THE DISSERTATIONS MAXIMUS TYRIUS. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK BY THOMAS TAYLOR. Truth would you teach, or save a sinking land, All hear, none aid you, and few understand. fope. VOL. L LONDON: PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM, DtM Sttvttt FOR THE TRANSLATOR j AND SOLD BY H. EVANS, PALL-MALL. 1804. PREFACE. V/F Maximus, the author of the following- Dissertations, nothing more is known, than that he was by birth a Tyrian; that he lived under the Antonines and Commodus 3 that he for some time resided in Rome, but, probably, for the most part in Greece; that he cultivated philosophy, and principally that of Plato; and that he was one of those sophists who, like Dio Chrysostom, united philosophy with the study ©f rhetoric, and combined sublimity and depth of conception with magnificence and elegance of diction. I have said that he principally cultivated the Platonic philosophy, because from the twentieth dissertation it appears that he preferred the cynic life to that of all others, thus placing the end of life in practical * * As the essence of man consists in intellect, which is wholly of a contemplative nature, the true end of life must necessarily consist in contemplation, and not in action. Prac* tical virtue, therefore, ranks us a mean, theoretic virtue as an end. iv and not in theoretic virtue. In every other part of this work, however, he follows the footsteps of Plato as closely, and unfolds his doctrines as accurately, as can be expected from one who lived before the restoration of the Platonic philosophy, by that golden chain of heroes, of which the great Plotinus is the topmost link. This philosophy, indeed, as I have else- where* observed, at first shone forth through Plato with an occult and venerable splendor; and it is owing to the hidden manner in which it is delivered by him, that its depth was not fathomed till many ages after its pro- mulgation, and when fathomed, was treated by superficial readers with ridicule and con- tempt. Plato, indeed, is not singular in de- livering his philosophy occultly; for this was the custom of all the great ancients; a custom not originating from a wish to be- come tyrants in knowledge, and keep the multitude in ignorance, but from a profound * In my Introduction to the Philosophy and Writings of Plato, prefixed to vol. i. of my translation of his works, from which introduction the whole c this paragraph is ex- tracted. V conviction that the sublimest truths are pro- faned when clearly unfolded to the vulgar. This, indeed, must necessarily follow ; since, as Socrates, in Plato, justly observes, it is not lawful for the pure to be touched by the impure, and the multitude are neither pu- rified from the defilements of vice, nor the darkness of twofold ignorance *. Hence, while they are thus doubly impure, it is as impossible for them to perceive the splen- dors of truth as for an eye buried in mire to survey the light of day. The depth of this philosophy, then, does not appear to have been perfectly pene- trated, except by the immediate disciples of Plato, for more than five hundred years after its first propagation. For though Crantor, Atticus, Albinus, Galen, and Plutarch, were men of great genius, and made no common proficiency in philosophic attainments, yet they appear not to have developed the pro- fundity of Plato's conceptions; they with- drew not the veil which covers his secret * Twofold ignorance takes place when a man is ignorant that he is ignorant. vi meaning, like the curtains * which guarded the adytum of temples from the profane eye; and they saw not that all behind the veil is luminous, and that there divine spec- tacles f everywhere present themselves to the view. This task was reserved for men who were born, indeed, in a baser age, but who, being allotted a nature similar to their leader, were the true interpreters of his mystic speculations. The most conspicuous of these are, the great Plotinus, the most \ learned Porphyry, the divine Jamblichus, \ the most acute Syrianus, Proclus, the con- , summation of philosophic excellence, the magnificent Hierocles, the concisely elegant Sallust, and the most inquisitive Damascius. By these men, who were truly links of the golden chain of deity, all that is sublime, all that is mystic in the doctrines of Plato (and they are replete with both these in a trans- cendent degree) was freed from its obscurity * Etfi tun? Xeyo/Asvwv teXetwv, rcc /xsv «5uto. *jv, w$ ^nXot kocu Touyo/xa> roc nccc^ocic^roccrixocToc Trgo&Gtovrcc-i, ccQictja, tcc ev coij ahtoiq (puXarVrat. Psellus in Alleg. de Sphin. f See my Dissertation on the Mysteries* vii and unfolded into the most pleasing and ad* mirable light. Their labours, however, have been ungratefully received *. The beautiful light which they benevolently disclosed has hitherto, unnoticed, illumined Philosophy in her desolate retreats, like a lamp shining on some venerable statue amidst dark and soli- tary ruins. The prediction of the master has been unhappily fulfilled in these his most excellent disciples. "For an attempt of this kind," says he f, "will only be benefi- cial to a few, who from small vestiges, previ- ously demonstrated, are themselves able to * The reader, who wishes to see a specimen of the manner in which the labours of these admirable men have been re- ceived by the worthless wlgar of modern times, may peruse an account of my translation of the works of Plato in a pro- duction as mean as malevolent, called The Imperial Review, To the scurrilous and anonymous hireling who, in this pub-* lication, has thought fit to vilify me no less than these most ex- cellent philosophers, my masters, I shall only observe, that it is natural for dogs to bark at strangers. To Dr. Gillies, who has also thought fit to join in this abuse, in a work just published, and which is cited in the abovementioned review, I shail shortly reply in an octavo pamphlet, in which the injustice he has done to Aristotle, in a translation (as he calls it) of the Ethics of that philosopher, and his ignorance of the doctrines which he so insolently calumni- ates, will be fully unfolded. f See the seventh epistle of Plato. viii discover these abstruse particulars. But with respect to the rest of mankind, some it will fill with a contempt by no means ele- gant, and others with a lofty and arrogant hope that they shall now learn certain excellent things." Thus with respect to these admirable men, the last and the most legitimate of the followers of Plato, some from being entirely ignorant of the abstruse dogmas of Plato, and finding these interpre- ters full of conceptions which are by no means obvious to every one in the writings of that philosopher, have immediately con- cluded that such conceptions are mere jar- gon and reverie, that they are not truly Pla- tonic, and that they are nothing more than streams, which, though originally derived from a pure fountain, have become polluted by distance from their source. Others, who pay attention to nothing but the most ex- quisite purity of language, look down with contempt upon every writer who lived after the fall of the Macedonian empire; as if dignity and weight of sentiment were inse- parable from splendid and accurate diction> ix or as if it were impossible for elegant writers to exist in a degenerate age. In consequence, therefore, of Maximus living prior to the full developement of Pla- to's philosophy, when he discusses any thing pertaining to its more abstruse parts, his conceptions are generally inaccurate, at the same time that he elucidates its more acces- sible parts with no less fertility of invention than solidity of judgment, and with no less subtlety and accuracy of thought than per- spicuity and elegance of diction. In these parts, indeed, he displays great erudition and science, and employs that mode of writ- ing which requires and invites attention, and which prevents satiety either by the brevity or novelty of the sentences, or the beauty of the imagery, or the variety of the language. So excellent, indeed, is he in these respects, that he may be said to have exhibited in his periods the skill of a consummate rhetorician, combined with that weight of sentiment pe- culiar to a philosopher, and that sweetness, grace, and harmony, which belong to the X poet, and indicate a mind saturated with the divine ambrosia of Homer and Plato. These Dissertations, therefore, as all of them are on very important moral and theo- logical subjects, are highly worthy the atten- tion of the liberal reader y and are calculated to be largely beneficial, notwithstanding their inaccuracy in certain parts which per- tain to the sublimities of the Platonic philo- sophy. These inaccuracies, wherever they occur, I have endeavoured to correct in the Notes which accompany this translation. With respect to the arrangement of these Dissertations, it is necessary to observe, that though this translation is made from Reiske's edition of them, yet I have followed the or- der adopted by all the editions prior to that of Davis, for two reasons; first, because it did not appear to me that any alteration in the arrangement of the first editions was ne- cessary, and I am an enemy to all innova- tion? when they are not requisite; and, se- condly, because it appears that the order which I have followed is the same with that xi which existed in the copies extant in the time of the empress Eudocia *, who lived upwards of eight hundred years ago. As this order, therefore, is obviously of the highest antiquity, the authority of a more recent manuscript, in which a different ar- rangement is adopted, without any reason whatever, is certainly of no weight, and is consequently not to be regarded. Had this circumstance been known to Davis, Mark- land, and Reiske, they would, doubtless, have followed the order in which these Dis- sertations were first published, and in which they are now, for the first time, presented to the reader in an English dress. * This is evident from the following account, given by this empress, of Maximus, in her Historical and Mythological Dio tionary, published by Villoison, at Venice, 17SI: Maft/xOi Tvgxx; C*Vniju,aTa: i.e. " Maximus Tyrius the philosopher dwelt at Kome, under the emperor Commodus. He wrote many phi- losophic dissertations, the first of which is, What God is according to Plato; concerning Homer, and what the ancient philosophy is contained in his poems; if Socrates did well in not apologizing; and many other philosophical enquiries.