national prejudice of mine if I consider that this alone would be sufficient to exclude his name from the historical roll of philosophers. I should say just the same of Kant if he had written in ignorance of Locke and Hume and Berkeley, or of Spinoza if he had ignored the works of Descartes, or of Aristotle if he had ignored the teaching of Plato.

It is different, however, in England. Here a new school of British philosophy has sprung up, not entirely free, perhaps, from the influence of Comte, but supported by far greater learning, and real philosophical power-a school which deliberately denies the correctness of Kant's analysis, and falls back in the main on the position once occupied by Locke or Hume. This same school has lately met with very powerful support in Germany, and it might seem almost as if the work achieved by Kant was at last to be undone in his own country. These modern philosophers do not ignore Kant, but in returning to the standpoint of Locke or Hune, they distinctly assert that Kant has not made good his case, whether in his analysis of the two feeders of knowledge, or in his admission of general truths, not attained and not attainable by experience. The law of causality on which the whole question of the à priori conditions of knowledge may be said to hinge, is treated again, as it was by Hume, as a mere illusion, produced by the repeated succession of events; and psychological analysis, strengthened by physiological research, is called in to prove that mind is but the transient outcome of matter, that the brain secretes thought as the liver secretes bile. No phosphorus, no thought! is the triumphant war-cry of this school.

In speaking of the general tendencies of this school of thought, I have intentionally avoided mentioning any names, for it is curious to observe that hardly any two representatives of it agree even on the most essential points. No two names, for instance, are so frequently quoted together as representatives of modern English thought, as Mr. Stuart Mill and Mr. Her bert Spencer, yet on the most critical point they are as diametrically opposed as Hume

and Kant.

Mr. Stuart Mill admits nothing à priori in the human mind; he stands on the same point as Locke, nay, if I interpret some of his paragraphs rightly, he goes as

far as Hume. Mr. Herbert Spencer, on the contrary, fights against this view of the human intellect with the same sharp weapon that Kant had used against them, and he arrives, like Kant, at the conclusion that there is in the human mind, such as we know it, something à priori, call it intuitions, categories, innate ideas or congenital dispositions, something at all events that cannot honestly be explained as the result of individual experience. Whether the prehistoric genesis of these congenital dispositions or inherited necessities of thought, as suggested by Mr. Herbert Spencer, be right or wrong, does not signify for the purpose which Kant had in view. In admitting that there is something in our mind which is not the result of our own à posteriori experience, Mr. Herbert Spencer is a thorough Kantian, and we shall see that he is a Kantian in other respects too. If it could be proved that nervous modifications, accumulated from generation to generation, could result in nervous structures that are fixed in proportion as the outer relations to which they answer are fixed, we, as followers of Kant, should only have to put in the place of Kant's intuitions of Space and Time, 'the constant space relations, expressed in definite nervous structures, congenitally framed to act in definite ways, and incapable of acting in any other way.' If Mr. Herbert Spencer had not misunderstood the exact meaning of what Kant calls the intuitions of Space and Time, he would have perceived that, barring his theory of the prehistoric origin of these intuitions, he was quite at one with Kant.

Some of the objections which Mr. Herbert Spencer urges against Kant's theory of innate intuitions of Space and Time were made so soon after the appearance of his work, that Kant himself was still able to reply to them.* Thus he explains himself that by intuitions he does not mean anything innate in the form of ready-made ideas or images, but merely passive states or receptivities of the Ego, according to which, if affected in certain ways, it has certain forms in which it represents these affections, and that what is innate is not the representation itself, but simply the first formal cause of its possibility.

Nor do I think that Kant's view of cau

*See Das Unbewusste, p. 187, Kant's Werke, ed. Rosenkranz, B. 1, pp. 445, 446.

brought to our cognizance in the form of the internal sense only, therefore in time, i.e. in succession.* The understanding, through a form belonging to it and to it alone, viz. the form of causality, takes hold of the given sensations, à priori, previous to all experience (for experience is not yet possible), as effects which, as such, must have a cause; and through another form of the internal sense, viz. that of space, which is likewise pre-established in the intellect, it places that cause outside the organs of sense.' And again: As the visible world rises before us with the rising of the sun, the understanding, by its one simple function of referring all effects to a cause, changes with one stroke all dull and unmeaning sensations into intuitions. What is felt by the eye, the ear, the hand, is not intuition, but only the data of intuition. Only by the step which the understanding makes from effect to cause, the world is made, as intuition, extending in space, changing in form, permanent in substance; for it is the understanding which combines Space and Time in the conception of matter, that is, of activity or force.'

