundance of mystery in his tragedies, it has not the profound religious significance of the Sophoclean irony; he uses it rather for romantic and sentimental450 purposes, for the construction of an intricate plot, or for the creation of pathetic situations. His whole power is thrown into the immediate and detailed451 representation of living passion, and of the surroundings in which it is displayed, without going far back into its historical antecedents like Aeschylus, or, like Sophocles, into the divine purposes which underlie452 it. On the other hand, as a Greek writer could not be other than philosophical, he uses particular incidents as an occasion for wide generalisations and dialectical discussions; these, and not the idea of justice or of destiny, being the pedestal on which his figures are set. And it may be noticed as another curious coincidence that, like Aristotle again, he is disposed to criticise his predecessors, or at least one of them, Aeschylus, with some degree of asperity453.
The critical tendency just alluded454 to suggests one more reason why philosophy, from having been a method of discovery, should at last become a mere method of description and arrangement. The materials accumulated by nearly three centuries of observation and reasoning were so enormous that they began to stifle455 the imaginative faculty. If there was any opening for originality it lay in the task of carrying order into this chaos456 by reducing it to a few general heads, by mapping out the whole field of knowledge, and subjecting each particular branch to the new-found processes of definition325 and classification. And along with the incapacity for framing new theories there arose a desire to diminish the number of those already existing, to frame, if possible, a system which should select and combine whatever was good in any or all of them.
VII.
This, then, was the revolution effected by Aristotle, that he found Greek thought in the form of a solid, and unrolled into a surface of the utmost possible tenuity, transparency, and extension. In so doing, he completed what Socrates and Plato had begun, he paralleled the course already described by Greek poetry, and he offered the first example of what since then has more than once recurred457 in the history of philosophy. It was thus that the residual458 substance of Locke and Berkeley was resolved into phenomenal succession by Hume. It was thus that the unexplained reality of Kant and Fichte was drawn out into a play of logical relations by Hegel. And, if we may venture on a forecast of the future towards which speculation is now advancing, it is thus that the limits imposed on human knowledge by positivists and agnostics in our own day, are yielding to the criticism of those who wish to establish either a perfect identity or a perfect equation between consciousness and being. This is the position represented in France by M. Taine, a thinker offering many points of resemblance to Aristotle, which it would be interesting to work out had we space at our command for the purpose. The forces which are now guiding English philosophy in an analogous459 direction have hitherto escaped observation on account of their disunion among themselves, and their intermixture with others of a different character. But on the whole we may say that the philosophy of Mill and his school corresponds very nearly in its practical idealism to Plato’s teaching; that Mr. Herbert Spencer approaches326 Aristotle on the side of theorising systematisation, while sharing to a more limited extent the metaphysical and political realism which accompanied it: that Lewes was carrying the same transformation a step further in his unfinished Problems of Life and Mind; that the philosophy of Mr. Shadworth Hodgson is marked by the same spirit of actuality, though not without a vista460 of multitudinous possibilities in the background; that the Neo-Hegelian school are trying to do over again for us what their master did in Germany; and that the lamented461 Professor Clifford had already given promise of one more great attempt to widen the area of our possible experience into co-extension with the whole domain of Nature.209
The systematising power of Aristotle, his faculty for bringing the isolated parts of a surface into co-ordination and continuity, is apparent even in those sciences with whose material truths he was utterly unacquainted. Apart from the falseness of their fundamental assumptions, his scientific treatises are, for their time, masterpieces of method. In this respect they far surpass his moral and metaphysical works, and they are also written in a much more vigorous style, occasionally even rising into eloquence. He evidently moves with much more assurance on the solid ground of external nature than in the cloudland of Platonic dialectics, or among the possibilities of an ideal morality. If, for example, we open his Physics, we shall find such notions as Causation, Infinity, Matter, Space, Time, Motion, and Force, for the first time in history separately discussed, defined, and made the foundation of natural philosophy. The treatise On the Heavens very properly regards the celestial462 movements as a purely mechanical problem, and strives throughout to bring theory and practice327 into complete agreement. While directly contradicting the truths of modern astronomy, it stands on the same ground with them; and anyone who had mastered it would be far better prepared to receive those truths than if he were only acquainted with such a work as Plato’s Timaeus. The remaining portions of Aristotle’s scientific encyclopaedia463 follow in perfect logical order, and correspond very nearly to Auguste Comte’s classification, if, indeed, they did not directly or indirectly suggest it. We cannot, however, view the labours of Aristotle with unmixed satisfaction until he comes on to deal with the provinces of natural history, comparative anatomy, and comparative psychology. Here, as we have shown, the subject exactly suited the comprehensive observation and systematising formalism in which he excelled. Here, accordingly, not only the method but the matter of his teaching is good. In theorising about the causes of phenomena he was behind the best science of his age; in dissecting464 the phenomena themselves he was far before it. Of course very much of what he tells was learned at second-hand465, and some of it is not authentic. But to collect such masses of information from the reports of uneducated hunters, fishermen, grooms, shepherds, beemasters, and the like, required an extraordinary power of putting pertinent466 questions, such as could only be acquired in the school of Socratic dialectic. Nor should we omit to notice the vivid intelligence which enabled even ordinary Greeks to supply him with the facts required for his generalisations. But some of his most important researches must be entirely original. For instance, he must have traced the development of the embryo chicken with his own eyes; and, here, we have it on good authority that his observations are remarkable for their accuracy, in a field where accuracy, according to Caspar Friedrich Wolff, is almost impossible.210
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Still more important than these observations themselves is the great truth he derives467 from them—since rediscovered and worked out in detail by Von Baer—that in the development of each individual the generic468 characters make their appearance before the specific characters.211 Nor is this a mere accidental or isolated remark, but, as we shall show in the next chapter, intimately connected with one of the philosopher’s metaphysical theories. Although not an evolutionist, he has made other contributions to biology, the importance of which has been first realised in the light of the evolution theory. Thus he notices the antagonism469 between individuation and reproduction;212 the connexion of increased size with increased vitality;213 the connexion of greater mobility,214 and of greater intelligence,215 with increased complexity470 of structure; the physiological division of labour in the higher animals;216 the formation of heterogeneous471 organs out of homogeneous tissues;217 the tendency towards greater centralisation in the higher organisms218—a remark connected with his two great anatomical discoveries, the central position of the heart in the vascular472 system, and the possession of a backbone by all red-blooded animals;219 the resemblance of animal intelligence to a rudimentary human intelligence, especially as manifested in children;220 and, finally, he attempts to trace a continuous series of gradations connecting the inorganic with the organic world, plants with animals, and the lower animals with man.221
The last mentioned principle gives one more illustration of the distinction between Aristotle’s system and that of the evolutionist, properly so called. The continuity recognised329 by the former only obtains among a number of coexisting types; it is a purely logical or ideal arrangement, facilitating the acquisition and retention473 of knowledge, but adding nothing to its real content. The continuity of the latter implies a causal connexion between successive types evolved from each other by the action of mechanical forces. Moreover, our modern theory, while accounting474 for whatever is true in Aristotle’s conception, serves, at the same time, to correct its exaggeration. The totality of existing species only imperfectly fill up the interval475 between the highest human life and the inorganic matter from which we assume it to be derived, because they are collaterally476, and not lineally, related. Probably no one of them corresponds to any less developed stage of another, although some have preserved, with more constancy than others, the features of a common parent. In diverging477 from a single stock (if we accept the monogenetic hypothesis,) they have become separated by considerable spaces, which the innumerable multitude of extinct species alone could fill up.
Our preliminary survey of the subject is now completed. So far, we have been engaged in studying the mind of Aristotle rather than his system of philosophy. In the next chapter we shall attempt to give a more complete account of that system in its internal organisation213 not less than in its relations to modern science and modern thought.
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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chimerical
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| adj.荒诞不经的，梦幻的 | |
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23
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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24
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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25
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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27
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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28
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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29
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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30
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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31
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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33
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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evolutionary
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| adj.进化的；演化的，演变的；[生]进化论的 | |
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commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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36
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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37
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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38
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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39
materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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40
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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41
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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42
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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43
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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44
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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45
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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46
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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47
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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48
domestication
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| n.驯养，驯化 | |
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49
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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50
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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51
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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52
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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53
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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54
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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55
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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56
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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57
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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58
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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59
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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60
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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61
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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62
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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63
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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64
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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65
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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66
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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67
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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68
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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69
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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70
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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71
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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72
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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74
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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75
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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76
devoted
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|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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77
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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78
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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79