** The first dissertation, however, in Reiske's edition, is concern- ing Pkasiirey Szc. xii In translating this work it is but just to own, that I derived considerable assistance from the critical labours of Davis, Mark- land, and Reiske. So sagacious, indeed, for the most part, are the conjectures, and so acute the emendations of Markland, that he may, I think, be deservedly ranked among the first of critics. I say for the most part, because, as the learned reader will perceive, I have occasionally found it necessary to dissent from him, and particularly in pas- sages of a more philosophical nature, to the correction of which merely verbal skill, however transcendent, must be necessarily inadequate. I have already observed that these Dis- sertations are calculated to be largely bene- ficial, and I now add, peculiarly so at the present time. For there surely never was a period in which it was so necessary that sound reasoning on some of the most impor- tant subjects of enquiry in ethics and theo- logy should be promulgated as the present; since nothing is more common than to hear the fundamental principles of these sciences xiii called in question, and even the existence of axioms, those unperverted and spontaneous conceptions of the mind, those self-lumi- nous pillars of all knowledge, treated with ridicule and contempt. Bishop Berkeley, who, amidst all his eccentricities, possessed great penetration on some of the most in- teresting subjects of speculation, saw this evil advancing in his time with giant strides, and very acutely ascribed its origin to the i rage for experiment, and the introduction of j it into our great seminaries of learning. For when a principal part, even of a univer- sity education, is made to consist in believ- ing that nothing is real which the eye does not see, and the hand cannot grasp, and which, in short, does not fall under the cog- nizance of the senses, what else can be ex- pected, but that even truths, which men in all ages, both the unlearned and the learned, the wise and the ignorant, have invariably acknowledged to be self-evident, should be considered as nugatory, because they cannot be brought to the test of experiment? What else can be expected but Pyrrhonism in xiv knowledge, a belief that nothing is worthy of attention which does not pamper the ap- petite or fill the purse, indifference in, or a total neglect of, the duties of religion, and atheistical conceptions of Divinity? As a partial remedy to this mighty evil these Dis- sertations are recommended to the earnest attention of the English reader. I have already put him in possession of the sove- reign cure in presenting him with the whole of Plato's works; and I have no doubt he will gratefully accept this lesser, as an ap- pendage to that greater labour, and consi- der it as one more effort, among many others, of a man, who, in order to benefit his countrymen, both of the present and future generations, has hitherto abandoned all consideration of personal interest, and sacrificed to public good, health, strength, and ease, though these have always been considered as ranking aiqpong things the most dear and valuable in life. I shall only observe farther, that this translation was undertaken at the request, and completed under the patronage, of one* XV whose merits, however inadequately, I have, at least gratefully, already acknowledged to the public. Suffice it then to say, that the superior taste and liberality of William Meredith, as they first led forth my ener- gies (such as they are) into light, have also been the benevolent parents of the present production. To him, therefore, I dedicate this work; for it is his own; and I well know that he will regard it with the eye of an indulgent father. ERRATA. VOL. T. Page 29, for three-banked, and likewise wherever this expression may occur, read three-ranked* — 36, —-Nor can they eat, read, Nor corn they eaU »— 181, in the Note, line 4 from bottom, for importable read impartible, VOL. IL Page 30, in the Note, line 19 from bottom, for ^anaa-^alav read DISSERTATION I. WHAT GOD IS ACCORDING TO PLATO. TN disputing concerning daemons, I can bear the opposition of arguments, I can endure the con- tention, and do not think that the conduct of him, who doubts with himself, or with another, con- cerning the existence, essence, and magnitude of a demoniacal nature, is in any respect dire, erro- neous, and absurd. For here indeed the name is uncertain*; the essence of that which is investi- gated is unapparent, and its power is the subject * Concerning the name and essence of a daemoniaeal nature, see the notes to Dissertation 26, on the Dcemon of Socrates, I shall only observe in this place, that we have a clearer know- ledge of divinity, than of those intermediate beings which con- nect the human with a divine nature; because the light of su- perior principles irradiates more strongly through sublimity of power than that of such as are subordinate; just as with re- spect to corporeal vision, we do not perceive many things situ- ated on the earth; but we see the inerratic sphere, and the stars it contains, through the powerfullight which they emit. B 2 of doubt. But now, in speaking of divinity, how shall I act? By what beauty of words, by what light from the clearest appellations, or by what harmony of composition, shall I be able to exhibit to myself and others, that which is now investi- gated? For if Plato, who was the most eloquent of all men, even though compared with Homer him- self, is not, in what he says respecting divinity, sufficiently understood by every one, but there are those who enquire of others what the opinion of Plato was on this subject—if this be the case, he who is endued but with a small portion of intellect, will scarcely dare to engage in this investigation; unless we wish to imitate the conduct of him who should procure necessary drink for one thirsty, not from a pure and abundant fountain though pre- sent—a fountain to the sight most pleasant, to the taste most sweet, and for nutrition most prolific; but from a fountain debile, and in no respect to be compared with the former. Just as they say the owl is affected, whose eyes are darkened by the sun, but who searches for the light proceeding from fire in the night. For he who, on perusing the writings of Plato, requires another mode of dic- tion, or to whom the light proceeding from thence appears to be obscure, and to participate in the smallest degree of clear splendor, such a one will never see the sun when it rises, nor the mild radi- ance of the moon, nor Hesperus when it sets, nor Lucifer anticipating the morning light. But let us stop a little: for I now nearly perceive 3 what the peculiarity is of the present discourse; since it resembles that which is found in the dig- gers of metallic mines. For these when they per- forate the earth, and dig up gold, have no accu- rate knowledge of the nature of gold, but this is the province of those who examine it by fire. I indeed assimilate the first acquaintance with the writings of Plato to the discovery of crude gold. That which is consequent to this requires another art, which, examining what is received, and puri- fying it by reason as by fire, is now able to use the pure and tried gold. If, therefore, the vein of truth is manifest to us, and this magnificent and abundant, but we require another art, for the pur- pose of examining what is received, let us invoke the assistance of this art in the present inquiry, what divinity is according to Plato. If then this art, being gifted with speech, should ask us, whether, not believing that there is any thing divine in nature, and not having any con- ception whatever of divinity, we engage in this investigation? or whether we accord with Plato; or possessing certain peculiar opinions of our own, we conceive that he thought differently * on this subject? And let us suppose, on confessing the latter to be the case, that this art should think fit to ask us what we assert the nature of divinity to be. What then shall we say God is, in reply? Shall we say that he has round shoulders, a dark * Maximus is not to be considered in this place, as seri- ously asserting that he thought differently from Plato concern- ing God; for it is clear that he wishes to accord with him. 4 complexion, and curled hair *? The answer would be ridiculous; even though you should characte- rize Jupiter in a sublimer manner, by ascribing to him dark eye-brows f, and golden hair, through which he shakes the heavens. For painters and statuaries, poets and philosophers, prophetically deliver every thing of this kind through penury of vision, imbecility of explication, and darkness of judgment^ in consequence of being elevated by imagination5 as much as possible, to that which appears to be most beautiful* But if you should call an assembly of the arts, and command all of them collectively, by one decree, to give an answer respecting divinity, do you think that the painter would say one thing, and the statuary another, and that the poet would speak differently from the phi- losopher? So far from it, that by Jupiter, the Scythian and Grecian, the Persian and Hyperbo- rean, would not in this respect dissent from each other. But in every thing else, you will see men * An Homeric verse. See Odyss. lib. xix. ver. 246. f Maximus alludes to the following well known lines of the Iliad, lib. i. 528, seq. rH, KCCl KVCCVtYiCTlV £7T5 otyglHTL VE'JcTE KgOVktoV i. e. Thus spoke Saturnian Jupiter, and bends His sable brows, the sanction of the god. His locks ambrosial vehemently shake From his immortal head; and rapid round With strcng concussion great Olympus rolls. 5 disagreeing in their opinions. For neither good nor evil, neither the deformed nor the beautiful, are the same to all: since law and justice are di- vulsed and lacerated, through extreme disso<* nance of opinion. For not only family dissents from family in these particulars, but city with city, and house with house, man with man, and even man with himself. For Such is the mind * of all the earthly race, As parent Jove diurnally imparts. In such a might}7 contest, sedition and discord, you will see one according law and assertion in all the earth, that there is one God, the king and father of all things, and many godsf, sons of God, ruling * Odyss.xviii. 135. f This dogma may be said to be coeval with the universe; and though at certain periods, and in certain places, it may be derided from the prevalence of unscientific conception, yet those periods will always be inconsiderable, and those places barba- rous, when compared with the periods and countries in which it will be embraced. Agreeably to this, Aristotle, in the 8th chap, of the 12th book of his Metaphysics, has the following re- markable passage. *' Our ancestors/' says he, fc and men of great antiquity, have left us a tradition, involved in fable, that the first essences are Gods, and that the divinity comprehends the whole of nature. The rest indeed is fabulously introduced, for the purpose of persuading the multitude, enforcing the laws, and benefiting human life. For they ascribe to the first essences a human form, and speak of them as resembling other animals, and assert other things similar and consequent to these. But if among these assertions, any one separating the rest, retains only the first, viz. that they considered the first essences to be Gods, lie will think it to be divinely said; and it may be probably in- ferred, that as every art and philosophy has been invented as 6 together with him. This the Greek says, and the barbarian says, the inhabitant of the continent, and he who dwells near the sea, the wise and the unwise. And if you proceed as far as to the ut- most shores of the ocean, there also there are gods, rising very near to some, and setting very near to others. Do you think that Plato opposes, or pre- scribes laws contrary to these, and that he does not accord with this most beautiful assertion, and most true affection of the human mind? What is this? The eye says it is the sun. What is that? The ear says it is thunder. What are these things thus flourishing and beautiful, these revolutions and often as possible, and has again perished, these opinions also of the ancients have been preserved, as relics to the present time. Of the opinions of our fathers, therefore, and men of the high- est antiquity, thus much only is manifest to us." nocga^orcu V7t0 TWV CC%X EV (JivQoV t/X£VQi T c^s Xoma, /xuQiKwg r^n 7C^ocn))(^Y\ 7Tgo<; rw ttuQw tw ftoWwv, kcu nt^oc, tw touj vo/xou? kou to Y)s Eivca, StICOS CtV UoyhtQoU V0jU.i<7£tE' X.GLI XiXTCt, TO EtX.O$ TToAAci-JCtJ ZV^^JUZ^q Et? to ^uvaTov Exagns xcu Tz-/yr\<; xcu intellectual, elevated, and ancient part of the soul; through collected vision being seen a collected whole. As, therefore, he who desires to see the sun, does not endeavour to ob- tain this vision by hearing, and as he who delights in the harmony of voice, does not pursue it with his eyes; but the sight indeed loves colours, and the hearing audibles, in like manner intellect sees and hears intelligibles. And this is indeed the aenigma of the Syracu- sian* poet, "Tis mind alone that sees and hears. How, therefore, does intellect see, and how does it hear? If with an erect and robust soul it sur- veys that incorruptible light, and is not involved in darkness, nor depressed to earthy but closing the ears, and turning from the sight and the other senses, converts itself to itself. If forgetting ter- rene lamentations and sighs, pleasure and glory, honour and dishonour, it commits the guidance of itself to true reason and robust love, reason point- * Epicharmus. 