sality, as one of the most important categories of the understanding, has been correctly apprehended by his English critics. All the arguments that are brought forward by the living followers of Hume, in order to show that the idea of cause is not an innate idea, but the result of repeated observations, and, it may be, a mere illusion, do not touch Kant at all. He moves in quite a different layer of thought. That each individual becomes conscious of causality by experience and education, he knows as well as the most determined follower of Hume; but what he means by the category of causality is something totally different. It is an unconscious process which, from a purely pyschological point of view, might truly be called prehistoric. So far from being the result of repeated observations, Kant shows that what he means by the category of causality is the sine quâ non of the simplest perception, and that without it we might indeed have states of feeling, but never a sensation of something, an intuition of an object, or a perception of a substance. Were we to accept the theory of evolution which traces the human mind back to the inner life of a mollusc, we should even then be able to remain Kantians, in so far as it would be, even then, the category of causality that works in the mollusc, and makes it extend its tentacles towards the crumb of bread which has touched it, and has evoked in it a reflex action, a grasping after the prey. In this lowest form of animal life, therefore, the category of causality, if we may use such a term, would show itself simply as conscious, or, at all events, as no longer involuntary, reaction; in human life, it shows itself in the first glance of recognition that lights up the infant's vacant stare. This is what Kant means by the category of causality, and no new discoveries, either in the structure of the organs of sense or in the working of the mental faculties, have in any way, so far as I can see, invalidated his conclusions that that category, at all events, whatever we may think of the others, is à priori in every sense of the

word.

Among German philosophers there is none so free from what are called German metaphysical tendencies as Schopenhauer yet what does he say of Kant's view of causality?

'Sensation,' he says, 'is something essentially subjective, and its changes are

Professor Helmholtz, again, who has analysed the external apparatus of the senses more minutely than any other philosopher, and who, in England, and, at all events, in this Institution, would not be denied the name of a philosopher, arrives, though starting from a different point, at identically the same result as Schopenhauer.

'It is clear,' he says, 'that starting with the world of our sensations, we could never arrive at the conception of an external world, except by admitting, from the changing of our sensations, the existence of external objects as the causes of change; though it is perfectly true that, after the conception of such objects has once been formed, we are hardly aware how we came to have this conception; because the conclusion is so self-evident that we do not look upon it as the result of a conclusion. We must admit, therefore, that the law of causality, by which from an effect we infer the existence of a cause, is to be recognized as a law of our intellect, preceding all experience. We cannot arrive at any experience of natural objects without having the law of causality acting within us; it is impossible, therefore, to admit that this law of causality is derived from experience.'

*Liebmann, Objectiver Anblick, p. 114.

Strengthened by such support from opposite quarters, we may sum up Kant's argument in favor of the transcendental or à priori character of this and the other categories in this short sentence:

That without which no experience, not even the simplest perception of a stone or a tree, is possible, cannot be the result of repeated perceptions.'

There are those who speak of Kant's philosophy as cloudy German metaphysics, but I doubt whether they have any idea of the real character of his philosophy. No one had dealt such heavy blows to what is meant by German metaphysics as Kant; no one has drawn so sharp a line between the Knowable and the Unknowable; no one, I believe, at the present critical moment, deserves such careful study as Kant. When I watch, as far as I am able, the philosophical controversies in England and Germany, I feel very strongly how much might be gained on both sides by a more frequent exchange of thought. Philosophy was far more inter national in the days of Leibniz and Newton, and again in the days of Kant and Hume; and much mental energy seems wasted by this absence of a mutual understanding between the leaders of philosophic thought in England, Germany, France, and Italy. It is painful to read

the sweeping condemnation of German metaphysics, and still more to see a man like Kant lectured like a schoolboy. One may differ from Kant, as one differs from Plato or Aristotle, but those who know Kant's writings, and the influence which he has exercised on the history of philosophy, would always speak of him with respect.

The blame, however, does not attach to the English side only. There are many philosophers in Germany who think that, since the days of Hume, there has been no philosophy in England, and who imagine they may safely ignore the great work that has been achieved by the living representatives of British philosophy. I confess that I almost shuddered when in a work by an eminent German professor of Strassburg, I saw the most advanced thinker of England, a mind of the future rather than of the present, spoken of asantediluvian. That antediluvian philosopher is Mr. John Stuart Mill. Antediluvian, however, was meant only for AnteKantian, and in that sense Mr. Stuart Mill would probably gladly accept the name.