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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80
dedicated
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|
| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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81
reluctance
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|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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82
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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83
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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84
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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85
omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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86
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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87
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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88
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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89
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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90
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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91
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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92
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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93
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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94
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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95
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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96
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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97
overloaded
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| a.超载的，超负荷的 | |
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98
scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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99
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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100
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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101
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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102
censures
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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104
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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105
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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106
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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107
parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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108
exoneration
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| n.免罪，免除 | |
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109
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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110
divergences
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| n.分叉( divergence的名词复数 )；分歧；背离；离题 | |
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111
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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112
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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113
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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114
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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115
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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116
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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117
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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118
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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119
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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120
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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121
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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122
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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123
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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124
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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125
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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126
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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127
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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128
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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129
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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130
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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131
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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132
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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133
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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134
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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135
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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136
elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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137
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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138
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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139
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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140
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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141
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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142
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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143
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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144
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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145
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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146
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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147
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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148
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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149
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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150
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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151
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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152
trumped
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| v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去分词 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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153
exculpatory
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| adj.辩解的，辩明无罪的 | |
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154
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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155
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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156
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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157
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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158
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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159
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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160
aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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161
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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162
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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163
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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164
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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165
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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166
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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167
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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168
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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169
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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170
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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171
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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172
embodies
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| v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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173
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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174
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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175
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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176
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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177
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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178
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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180
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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181
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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182
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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183
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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184
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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185
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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186
purporting
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的现在分词 ) | |
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187
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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188
rebutted
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| v.反驳，驳回( rebut的过去式和过去分词 )；击退 | |
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189
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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190
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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191
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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192
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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193
emancipated
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|
| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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194
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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195
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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196
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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197
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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198
preservative
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| n.防腐剂；防腐料；保护料；预防药 | |
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199
sarcastic
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|
| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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200
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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201
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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202
petulant
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|
| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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203
equanimity
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|
| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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204
affronts
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|
| n.（当众）侮辱，（故意）冒犯( affront的名词复数 )v.勇敢地面对( affront的第三人称单数 )；相遇 | |
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205
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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206
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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207
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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208
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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209
desultory
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|
| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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210
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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211
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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212
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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213
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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214
physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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215
inorganic
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|
| adj.无生物的；无机的 | |
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216
eloquence
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|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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217
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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218
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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219
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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220
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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221
eloquent
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|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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222