14 ing out the road, and presiding love, by persuasion and bland allurements, alleviating the labours of the journey* But to intellect approaching thither and departing from things below, whatever pre- sents itself is clear, and perfectly splendid, and is a prelude to the nature of divinity; and in its pro- gression indeed, it hears the nature of God, but hav- ing arrived thither, it sees him. The end, however, of this journey is not heaven, nor the bodies it contains (though these indeed are beautiful and di- vine, as being the accurate and genuine progeny of divinity, and harmonizing with that which is most beautiful) but it is requisite to pass even be- yond these, till we arrive at the supercelestial place, the plain * of truth, and the serenity which is there; Nor clouds f, nor rain, nor winter, there are found, But a white splendour spreads its radiance round. where no corporeal passion disturbs the vision, such as here disturbs the miserable soul, and hurls her from contemplation, by its uproar and tumult. For who can perceive divinity amidst the pertur- bation arising from such a multitude of desires, and monstrous cares? It is no more possible than in a noisy and discordant democracy, to under- stand the law and the words of the archon. The man who speaks in uproar, who can hear? For the soul, falling into this tumult, and giving * Instead of roy aXtjOu tottov, read rov aXnQu&s irzhov. See the Phaedrus of Plato. f Odyss. iv. 566. vi. 43. seq. 15 herself to be borne along by its immense waves, swims in a scarcely navigable sea, till she is suc- coured by philosophy, who casts her reasonings under her, as Leucothea* her fillet under Ulysses* How then is it possible to emerge and perceive divinity? You will indeed perceive him wholly when you are called to him. But you will be called at no very distant period. Expect the calL Age will come conducting you thither, and Death, which he who is timid deplores, and when it ap- proaches, dreads, but which the lover of divinity joyfully expects, and boldly receives. But if even now you desire to learn his nature, how can any one relate it? For divinity is indeed beautiful, and the most splendid of all beautiful f things- Yet he is not a beautiful body, but that whence beauty flows into body; nor a beautiful meadow, but that whence the meadow is beautiful. The beauty of a river and the sea, of heaven and the gods it contains, all this beauty flows from thence, as from a perpetual and incorruptible fountain. So far as every thing participates of this, it is beautiful, stable, and safe; and so far as it falls off from this, it is base, dissipated, and corrupted. If these things are sufficient, you have seen God. If not, after what manner may he be enigmatically described? Do not attribute to him either magni- tude, or colour, or figure, or any other property of matter, but act like the lover, who should denudate * Odyss. v. 346. f See my Translation of Plotinus on the Beautiful* 16 a beautiful body, which is concealed from the view by many and various garments, that it may be clearly seen. Let this also be now done by you; and by the reasoning energy, take away this sur- rounding scene, and this busy employment of the eyes, and then behold that which remains; for it is that very thing which you desire. But if you are imbecil, with respect to the vi- sion of the father and demiurgus of all things, it may suffice you at present to survey his works, and adore his offspring, which are many^ and all various; and not those only which the Boeotian* poet enumerates, For there are not only thirty j thousand gods, the sons and friends of God, but i the multitude of divine essences is innumerable; ; partly consisting of the natures of the stars in the heavens, and partly of demoniacal essences in sether. But I wish to indicate to you what I have said, by a more perspicuous image. Conceive a mighty empire, and powerful kingdom, in which all things voluntarily assent to the best and most honourable of kings. But let the boundary f of * Meaning Hesiod. See his Works and Days, v. 252. f The boundaries of the empire of the first cause are, accu- rately speaking, not heaven and earth, but the highest order of intelligibles, and the lowest matter. That the empire of divi- nity, therefore, comprehends heaven and earth, is indeed a magnificent conception; but he who knows, scientifically, all the divine orders, which, from having no connection with body, are said to subsist above the heavens, and considers these also as contained in the vast kingdom of deity, will be able to form an idea of divine dominion, infinitely more grand than that of 17 this empire be, not the river Halys, nor the Hel- lespont, nor the Moeotis, nor the shores of the ocean, but heaven and earth; that above, and this beneath: heaven, like a circular infrangible wall of brass, comprehending every thing in its em- brace; and earth like a prison in which noxious bodies are bound; while the mighty king himself, stably seated, as if he were law, imparts to the obedient the safety which he contains in himself. Maximus. This will be evident from the following beautiful passage from the 2d book of Frodus on the theology of Flato, p. 109, the original of which the reader will also find in the aditional notes to my translation of Aristotle's Metaphysics, p. 430. u Let us now, if ever, remove from ourselves multi- form knowledge, exterminate all the variety of life, and in perfect quiet approach near to the cause of all things. For this purpose, let not only opinion and^phantasy be at rest, nor the passions alone which impede ouj: analogic impulse to the first be at peace; but let the air be still, and the universe itself be still: and let all things extend us with a tranquil power to communion with the ineffable. Let us also standing there, having transcended the intelligible (if we contain any thing of this kind) and with nearly closed eyes adoring as it were the rising sun, since it is not lawful for any being what- ever intently to behold him—let us survey the sun, whence the light of the intelligible gods proceeds, emerging, as the poets say, from the bosom of the ocean ; and again, from this divine tranquillity descending into intellect, and from intellect em- ploying the reasonings of the soul, let us relate to ourselves, what the natures are, from which, in this progression, we shall consider the first God as exempt. And let us as it were celebrate him, not as establishing the earth and the heavens, nor as giving subsistence to souls, and the generations of ail animals; for he produced these indeed, but among the lasr c 18 The associates of this empire are many visible, and many invisible gods, some of them encircling the vestibules themselves, as messengers of a na- ture most allied to the king, his domestics and the associates of his table; but others being subser- vient to these, and again others possessing a still more subordinate nature. You see a succession and an order of dominion descending from divi- nity to the earth. of things. But, prior to these, let us celebrate him, as unfold- ing into light the whole intelligible and intellectual genus of gods, together with all the supermundane and mundane di- vinities—as the god of all gods, the unity of all unities, and beyond the first adyta—as more ineffable than all silence, and more unknown than all essence,—as holy among the holies, and concealed in the intelligible gods." The grandeur of this passage, which I will venture to say is unequalled by any writer but Plato (I mean in the original) was obvious even to a frigid verbalist, Le Clerc, who, in a note to Stanley's Ori- ental Philosophy, calls it a magnificent apparatus of words. DISSERTATION II. WHETHER INJURIES ARE TO BE RETURNED Whether by justice, or by fraud oblique, The earthly race of men, a loftier wall Ascends, my mind is dubious. Y^U, O Pindar! dispute with yourself concern- ing fraud and justice, comparing gold with brass: for you was a poet, skilled in composing an ode for the choir, and celebrating the victories of tyrants in triumphal songs. Hence the objects of your attention were, the measure of words, the harmony of verse, and the rhythm of figures. But the man with whom a choir, and an ode, and the pleasure resulting from verse, are in the same esti- mation as the sports of children, who is attentive * The whole foundation of this discourse is taken from the Crito of Plato, in which Socrates proves, that we should neither do nor return an injury, neither act evilly, nor avenge evil conduct. 