Yet, such things ought not to be: if nationality must still narrow our sympathies in other spheres of thought, surely philosophy ought to stand on a loftier pinnacle. Fraser's Magazine.

CHAPTER I.

"BRINDISI, August.

"DEAR HARRY,-Our plans are all formed. We start from this on Tuesday for Corfu, where we have secured a small cutter of some thirty tons, by which we mean to drop down the Albanian coast, making woodcocks our object on all the days pigs do not offer. We are four-Gerard, Hope, Lascelles, and myself-of whom you know all but Lascelles, but are sure to like when you meet him. We want you, and will take no refusal. Hope declares on his honor that he will never pay you a hundred you lent him if you fail us; and he will-which is more remarkable stillbook up the day you join us. Seriously, however, I entreat you to be one of us. Take no trouble about guns, &c. We are amply provided. We only ask yourself. GEORGE OGLE.

"Yours ever,

"If you cannot join at Corfu, we shall rendezvous at Prevesa, a little town on the Turkish side, where you can address us, to the care of the Vice-consul Lydyard."

This note reached me one day in the late autumn, while I was sojourning at the Lamm, at Innspruck. It had followed me from Paris to Munich, to Baden, the Ammergau, and at last overtook me at Innspruck, some four weeks after it had been written. If I was annoyed at the delay which lost me such a pleasant companionship, for three of the four were old friends, a glance at the postscript reconciled me at once to the disappointment - Prevesa, and the name Lydyard, awoke very sad memories; and I do not know what would have induced me to refresh them by seeing either again. It is not a story, nor is it a scene, that I am about to relate. one of those little incidents which are ever

occurring through life, and which serve to remind us how our moral health, like our physical, is the sport of accident; and that just as the passing breeze may carry on its breast a pleurisy, the chance meetings in the world may be scarcely less fatal!

I have been an idler and a wanderer for years. I left the army after a short experience of military life, imagining that I could not endure the restraints of discipline, and slowly discovered afterwards that there is no such slavery as an untrammelled will, and that the most irksome bondage is nothing in comparison with the vacillations and uncertainties of a purposeless exis

tence.

I was left early in life my own master, with no relatives except distant ones, and with means, not exactly ample, but quite sufficient for the ordinary needs of a gentleman. I was free to go anywhere or do anything, which, in my case at least, meant to be everlastingly projecting and abandoning-now determining on some pursuit that should give me an object or a goal in life, and now assuring myself that all such determinations were slaveries, and that to conform to the usages by which men sought success in public or professional life was an ignoble drudgery, and unworthy of him who could live without it.

In this unsettled frame of mind I travelled about the world for years—at first over the cognate parts of the Continent, with which I became thoroughly familiar - knowing Rome, Paris, Vienna, and Naples, as I knew London. I then ran all over the States, crossing the Rocky Mountains, and spending above a year on the Pacific coast. I visited China and India. I came-I will not say home, for I have none-by Constantinople, and thence to Belgrade, where I made the acquaintance of a Turkish Pacha, then governor of Scutari in Albania, and returned along with him to his seat of government. A vice-governor of Prevesa induced me to go back with him to that unpromising spot, assuring me how easy I should always find means of reaching Corfu or Italy; and that, meanwhile, the quail-shooting, which was then beginning, would amply reward me

for

my stay.

Prevesa was about as wretched a village as poverty, sloth, and Turkish indifference could accomplish. The inhabitants, who combined trade and fishing ostensibly,

really lived by smuggling, and only needed the opportunity to be brigands on shore. Their wretched "bazaar" displayed only the commonest wares of Manchester or Glasgow, with Belgian cutlery or cheap imitation jewellery. But even these had no buyers; and the little stir and life of the place was in the cafés, where the brawny natives, armed to the teeth, smoked and lounged the live-long day, and, to all seeming, fulfilled no other duty in existence.

I suspect I have an actual liking for dreary and tiresome places. I believe they somehow accommodate themselves to a something in my temperament which is not misanthropy, nor mental depression, nor yet romance, but is compounded of all three. I feel, besides, that my imagination. soares the more freely the fewer the distractions that surround me; but that I require just that small amount of stimulant human life and its daily cares suggest to prevent stagnation.

I was at least six days at Prevesa before I was aware that her Britannic Majesty had a representative there. It was in a chance ramble down a little alley that led to the bay I came upon the British arms over a low doorway. It was a very poorlooking tumble-down house, with a very frail wooden balcony over the door, distinguished by a flagstaff, to be doubtless decorated on occasion by the proud flag of England.