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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223
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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224
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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225
insignificant
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|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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226
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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227
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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228
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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229
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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230
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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231
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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232
elevation
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|
| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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233
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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234
enactment
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| n.演出，担任…角色；制订，通过 | |
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235
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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236
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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237
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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238
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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239
molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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240
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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241
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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242
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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243
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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244
obviate
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| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
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245
oligarchic
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| adj.寡头政治的，主张寡头政治的 | |
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246
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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247
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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248
aggregation
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| n.聚合，组合；凝聚 | |
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249
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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250
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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251
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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252
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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253
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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254
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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255
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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256
apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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257
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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258
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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259
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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260
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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261
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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262
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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263
structural
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| adj.构造的，组织的，建筑（用）的 | |
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264
structurally
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| 在结构上 | |
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265
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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266
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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267
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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268
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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269
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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270
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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271
misanthrope
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| n.恨人类的人；厌世者 | |
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272
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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273
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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274
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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275
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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276
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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277
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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278
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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279
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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280
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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281
outlet
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|
| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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282
abortive
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|
| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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283
yoke
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|
| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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284
paralysis
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|
| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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285
infelicitously
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286
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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287
outrage
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|
| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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288
requited
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|
| v.报答( requite的过去式和过去分词 )；酬谢；回报；报复 | |
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289
perverted
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|
| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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290
interceding
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|
| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的现在分词 )；说情 | |
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291
protagonists
|
|
| n.（戏剧的）主角( protagonist的名词复数 )；（故事的）主人公；现实事件（尤指冲突和争端的）主要参与者；领导者 | |
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292
sensational
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|
| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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293
purge
|
|
| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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294
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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295
purges
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|
| 清除异己( purge的名词复数 )； 整肃（行动）； 清洗； 泻药 | |
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296
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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297
soothed
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|
| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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298
inoculate
|
|
| v.给...接种，给...注射疫苗 | |
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299
stimulus
|
|
| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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300
sane
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|
| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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301
presentiments
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|
| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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302
fictitious
|
|
| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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303
calamity
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|
| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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304
irrational
|
|
| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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305
restriction
|
|
| n.限制，约束 | |
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306
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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307
formulated
|
|
| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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308
consistency
|
|
| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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309
artifice
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|
| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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310
extolled
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|
| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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311
stimulation
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|
| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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312
requisite
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|
| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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313
manifestations
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|
| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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314
platonic
|
|
| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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315
positively
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|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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316
utilitarian
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|
| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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317
sublime
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|
| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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318
rugged
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|
| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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319
mightiest
|
|
| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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320
mingled
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|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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321
enjoyments
|
|
| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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322
virtues
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|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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323
solitude
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|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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324
extraneous
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|
| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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325
delightfulness
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|
| n.delightful（令人高兴的，使人愉快的，给人快乐的，讨人喜欢的）的变形 | |
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326
frailty
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|
| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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327
vigour
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|
| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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328
zoology
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|
| n.动物学，生态 | |
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329
eternity
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|
| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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330
inaccessible
|
|
| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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331
perishable
|
|
| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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332
displease
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|
| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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333
philosophically
|
|
| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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334
pictorial
|
|
| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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335
pervading
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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336
repugnance
|
|
| n.嫌恶 | |
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337
veins
|
|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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338
mortar
|
|
| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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339
arduous
|
|
| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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340
delusion
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|
| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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341
astounding
|
|
| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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342
imperturbable
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|
| adj.镇静的 | |
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343
vouchsafed
|
|
| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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344
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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345
inevitable
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|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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346