20 to the measure, the rhythm, and the melody of his soul, and who endeavours that his actions and the rest of his life may be elegantly arranged, such a one will never be induced to doubt, whether by justice or not, men ascend a loftier wall; but he will thus say, changing your verse: By justice, not by fraud oblique, ascends The earthly race of men, a loftier wall. Indeed justice is a thing inaccessible to fraud, in the same manner as heaven to the sons of Aloeus, who derived no advantage from placing Ossa on Olympus, and Olympus on Pelion, but they were as far distant from heaven as fraud is from justice. Hence justice belongs to the good, but fraud to the depraved. Justice is a genuine, but fraud an adulterated thing. Justice is strong, but fraud is imbecile; and the former is beneficial, but the latter not. Will he, therefore, who is studious of justice, and who is fortified with this wall of Pindar, will he when injured return the injury? But what do I say? for it will not indeed be possible for such a one to be injured. For if to injure and to be in- jured are things of such a kind as to beat and to be beaten, to cut and to be cut, there is nothing dire in admitting that the same person may both be the agent and the patient of an injury. But if here the same person, by a communion of nature, re- ceives both energy and passion, to injure and to be injured, will much more resemble seeing and 21 being seen; (for that which participates of sight is visible, but not every thing which is visible also sees) if this be the case, we should rather say, that to injure and to be injured resemble the confuting and the being confuted. For he confutes who knows the truth, and he is confuted who is igno- rant of it. And as he cannot be confuted who knows the truth, and he cannot confute who is ig- norant of it, so neither can to injure and to be in- jured be the province of one and the same person. Since, therefore, these do not pertain to the same but to different persons, and a worthy is not the same with a depraved man, whether shall we attribute the doing an injury to the depraved man, and the being injured to the worthy man? or shall we indeed attribute the doing an injury to the depraved character, but assert that it is not yet manifest to which of these we shall attribute the being injured? But let us thus consider: An in- jury is the ablation of good: but what else is good than virtue? and virtue cannot be taken away. He, therefore, who possesses virtue, cannot be in- jured; or the doing an injury is not an ablation of good. For no good can be taken away, nor ejected, nor can be captured, nor plundered. Be it so; that a worthy cannot be injured by a de- praved man, because his good cannot be taken away. It remains, therefore, either that no one can be injured, or that the depraved must be in- jured by his like. But the depraved man is a par- taker of no good; and an injury is the ablation of good. He, therefore, who has not that of which 22 he can be deprived, does not possess that in which he can be injured. Or shall Ave say, that an injury is to be arranged, not according to the ablation of him who suffers the injury, but according to the intention of him who does it; and that the depraved man is injured by the depraved, though he does not possess good, and also the worthy by the depraved, although he possesses good which cannot be taken away? I admit this solution, which rather ascribes an in- jury to the improbity of the intention than to the success of the deed. For the law punishes as an adulterer, not only him who commits, but him who wishes to commit adultery; and as a housebreaker, him who attempts the deed, though he should be discovered before its perpetration; and as a trai- tor, him who intends to betray, though he should not execute his intention. The whole discourse, therefore, is brought to a proper conclusion. For the good man neither injures, nor is injured. He does not injure, indeed, through his will; he is not injured through his virtue. The depraved man injures, but is not injured: for he injures through his depravity, but is not injured, through i his indigence of good. Farther still, if virtue ! alone, and nothing else, is good, the depraved | man, in consequence of not possessing virtue, has ; not that in which he can be injured. But if, besides 1 virtue, those things also are to be considered as good which pertain to the body, which externally arise from fortune, and depend on circumstances, if virtue is not present it is better that these should 23 be absent; so that thus neither will a depraved man be injured, when deprived of some one of those things which he improperly uses. Hence he may injure, but he cannot be injured, since, according to our doctrine, the doing an injury consists in the will. Thus then I say respecting the depraved man, that he wishes indeed, but is not able to do an in- jury . but being willing, he either seeks after one similar to or better than himself. But what will be done by the more excellent character? Will he return the injury to the depraved man? This man does not, however, possess any thing in which he can suffer an injury: for he is depraved through the absence of good. Neither, therefore, can the man of intellect in reality injure the depraved man, because such a one has not any thing which can be injured; nor according to his will; for being a worthy character, he is no more willing to do an injury than a piper is to play unskilfully on the pipe. In short, if to do an injury is base, it is also base to return an injury. For he who does an in- jury is not more depraved, because he begins it, but he by whom it is returned is equally unworthy. And if he who does an injury acts basely, he who compensates evil with evil acts no less basely, though he may perform the part of an avenger. For as he who returns a benefit to him by whom he had been previously benefitted, acts no less well, though he was previously benefitted; so he who returns an injury acts no less ill, though he was previously injured. $ 24 What end then will there be of evil? For if he who is injured returns the injury, evil will always pass and leap from one to another, and injury will receive injury. For by the same right by which you permit him who is injured to return the in- jury, vengeance returns again from the same to the same; for the just is equal in both. Do you see also by Jupiter what you do in making justice consist from injuries? How far too will this evil extend itself, and where will it stop? Do you not see that you excite an ever-flowing fountain of depravity; and that you are introducing a law which is the source of evil to all the earth? For this indeed was the leader of evils formerly to man- kind. Through this, barbaric and Grecian fleets sailed into each others lands, which they plun- dered and laid waste, making something past the pretext of the present injury. The Phoenicians * force from Argos a royal maid; the Grecians from Colchis a barbaric virgin; and again the Phrygi- ans from Peloponnesus a Laconic woman. You see a succession of evils, pretexts of wars, and a multiplication of injuries. Indeed nothing else destroyed Greece itself .than an opinion of injury pervading to its neighbouring nations, together with restless rage, immortal anger, the love of vengeance, and the ignorance of justice. If, indeed, those that injure others did but know that injustice itself is to those that act unjustly the * Viz. The Phoenicians forced from Argos Io, the daughter of Inachus; Jason forced Medea, and Taris Helen. 25 greatest evil, and that it is an evil greater than war, the destruction of walls, the devastation of lands, and the subversion of tyranny, Greece would not have been filled with so many and such mighty evils. The Athenians besiege Potidaea. Suffer them to do so, O Lacedaemonian, they will soon repent the undertaking; do not partake of the infamy. But if you are pleased with the pre- text, and come to Plataea, you will lose the neigh- bouring island Melus, you will lose the city Sicyon, with which you are in alliance. In taking one city you will subvert many. For as those who trust themselves to the sea for the sake of gain, sometimes acquire wealth with the greatest usury, so to those who yield to anger, the usury of cala- mity is mighty. And to the Athenians I say, you have captured Sphacteria, restore the captives to Sparta, and while you are fortunate be prudent. If you do not, you will keep the men, but you will lose your three-banked gallies. Lysander is fortu- nate about the Hellespont, and Sparta is great, but abstain from Thebes. If you do not, you will de- plore the fortune in Leuctrae, and the calamity in Mantinea. O latent and unerring * justice! Through this Socrates was not enraged with Aristophanes, nor indignant with Melitus, nor avenged himself on Anytus; but with a loud voice exclaimed, Anytus and Melitus may deprive me of life, but they can- not injure me; for it is not lawful for a good man * For 7rAavw/*EV>3? read ocfrhccwiAwns* 26 to be injured by one depraved. This is the voice of justice, which, if adopted by all men, there would be no tragedies, nor dramatic scenes, nor many and all-various calamities. For as in the diseases of the body those that make gradual ad- vances are the most dangerous, and require inces- sant attention, that the part which is not infected may be preserved; so when the principle of in- justice falls in a house or city, it is requisite to stop the evil, if we intend to preserve that which re- mains. This subverted Pelopidas, this caused the Heraclidse to perish, this destroyed the house of Cadmus, the Persians, the Macedonians, and the Greeks. O unceasing disease, and which for so many periods of time has infested the earth! I will, indeed, dare to assert, that if there is a transcendency of injury with respect to injury, he who takes vengeance on him who first does an in- jury is the more unjust of the two. For he who is led to do an injury through ignorance finds his punishment in the infamy of the deed; but he who returns an injury, by adopting unjust con- duct, transfers infamy to himself. For as he who wrestles with one defiled with soot must also neces- sarily defile his own body, so he who contends with an unjust man, and thinks fit to be rolled as it were together with him, must necessarily par- take of his depravity, and be replete with his de- filement. When an athletic, therefore, engages with an athletic in an equal contest, and with equal ambition, I admit the strife; for I perceive in them a similar nature, a like care, and an equal 27 desire of victory. But when a good contends with a depraved man, each does not make his en- trance from the same palaestra, nor is exercised under the same master. Each has not learnt the same art, nor has been nourished in the same con- tests, nor aspires to the same crown, nor is a com- petitor for the same commendation. I lament the conflict, the contest is unequal. It is necessary that the depraved man should vanquish when con- tending in a stadium of this kind, in which the de- praved are spectators, and the judges are unjust. For here the good man is without art and disci- pline, and is destitute of infidelity, fraud, decep- tion, and the other arts by which depravity is con- firmed and strengthened: so that he will become ridiculous by attempting to return an injury, since he is neither by nature, nor art, nor manners, formed for unjust conduct. But here some one may say, must a just man, on this account, bear reproach, calumny, and exile? Must he suffer the loss of his possessions, be cast into prison, be dishonoured, and con- demned to die? What then? If boys, having established laws among themselves, and a court of justice, should bring a man before their tribunal, and, if he appeared to them to have acted un- justly, should decree that he be dishonoured in the company of boys, and that his puerile possessions be fined, such as his dice and his playthings, what is it likely the man would do? Would he not de- ride the decrees and the punishments of such a court? Thus Socrates derided the Athenians, as 28 making puerile decrees, and ordering a mortal man to be put to death. And in like manner every other good and just man will sincerely laugh when he sees himself earnestly attacked by the unjust, who think that they can accomplish something, -and yet effect