Framing I forget what imaginary reason for inquiry, I entered and knocked at a door inscribed "Consular hours from—” and then a smudge of paint obliterating the rest and leaving the import in doubt. Not receiving any answer to my summons, I pushed open the door and entered. A man in his shirt-sleeves and slippers was asleep on a very dirty sofa, and so soundly that my entrance did not disturb him. Á desk with some much-worn books and scattered papers, a massive leaden inkstand, and a large official seal, were in front of him; but a paper of Turkish tobacco, and a glass of what smelt to be gin, were also present, and from the flushed cheek and heavy breathing of the sleeper, appeared to have been amongst his latest occupations.

It is not necessary I should record our conversation. In his half-waking and not all sober state he had mistaken me for a British sailor who had been left behind somewhere, and was importuning to be sent

on to England, but whose case evidently had inspired scant sympathy.

"I'll not do it!" grumbled out the Consul, with his eyes more than half closed. "You were drunk, or a deserter -I don't care which. My instructions are positive, and you may go to the d for me. There now, that's your answer, and you'll not get any other if you stayed there till dusk." "I suspect you mistake me, sir," said I, mildly. "I am a traveller, and an English gentleman."

"I hate gentlemen, and I don't love travellers," said he, in the same drowsy voice as before.

Sorry for that, but must ask you all the same if my passport permits me to go into Italy ?"

"Of course it does. What sort of traveller are you that does not know that much, and that if you wanted a visa, it's the Italian should give it, and there's no Italian or Frenchman here. There's no one here but a Russian, Strantopsky d—his eyes-good morning;" and he again turned his face to the wall. I cannot say what curiosity prompted me to continue our little-promising conversation, but there was something so strange in the man's manner at moments-something that seemed to indicate a very different condition from the present--that I determined at all hazards to linger on.

"I don't suppose the sight of a countryman can be a very common event in these regions," said I," and I might almost hope it was not an unpleasant one!"

"Who told you that, my good fellow ?" said he, with more animation than before. "Who said that it gave me any peculiar pleasure to see one of those people that remind me of other times and very different habits?"

"At all events I, as an individual, cannot open these ungracious recollections, for I never saw you before,-I do not even now know your name."

"The F. O. list has the whole biography. 'Thomas Gardner Lydyard, educated at All Souls, Oxford, where he took first-class in classics and law; was appointed cornet in the 2d Life Guards, 6th 18-; sent with Lord Raycroft's Mission to Denmark to invest His Christian Majesty with the insignia of the Most Noble Order of the Garter. Contested Marcheston,- 18-, and was returned on a petition.' I'll finish

what's not in the book-backed Queen Mab at seven to two-got a regular cropper-had to bolt, and live three years in Sweden-took to corn-brandy and strong cavendish, and ended as you see-V.C. at Prevesa. Is not that a brilliant ending for a youth of promise? do you remember in your experience, as a man of travel, that you can match it?"

By this time he had risen to the sitting posture, and with his hair rudely pushed back by his hands, and his face grown red with passion, looked as fierce and pas sionate as high excitement could make a man.

"I've heard your name very often," said I calmly; "Close and St. John used to talk of you constantly; and I remember Moresby saying you were the best rider of a flat race amongst the gentlemen of England."

"I was better, ten times better, across country. I could get more out of my horse than any of the so-called steeplechaseriders; and as I seldom punished, the betting men never knew when my horse was distressed. Close could have told you that. Did he ever tell you that I was the best cricketer at Lord's? What's that?" cried he, suddenly as a small door at the end of the room opened and closed again, almost instantly. "Oh, it's dinner!—I suppose if I had any shame I should say luncheon, for it's only two o'clock, not to say that the meal itself will have small pretensions to be called a dinner. Will you come and look at it ?"

There was nothing very hearty in the invitation, as little was there any courtesy ; but the strange contrast of this man's shabby exterior, and the tone in which of a sudden he had burst out to speak, excited an intense curiosity in me to see more of him; and though I was not without some scruple as to my right to be there at all, I followed him as we walked into the inner

room.

A young girl, whose pale careworn face and gentle look struck me more than the elegance of features 1 afterwards recognised, curtsied slightly as we entered.

"A distressed B. S., Marion," said the Consul, introducing, me; "my daughter, sir-I'm not aware of your name." "Lowther."

"Lowther, then-Mr. Lowther, Miss Lydyard; that's the regular form, I believe. Sit down and let us have our soup;" and