surmised
|
|
| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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347
insufficient
|
|
| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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348
infinity
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|
| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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349
rotation
|
|
| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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350
axis
|
|
| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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351
rejection
|
|
| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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352
adherence
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|
| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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353
milky
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|
| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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354
aurora
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|
| n.极光 | |
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355
friction
|
|
| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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356
luminaries
|
|
| n.杰出人物，名人（luminary的复数形式） | |
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357
anticipation
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|
| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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358
circumference
|
|
| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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359
downwards
|
|
| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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360
ascent
|
|
| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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361
sensuous
|
|
| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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362
underlying
|
|
| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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363
dominion
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|
| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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364
apportioning
|
|
| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的现在分词形式） | |
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365
sufficiently
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|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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366
psychic
|
|
| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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367
inhaled
|
|
| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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368
respiration
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|
| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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369
physiological
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|
| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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370
embryo
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|
| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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371
digestion
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|
| n.消化，吸收 | |
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372
parental
|
|
| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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373
molecules
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|
| 分子( molecule的名词复数 ) | |
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374
peculiarities
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|
| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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375
radically
|
|
| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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376
teleologist
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|
| n.目的论者 | |
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377
aggregates
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|
| 数( aggregate的名词复数 )； 总计； 骨料； 集料（可成混凝土或修路等用的） | |
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378
aggregate
|
|
| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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379
functional
|
|
| adj.为实用而设计的，具备功能的，起作用的 | |
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380
cosmos
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|
| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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381
orbs
|
|
| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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382
maturity
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|
| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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383
teleologically
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|
| adj.目的论的 | |
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384
genetic
|
|
| adj.遗传的，遗传学的 | |
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385
backbone
|
|
| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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386
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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387
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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388
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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389
foretells
|
|
| v.预言，预示( foretell的第三人称单数 ) | |
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390
enumerate
|
|
| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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391
hierarchy
|
|
| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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392
equity
|
|
| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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393
subtlety
|
|
| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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394
impartiality
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|
| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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395
consummate
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|
| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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396
necessitated
|
|
| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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397
juxtaposition
|
|
| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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398
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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399
justification
|
|
| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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400
supersede
|
|
| v.替代；充任 | |
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401
strata
|
|
| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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402
propounds
|
|
| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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|
403
evaporation
|
|
| n.蒸发，消失 | |
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404
invertebrate
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| n.无脊椎动物 | |
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405
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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406
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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407
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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408
discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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409
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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410
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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411
stereotype
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| n.固定的形象，陈规，老套，旧框框 | |
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412
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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413
precursors
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| n.先驱( precursor的名词复数 )；先行者；先兆；初期形式 | |
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414
physiologists
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| n.生理学者( physiologist的名词复数 )；生理学( physiology的名词复数 )；生理机能 | |
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415
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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416
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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417
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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418
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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419
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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420
abdicating
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的现在分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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421
obstructing
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| 阻塞( obstruct的现在分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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422
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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423
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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424
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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425
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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426
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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427
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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428
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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429
adumbration
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| n.预示，预兆 | |
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430
impurities
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| 不纯( impurity的名词复数 )； 不洁； 淫秽； 杂质 | |
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431
decomposed
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| 已分解的，已腐烂的 | |
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432
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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433
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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434
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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435
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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436
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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437
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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438
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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439
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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440
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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441
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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442
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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443
allusiveness
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444
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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445
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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446
abasement
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| n.滥用 | |
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447
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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448
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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449
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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450
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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451
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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452
underlie
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| v.位于...之下，成为...的基础 | |
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453
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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454
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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455
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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456
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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457
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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458
residual
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| adj.复播复映追加时间；存留下来的，剩余的 | |
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459
analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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460
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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461
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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462
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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463
encyclopaedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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464
dissecting
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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465
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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466
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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467
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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468
generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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469
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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470
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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471
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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472
vascular
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| adj.血管的，脉管的 | |
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473
retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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474
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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475
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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476
collaterally
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| 担保物； 旁系亲属 | |
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477
diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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