nothing. But if he should expe- rience their contempt, he will exclaim, in the language of Achilles: decorated with golden ornaments, and with boys holding bright torches in their hands, but with the sun and moon, and the starry train shining with robust fire. You see an army of excellent leaders and necessary attendants: preserve this repre- sentation, and you will perceive divination, you will understand what virtue is, you will know how each is mingled, and communicates with the other. You see that human life is a polity neither stable nor continental, but resembling a heavy laden ship sailing in a wide sea; which is not only preserved by the pilot's art, but by favourable winds, the ministrant labours of the sailors, convenient instru- ments, and the nature of the sea. Compare the cogitations of the soul with instruments and mini- strant labours; that which is immanifest in human affairs with the sea and the winds; and the saga- cious conjecture of divination with the foresight of the pilot's art. But if this temperament of a po- lity appears to you to be absurd, hear Plato J, who thus writes: "Divinity governs all things, * Iliad, v. 341. f Odyss. viii. 100. t See my translation of Plato's Laws, book iv. 37 and, together with divinity, fortune and opportu- nity have dominion over all human affairs. But that we may act more mildly, it is requisite to add art in the third place, as that which ought to follow these. For in a tempest I should consider it to be of great consequence whether a pilot is employed or not." These predictions disturb my mind, and do not entirely lead me into a contempt of divination, or into a firm belief of it; but as birds of an amphibi- ous nature communicate, by flying on high, with the aerial species, in like manner I see that the condition of human life * is amphibious, and min- gled with liberty in conjunction with necessity; the liberty resembling that of a man in chains, who spontaneously follows his leaders: so that I have a conjectural knowledge of necessity, but I * "The human soul," says Jamblichus de Myst. p. 162, "possesses a proper principle of restoring itself to the intelligible, and of departing from generated natures, and passing into con- tact with true being and that which is divine." He adds: « but neither are all things contained in the nature of fate; for there is another principle of the soul better than all nature and gene- ration, according to which also we are capable of being united with the gods, of transcending every mundane order, and of participating eternal life, and the energy of the supercelestial gods. And according to this, we can also liberate ourselves; for when the better part of our nature energizes, and the soul is elevated to this, it is then perfectly separated from the bonds which detain it in generation, and departs from subordinate natures. It also changes a corporeal for another life, and gives itself to another order of things, entirely abandoning that to which it belonged before." 38 cannot aptly denominate it; for if I should call it fate, I should speak of a name which wanders in the opinions of men. For what is fate *? Of what is it the nature? Of what is it the essence? "If thou a goddess art, and dwell'st in heav'n f," there is nothing dire in thy operations, nor do human calamities subsist from fate; for it is not lawful to suspend the cause of evil from divinity. t( But if some mortal, habitant of earth, J" Elpenor spoke falsely, when he said, "The demon's fate destructive injured me §. And Agamemnon also spoke falsely, when he said, "Nor I the cause, But Jove and Fate, and she the fury fell Erinnys, coursing thro' the air ||." These names appear to be nothing else than the specious pretexts of human depravity, which refers the cause of its own baseness to a divine nature, to the fates, and the furies. Let them, indeed, have a place in tragedies (for I do not envy poets the use of such appellations) but suffer not such inanities to be admitted in the drama of life. For Erinnys, and Parca, and demons, and such other * Fate is the beneficent energy of divinity about a corpo- real nature. t Odyss. vii. 150. % Ibid. vii. 153. § Ibid. xi. 61. |] Iliad, xix. 86, 39 names as express our conceptions of fate, are confined * in the recesses of the soul, and disturbed Agamemnon, ie When he the bravest of the Greeks disgrac'd f." These also led Elpenor to intoxication, these im- pelled Thyestes to invade the nuptials of his bro- ther, and CEdipus to murder his father. These bring the sycophant into courts of justice, the pi- rate to the sea, the homicide to the sword, and the intemperate to pleasures. These are the fountains of human calamities. Hence the multitude of evils flows, as fire from ^Etna, as pestilence from ^Ethiopia. And fire, indeed, only flows into some particular land, and pestilence proceeds only as far as Athens; but the streams of depravity are many and ever flowing, and require many predictions and ten thousand oracles. Will he, therefore, err, who predicts what will be the end of depravity, what of perfidy, what of intemperance? These things also Socrates predicted, and not Apollo alone; and hence Apollo praises Socrates as his associate in art. * Maximus says this, in consequence of not having pene- trated the depth of ancient theology. For though depraved characters ascribe the effects of their own passions to divinity, yet there are such powers in the universe as the Furies and Fate. f Iliad, xi. 412. DISSERTATION IV. HOW A FLATTERER IS TO BE DISTINGUISHED FROM A FRIEND. pRODICUS, in a fable* which he composed,in- troduces Hercules, now in the flower of youth, and conducting himself in a manly manner, at the entrance of two roads, of one of which he places Virtue as the leader, and of the other Pleasure. Of these leaders, likewise, one had an engaging appearance, as her form was elegant, her step gentle, her voice musical, her aspect mild, and her garb simple; but the other was delicate, painted, gaudy, of an impudent aspect, with disordered step, and immusical voice. Hercules saw these, and as being the son of Jupiter, and naturally good, he bade farewel to Pleasure, and committed himself to the guidance of Virtue. Let us also invent a fable, and introduce into it two roads, and a good man; and leaders of these roads, instead of Virtue aFriend, and instead of Pleasure a Flatterer. Let these also differ in figure, in aspect, in garb, * Concerning this fable of Prodicus see Xenophon. Memor, lib. ii. cap. i. 20. 41 in voice, and in gait; and let the one be most pleasant to the view, but the other be void of all guile. Let the one be full of mirth, extending his right hand, and calling on the man to follow him, employing for this purpose praise, alluring words, and supplications, and relating certain ad- mirable pleasures to which he will conduct him, such as flowery meadows, gliding streams, birds melodiously singing, mild gales, trees thick with foliage, smooth paths, ample racing grounds, and flourishing gardens, where pears grow upon pears*, apples upon apples, and grapes upon grapes* But let the other of the leaders speak but little, yet let what he says be true, such as that the greater part of the way is rough, and but a small part of it smooth, and that it is requisite that he who stre- nuously undertakes the journey should be prepared to endure labour when necessary, and to consider ease as gain. These two thus addressing him, by which will he be persuaded, and which road will he take? We may answer the author of the fable, that if the traveller is a miserable Assyrian, or the Phoenician Strato, or the Cyprian Nicocles, or that Sybarite, he will hate the latter of the leaders, and will think that he is rustic, unpleasant, and inelegant, but that the other is amiable, placid, and very philan- thropic. Let the fine leader then conduct this man. Will he not lead him into the fire with the * Maximus here alludes to the verses on the gardens of Alcinous. Odyss. viii. 120. 42 Assyrian, or to poverty with the Phoenician, or to chains with the Cyprian, or into some other real evil through false pleasure? But if the man should resemble Hercules, he will make choice of the true leader, that is, the friend, in the same manner as he took Virtue for his guide. And thus much for the fable. Resuming there- fore the discourse, let us consider how a flatterer may be distinguished from a friend. The Lydian stone, indeed, tries gold when rubbed upon it \ but by what artifice shall we try friendship and flattery? Shall we say, by the end of each? But if we wait for the end, another evil will precede our knowledge, since it is requisite to judge before we begin to use. For if judgment is posterior to the use of a thing, repentance will be the consequence, and no advantage will be derived from the exercise of judgment. Are you willing, therefore, that we should judge a friend and a flatterer by pleasure and pain? But, indeed, a flatterer in excessive prosperity is intolerable, and most troublesome; but a friend, on the contrary, is then most plea- sant. Shall we then judge the men by advantage and detriment? But this also you will find to be dubious; for the flatterer either injures the wealth of him whom he flatters, or precipitates him into pleasure, of which the former is most light, but the latter most delightful. But through friendship many have been partakers of exile with their friends, have shared with them disgrace, and for their sakes have submitted to death. 43 By what then shall we distinguish a flatterer from a friend, if neither by the end, nor by plea- sure and pain, nor by detriment and advantage? Let us then consider each apart from the rest. Is not he a friend whose company is attended with pleasure? It is very likely. For if he is an enemy who procures us pain, he will be a friend from whom we receive pleasure. This, however, is not the case; for he who is the most philanthropic of physicians is the cause of the greatest pain. This is likewise the case with the most skilful general and the most cautious pilot. Fathers also love their children, and disciples their preceptors, and yet what is more irksome than a father to his son, and a preceptor to his disciple? Ulysses, who endured so many dire calamities, certainly loved his asso- ciates, since he was so anxious "Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore But when he met with an intemperate and volup- tuous race of men, who lived like cattle, eating the honied lotus f (for thus Homer denominates plea- sure) he forcibly brought back his associates to the vessel, who were reluctant to return, and weeping, in consequence of mingling with the luxury of the Lotophagi, and having tasted the portentous sweetness of the lotus. Eurymachus, among the suitors of Penelope, was not a man of this kind, but a flatterer; for he permitted his associates to slaughter fat swine and sheep, to drink wine im- * Odyss. i. ver. 5. f Odyss. x. ver. 94, 97. 44 moderately, to have connection by night with the female servants, to plunder the house of a king, and insidiously attempt to gain his wife. Are you willing, therefore, in short, that we arrange a flatterer according to depravity, but a friend according to virtue, bidding farewel to pleasure and pain? for neither is friendship with- out pleasure, nor flattery without pain, but each is mingled with each, pleasure with friendship, and pain with flattery. For mothers and nurses love infants, and find pleasure in obsequiously attend- ing them, yet you will not deprive them of love because they find pleasure in the employment. Agamemnon exhorts Menelaus u The troops to praise, forgetful of his rank But do you think it was his intention that Mene- laus should flatter them? Ulysses, when he swam from the sea to the land of the Phaeacians, and had risen naked from his bed, met with virgins sporting, and recognizing among them a royal maid, compares her to Diana f, and again to a beautiful plant, and yet no one will call Ulysses on this account a flatterer; for by intention, and use, and disposition, a friend is distinguished from a flatterer. Thus too both a brave and a merce- nary soldier use arms, and yet no one estimates their works from manual exertion, but separates the use of each according to the intention of each; for the one acts the part of a preserver through * Iliad, xi. ver. 69. f Odyss. vii. ver. 151. 45 friendship, but the other for the sake of gain. The conduct of the one is spontaneous, that of the other venal. The one is faithful to those with whom he contracts a league, the other is unfaith- ful even to his friends. After this manner conceive that a flatterer dif- fers from a friend: for it often happens to both, that they engage in the same employments and the same associations; but the one differs from the other in use, in the end, and in the disposition of the soul: for the friend considers that which appears to him to be good to belong also in com- mon to his friend; and, whether this proves to be painful or pleasant, he partakes equally of it with him . but the flatterer, following his own desires, conducts the association to his own advantage. The friend desires an equality of good, the flat- terer his own private good. The one aspires after equal honour in virtue, the other after superiority in pleasure. The one in conversation desires an equal freedom of speech, the other servile submis- sion. The one loves truth in association, the other deception; and the one looks to future emolu- ment, but the other to present delight. The one requires to be reminded of his good actions, the other wishes them to be involved in oblivion. The one takes care of the possessions of his friend, as of things common, the other destroys them, as being the property of another. The company of a friend in prosperity is most opportune, and in ca- lamity is most equal; but a flatterer can never be satiated with prosperity, and in adversity he is 46 never to be seen. Friendship is laudable, flattery detestable; for friendship attends to equality of retribution, but this flattery mutilates: for he who pays obsequious attention to another through indi- gence, that his wants may be supplied, so far as he does not receive an equal submission in return, wall reprobate the inequality. A friend, when his friendship is concealed, is unhappy; on the con- trary, a flatterer is miserable when his flattery is not concealed. Friendship when tried is strength- ened, flattery when exposed to argument is broken. Friendship is increased, flattery is con- futed, by time. Friendship requires not to be cor- roborated by advantage, but flattery cannot subsist without profit; and if men have any communion with the divinities, the pious man is a friend to di- vinity, but the superstitious is a flatterer of divi- nity; and the pious man is blessed, but the super- stitious is miserable. As the one, therefore, confiding in his virtue, approaches to the gods without dread, but the other, in consequence of being abject through de- pravity, writh much dread, and without hope, and fears the gods as if they were tyrants; after the same manner I am of opinion, that towards men t friendship is full of hope and confidence; but that j flattery, on the contrary, is deserted by hope and I courage. No one is a friend to a tyrant, no one ! is a flatterer to a king *; but a kingdom is more * Maximus says this, because a king, in the true sense of the word, is one who governs with a view to the general good; but a tyrant governs with a view to his own interest. 47 divine than a tyranny. And if friendship is an equa- lity of manners, but a depraved man is neither equal to himself nor to a good man, the good will be a friend to the good, for there is equality be- tween them; but how can the flatterer be a flat- terer of a good man ? for he will be detected by the worthy man. But being the flatterer of a depraved character, if he should happen to be equal to him he will no longer be a flatterer ; for flattery cannot endure equality of condition, and if he is not equal, he will not be a friend. Thus also with respect to politics; an aristocracy is full of friendship, but a democracy of flattery, and an aristocracy is better than a democracy. In Lacedaemonia there was no Cleon * nor Hyperbolus, base flatterers of a luxu- rious people. But Eupolis f> m his Bacchics, derides Callias, a private man, who was flattered at banquets, where the reward of flattery was cups and harlots, and other grovelling and servile plea- sures. But in what theatre and in what Bacchics will some comic poet deride that people who were spectators of the raillery of Eupolis, together with those numerous flatterers, whose"rewards were not grovelling, nor such as proceeded no farther than the belly and venereal delight, but the calamities * Cleon was an Atheniarij who, though originally a tanner, became general of the armies of the state by his intrigues and eloquence. f Eupolis was an Athenian comic poet; he flourished 435 years before Christ, and severely lashed the vices and immora- lities of his age. He is said to have composed seventeen dra- matical pieces at the age of seventeen. 48 of Greece? But if the Athenians, dismissing these flatterers, had been persuaded by Pericles and Nicias, they would have had their governors in- stead of flatterers for their friends. If, now, you proceed to monarchies; Mardonius flattered Xerxes, one barbarian another, one stupid man another, a base servant a luxurious despot. But the end of this flattery was the subversion of Asia, whipping the sea, joining the Hellespont, digging mount Athos; and the end of these la- bours was defeat, exile, and the death of the flat- terer himself. The Macedonians also flattered Alexander, and the effects of this flattery were, Persian drawers, barbaric adoration, and forgetful- ness of Hercules and Philip, and of the family of the Argeadse. Why should I speak of tyrannies? for where fear and despotic authority govern the subject people, there flattery necessarily flourishes, and friendship is buried. In studies and arts * also flatterers may be seen, in appearance, indeed, re- sembling, but in reality differing from the arts. Thus spurious music flattered men when the Dorians, leaving their country and their moun- tain music, which they sang among their flocks and herds, became enamoured with Sybaritic pipes and dances; virtue herself thus becoming spurious to- gether with music. Spurious medicine also flat- tered men; when, abandoning the healing art adopted by Esculapius and his followers, they evinced that the medical science in no respect dif- * See my translation of the Gorgias of Plato. 49 fered from the art of cooking, being the base flatterer of base bodies. The sycophant likewise flatters the rhetorician, by opposing argument to argument, and building the unjust on the just, and the base on the beautiful. And, lastly, the sophist flatters the philosopher; and he is the most accu- rate of flatterers. E DISSERTATION V. WHICH IS THE BETTER LIFE, THE PRACTIC OR THE THEORETIC? THAT THE PRACTIC IS THE BETTER LIFE. JT is difficult to find a perfect life as well as a perfect man; for each is, in a certain respect, defective as to accurate worth; and that life sur- passes the rest which is subject to the fewest wants. Hence the husbandman considers the inhabitants of cities blessed, as passing a joyful and florid life: but those who are busied in assemblies and courts of judicature, and who are highly celebrated in cities, deplore their condition, and pray that they may live among ploughs, and in a small farm. You may also hear the soldier praising the felicity of a peaceful life, and those who live quietly ad- miring the condition of the soldier. Though if some god, after the manner of actors in a drama, should divest each of his present life, and transfer to him that of his neighbour, these very men would again desire their former, and bewail their present, condition. Thus it is that man is very morose and querulous, and difficult in the extreme, and that no one is content with his proper situation. 51 And why, indeed, is it necessary to consider the desires and moroseness of the multitude more than that of brutes? But it is proper to be indig- nant with, or rather to pity, those philosophers, who, boasting of possessing wisdom, the art of life, and the scientific use of reason, yet have not ceased to be at variance with themselves and others, and to contend respecting that form of life which they have adopted. For these in reality resemble those pilots, who, after they have pre- pared every thing necessary to navigation, such as a vessel of a beautiful magnitude, a sound ap- paratus, a multitude of instruments, excellent sailors, and symmetry of ballast, yet wander, with respect to the use of the ship, and are dubious whither they shall direct their course, since many ports appear in view, but all of them are unknown. Let us, therefore, bid farewel to others, with the lives which they have adopted; such as those who are dissolved in pleasure, who labour in the earth, wander in the sea, fight for hire, vociferate in as- semblies, and are defiled in courts of judicature. And as, in corporeal contests, the imbecile, who dare beyond what is fit through the hope of vic- tory, quickly fall, and are subdued, but those who contend with true valour, maintain their ground, and endure, and dispute the victory; so in the contest respecting lives, let us suppose that all the rest have been rejected by us and ordered to de- part; but let the theoretic and practic life, since they oppose each other in their pursuits, approach- ing hither, now contend in discourse. Which of 52 these, therefore, shall first plead his cause before us as judges? In my opinion the practical life, for it is more confident and impetuous, and is ac- customed to converse with the multitude. But it will speak as follows: "If any one should receive us entering into life in the same manner as a governor or founder of a city, and should not suffer us to enter the gates till he had enquired respecting the employment of each , and what each contributed in common to the good of the city, I think the architect would say, that his employment consisted in orderly adapting stones by art) so as to form dwellings by which mankind may be defended from heat and cold; but the weaver, that it was his province, with thread and woof, to weave garments, which may both cover and be an ornament to the body ; and the carpen- ter would say, that it is his business to form a plough or bench, or whatever else his art is ca- pable of effecting. Again, the brazier would say, that whatever instruments of brass or iron are re- quisite in war and peace, all these are the work of his art. It is likewise probable, that such things also as are fabricated with a view to pleasure will be admitted; viz. the productions of painters and statuaries, whose arts delight the eye; and that perfumers and cooks will not be rejected, who are the noble artificers of juices and odours; together with those, who, through the melody of pipes, or by singing or dancing, charm the ear. Let us likewise suppose, that those who excite laughter by ridicule, those who deal in the marvellous, and 53 those who delight by their eloquence, are admitted within the gates; just as the beauty of Nirius is assigned a place by Homer "*, and this even in the camp. But let no one, as I may say, be admitted into life without a symbol; one affording a certain advantage, another art, and another pleasure. Be it so. In which of these shall we place the wrork of the philosopher? for that he is not introduced as an useless animal and a mere drone, but as a man who partakes of the same laws, and co-operates in the general labour, is obvious to every one. What then is the symbol which he bears of this commu- nion; and where shall we rank the man? Shall we place him among artificers, as Tychias +; among cooks, as Mithsccus; with those who de- light us, as Phrynio J; with those who excite laughter, as Philip; with popular orators, as Cleon? or shall this man alone wander without a tribe, and without his household gods? He has, however, a certain employment; though what this is we are ignorant. But let us hear what he says: "I pass my time in leisure, contemplate by myself the nature of things, and am filled with truth." You are blessed, indeed, with your abundant lei- sure: for, as it appears to me, if you should enter a ship, you would be so far from acting the part * Iliad,lib. ii.ver. 671. Euripid. Iphig. in Aulide,ver. 204. f Vid. Horn. Iliad, lib.viii. ver. 220. X Phrynio was a man given to lust and prodigality, and is mentioned by Demosthenes advers. Neaream, p. 521, seq. 54 of a pilot, that you would neither row nor co^ operate with those who are busily engaged in doing every thing necessary to the safety of the ship, nor yet be so active as to handle the ropes, or manage an oar in a tranquil sea; but you would rank among those idle passengers who are a use- less burden to the ship. Or do you think that 3, city is less indigent of co-operating labour to its safety than a ship in the sea? I indeed think that it is much more indigent. For in a ship, those that take an active part are few, because the bur- den is not great; but a city is a thing mingled from the cooperation of all • just as the necessity of the body, which is manifold, and is indigent of many things, is preserved by the parts contributing to the good of the whole: the feet support, the hands operate, the eyes see, the ears hear; and, that I may not be prolix, each performs its proper office. But if the Phrygian fabulist is willing to devise a fable to this effect; that the foot, being indignant with the rest of the body, should declare that it was incapable, through weariness, of bearing any longer, in an upright position, so great a burden, and that in future it should continue in rest and quiet; or if the grinders among the teeth, enraged at having prepared nourishment for such a crowd of flesh, should refuse to perform their duty, and, desisting from their proper employment, should solely attend to their own concerns; if these things should take place, what else would ensue in the fable than the destruction of the man? The 55 like takes place in this political communion. For if every one, through weariness of labour, should desist from action, and should withdraw himself from the duties of society to a life of leisure, what would hinder the whole from being dissolved and corrupted? Or do you imagine that strong build- ings are bound and firmly held together by the mutual ence of the stones from which they consist; and that if you in any respect destroy this harmonious arrangement you dissolve the whole; but that the whole of life does not derive its safety from its parts conspiring into union with each other? And indeed, it is of no consequence when others cease to act; for neither did the departure of Thersites from the camp afflict the Greeks; but Achilles in his wrath, while resting from the toils of war in his camp, and giving himself up to leisure, to the harp and the song, filled the camp with many evils. For it is necessary that his ab- sence must be noxious whose presence was benefi- cial. Now therefore is he any other than a pru- dent and intellectual man, who embraces contem- plation, and truth, and leisure? What then? Will a most skilful pilot resign his place in the ship to the most unskilful? Or will he who is skilled in commanding an army transfer his autho- rity to one ignorant how to command? Besides, is there any thing venerable in knowing truth, and concealing in the soul an unprolific, sluggish, and unfruitful treasure, which will neither benefit the possessor nor others? Unless you admit that the hearing is beautiful, merely because we can 56 hear, and not from perceiving harmony and sound; and that sight is beautiful, merely from its possession, and not from our being able by its means to behold the light of the sun; and that riches are beautiful though some one may possess them buried in the earth, an idle and useless treasure. E In short, what is the advantage of knowing, un* less knowledge contributes to action? What is the use of art to the physician, unless he heals according to art? What is the use of art to Phidias, unless he inserts it in ivory and gold? Nestor was, doubtless, a wise man; yet I see the effects of his wisdom; viz. the preservation of the camp, the peace of the city, the obedience of the young, and the virtue of the people. Ulysses was a wise man; but I see his works partly upon land, and partly on the sea: <( Thro* many regions he observant stray'd, Their manners noted, and their states survey'd; On stormy seas unnumber'd toils he bore, Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore And still farther, besides these, Hercules f was a wise man; but his wisdom extended itself to every * Odyss. lib i. ver. 3e/5. + The life of Hercules appears to have been both political and philosophical; but he energized principally according to an intellectual life. Hence his various labours are symbols of his exterminating the vices from the earth, in order that man- kind might partake of that intellectual good which he so largely possessed. 51 land and every sea. This is he who purified the earth from wild beasts, who chastised tyrants, procured liberty to those in slavery, was the le- gislator of freedom, gave stability to justice, was the inventor of laws, and an observer of truth in words, and rectitude in actions. But if Hercules had been willing to pass his life in quiet and lei- sure, and to pursue an indolent wisdom, he would have been a sophist instead of Hercules, and no one would have dared to call him the son of Jupi- ter. For neither does Jupiter lead a life of lei- sure; since if he did heaven would cease to re- volve, the earth to nourish, rivers to flow, the sea to be spread abroad, and seasons to change. The Fates would no longer distribute destiny, nor the Muses sing. The virtues of men would cease, to- gether with the safety of animals and the fecundity of fruits; and this universe, again wandering about itself, would be confounded and disturbed. But the administration of Jupiter being unwea- ried, unceasing, and ever vigilant, and never with- drawing from its proper employment, imparts per- petual safety to all things. Thus also Jupiter in dreams admonishes worthy kings, and such as re- semble himself: "111 fits a chief, who mighty nations guides, Directs in council, and in war presides, To whom its safety a whole people owes, To waste the night in indolent repose The philosopher, though he sees these things, yet neither imitates Jupiter nor Hercules, nor * Iliad, lib. ii. ver. 24. 58 worthy kings and rulers, but lives the life of a man born in solitude, a private, not a social life, the life of a cyclops, and not that of a man. And yet even for these the earth bore wheat and bar* ley. And though they were "Untaught to plant, to turn the glebe, and sow yet each dictated laws to his children and wife, and was not altogether without employment. In short, to what else can entire leisure belong but to a dead body? If indeed action was destitute of vir- tue, it would be well to pursue the latter and abandon the former. But if the virtue of man is not speculation but action, and practice consists in communion and the politic use of life, these things are to be pursued, with which virtue also may be obtained: "Vice may by all spontaneously be gain'd; Sweat before virtue stands, so Heav'n ordain'd," says the Boeotian poet f, unless someone should praise a wrestler who is willing to be crowned without sweat. But it may be said that danger, detriment, stratagems, envy, exile, death, and dishonour, at- tend him who engages in the pursuits of an active life. Suppose then that a pilot should reason in the same manner, that navigation is insecure, is full of dangers and labours, and abounds with uncertainty, storms, and winds; suppose a gene- * Odyss. lib. x. ver. 108. f Hesiod. Op. et Dier. 287, 2S9. 59 ral should reason in the same manner, that the fortune of war is immanifest, the uncertainty equal in both, danger before his feet, and death near; from these reasonings what would hinder the sea from remaining unburthened with ships, or citi- zens, through a want of commanders, from re- maining in slavery? or what would prevent the whole of life from being, like that of worms, abject and sluggish, and full of terror? You speak of the life of Sardanapalus, you relate the life of Epicurus. Let us oppose to these others; to Sar- danapalus, Cyrus; to an Assyrian, a Persian, who, though he might have lived a life of leisure and quiet, yet chose to free the Persian race; for this purpose enduring labours, engaging in war, en- countering hunger and thirst, and neither by night nor day remitting his toil. We may also oppose many to Epicurus, Grecians to a Greek; from the academy indeed Plato, from the camp Xenophon, from Pontus Diogenes. Plato, indeed, for the sake of his friend *, who was poor and exiled, opposed himself to a mighty and powerful tyrant, for this purpose undertaking long journies by land and sea, exposing himself to. the hatred of the tyrant, and falling into danger, that he might not abandon the philosophic habit: and yet he might have speculated in the academy, and have been filled with truth. But Proxenus called Xenophon, Apollo sent him, and, together with Apollo, Socrates, from abundant leisure and * Viz, Dion. 60 speculation, to the camp, to the command of ar- mies, and the safety of myriads of Greeks. And why is it necessary to speak of the pursuits of Diogenes? who, abandoning his leisure, wandered, inspecting the neighbouring realms, being neither an indolent nor a careless observer of their man- ners; but, like Ulysses himself, "Each prince of name, or chief in arras approv'd, He hVd with praise, or with persuasion mov'd; But if a clamorous vile plebeian rose, Him with reproof he check'd, or tam'd with blows *.M Nor did he even spare his body, but punished, and was the occasion of much molestation to it: "Himself he tames by ignominious blows, And rags o'er both his shoulders careless throws + I omit to mention, that a good man, when he engages in active pursuits, without drawing back, or yielding to the depraved, will both preserve himself and turn others to a better life. But if he retires, and shows his back, he will fill the de- praved with rashness, insolence, and audacity; but at the same time will betray his own preser- vation: "Whither, oh whither, basely do you fly? PiercM in the back, ignobly would you die J?" Stop, stand, and endure the darts, and you will find nothing to dread. The army of the enemy is * Iliad, ii. ver. 188, 198. f Odyss. lib. iv. ver. 244. % Iliad, lib ix. ver. 94. 61 timid, the arrows are vain. If you approach, no one will oppose you, but if you fly all will attack you, in the same manner as the Trojans did Ajax, as the Athenians did Socrates, who did not desist till they had thrown him on the ground. How then can any one live with security in the midst of enemies? For nothing is more hostile to the virtue of a man than to be surrounded with abun- dance of depravity. Retiring, says Socrates *, under the shelter of a wall, I see others agitated by tempest and imprudence. Show us, O So- crates, the secure wall, where, standing, I may look down upon the arrows of the enemy; but if 3rou point out to me such a wrall as that under which you retreated, I see the arrows, many Anytus's, many Melitus's. This wall may be cap- tured f. * See my translation of Plato's Republic, b. vi. f The citadel of intellect, however, which is the wall of Socrates, is not to be captured by any external foes; since he who is capable of legitimately ascending to this sublime vertex of the soul "May stand secure amidst a falling world." For things external surround a truly incorporeal nature, such as intellect, like nonentities. But the design of Maximus in this dissertation was only to present the reader with popular arguments in favour of the practical life. DISSERTATION VI. THAT THE THEORETIC IS BETTER* THAN THE PRACTIC LITE. JF we were accused in a court of judicature, we should be indignant with the judge who would not permit an equal apology to the accusers and accused, but who rather resembled a tyrant than a judge. However, though the decisions and for- tune of courts of judicature are very remote from the habits and manners pertaining to philosophy, yet since, even here, argument is opposed to argu- ment and friend to friend, and in investigating truth, the present inquiry resembles a judicial pro- cess, let us to-day permit the other party to make his apology, and suppose the contemplative man, as if before a judge, answering to the following, or * Human felicity is very beautifully defined by Aristotle, in his Nicomaehean Ethics, to be, the energy of the rational soul, according to the best and most perfect virtue, in a per- fect life: "Eyf^yaa t»$ 4/VXn^ ^oy*K*J? kcct cc^srvy ccgirnv x&a TtXaorocTYi? ev f3w teAejw." But (he best and most perfect vir- tue must be the virtue of our principal part, and this is intel- lect. Hence, as the energy of intellect is wholly contempla- tive, our felicity must consist in this energy. So that the theoretic is necessarily better than the practic life. 63 a similar accusation: Anaxagoras* acts unjustly, since, though he lives in the land and city of the Clazomenians, and partakes of the same sacred rites and ceremonies, of the same laws and nutri- ment, and of other things in common with the rest of the Clazomenians, yet withdraws himself from them as if from wild beasts, and neither min- gles in their assemblies, nor is present at the festi- vals ot Bacchus, nor in courts of judicature, nor in any other place with his fellow citizens; but his lands are abandoned by him, his house is deso- late, and he lives by himself, turning upwards and downwards, and exploring his wonderful wis- dom. Let this then be the accusation; and let Anaxa- goras apologize as follows: "I well know, O Clazomenians, that I am very far from having acted unjustly towards you; for I have neither diminished your possessions nor been the occasion of rendering your city less renowned among the Greeks; but in my associations with each of you I think that my conduct has been innoxious and moderate. Nor have I paid less regard to the laws and the polity, by which our lives are regu- lated and adorned. It remains, therefore, if I neither injure you in my daily conduct, nor in the * Anaxagoras was born at Clazomene, in Ionia, about the 70th Olympiad. He was a disciple of Anaximenes, and he gave up his patrimony that he might be more at leisure for the study of philosophy. From his contemplative habit, therefore, he is very properly introduced by Maximus in this dissertation, defending the theoretic life. 64 form of my life, but notwithstanding this err in my judgment, that at least I should be freed from the accusation of publicly injuring the city; and I ought, in consequence of this, to obtain from you preceptors in my private concerns, and not accus- ers. Bat I will tell you the nature of my employ- ment, though I doubt not but this my pursuit will excite your laughter. For I well know that power in a city, a communion of life, splendor of ac- tion, and useful occupation, are things of great consequence and worth. I also am well con- vinced that these particulars, which are of such great importance when they are united with virtue and probity, are of mighty advantage to their possessor; bat that, when this is not the case, they on the contrary degrade and overthrow, and do not even permit their possessor to conceal his im- probity. For dignities illuminate men; but so far as any one deviates from upright conduct, so far do his vices become exposed to public view. But if any one, from the soundness of his judgment pos- sesses splendor with security, such a one will de- rive advantage from dignity; but he who, though defective in judgment, desires those things which power employs, must by a strong necessity, through ignorance of art and a want of instru- ments, be greatly deceived. Thus considering, I have thought that I should rather pay attention to myself than another, lest I should ignorantly en- gage beyond my abilities in public affairs, and thus produce nothing but defective and erroneous con- duct. For neither should I act unjustly, if, being 65 ordered by you to sing in a choir, I should be un- willing to comply till my voice was attuned to har- mony. On this account I have been but little so- licitous that my lands might be well cultivated, but have determined with myself to embrace that life, from which knowledge being produced in the soul, as light in the eyes, affords security to what remains of the journey of life. This light indeed is not to be procured from those festivals which we call Panathensean nor are the paths which lead to it either follies or trifles. They are neither agri- cultural cares, nor forensic studies, nor popular associations; but they are, the love of truth, the contemplation of things, and an ambition of excel- ling in these. Thinking that I ought to proceed in this path, I have followed those arguments which will lead me thither, and have diligently observed the vestiges of the road. t; And thus much concerning my own pursuits. But that by proceeding in this path I also delibe- rate about things most excellent and most just with respect to your concerns, I will now show. The safety of public affairs does not consist in the pos- session of strong walls, nor in the preservation of docks, nor in the best sailing vessels; neither in porches, groves, gymnasia, temples, nor in utensils subservient to sacred processions (for these, though they may be safe from the assaults of enemies, tire, or any other calamity, yet. time will finally destroy) but that which preserves cities is harmony, and the * These festivals were sacred to Minerva. For an ac- count of them see my notes to Pausanias. F 66 elegant administration of affairs. This also I as- sert: these things are effected b)^ equitable, le- gislation, but equitable legislation is preserved by the virtues of those whom it governs; erudition produces virtue, exercise erudition, truth exercise, and truth is produced by the contemplation of it in retirement. For there is no other instrument, ex- cept true reason, by which virtue is acquired, and through which the soul is sharpened and enkindled. And being ignorant indeed, it learns; but learn- ing, it preserves that which it has learnt; preserv- ing, it applies it to use ; and by using it, is defended from error. This is the employment, this the lei* sure which you accuse, the contemplation of truth, the art of life, the strength of reason, the prepara- tion of the soul, and the exercise of probity. If, therefore, these things contributed to nothing beau- tiful, or contributing, were not obtained by disci- pline or exercise, but produced casually and by chance, you would speak of a thing atrocious, and wrhich deserves to be accused in a court of jus- tice. But if no one is so insane as to assert this, if there is no one who does not admit that truth, sound reason, virtue, and a knowledge of law and justice cannot be otherwise obtained than by sedu- lous attention to them, just as the shoemaker's art is only to be obtained by application to such par- ticulars as it concerns, the brazier's by diurnal la- bours in furnaces and tire, and the pilot's by being occupied in the sea and navigation; if this be the case, by thus acting, I have injured no one; but, on the contrary, if I had neglected these things, el and suffered niy soul to be solitary and unprolific, I should have deserved to be accused in a court of justice* I, indeed, O Clazomenians, in apologiz- ing before you, have asserted such things as are just, and at the same time true; but I request that you will not pass sentence upon me immediately, but defer your final decision till you have dili- gently inspected my studies, that if they shall ap- pear to you to possess any utility in consequence of having been instructed in them in reality, I may be acquitted of the accusation; but if this should not be the case, then it must be your province to pass such sentence upon me as you shall think fit, and mine to deliberate upon it in a becoming manner." It is likely that the Clazomenians would laugh at Anaxagoras thus speaking and apologizing; for his defence would not be more persuasive than his accusation: and yet he would not speak the less truly, though he should be by their decision con- demned. Before a judge, however, not elected by a bean, (if such a one is to be found) but by know- ledge, which is alone the legitimate election of a judge; before such a one neither Anaxagoras among the Clazomenians, nor Heraclitus in Ephe- sus, nor Pythagoras in Samos, nor Democritus in Abdera, nor Xenophanes in Colophon, nor Parme- nides in Elea, nor Diogenes in Apollonia, nor any other of those divine men, will apologize as having acted unjustly, or as a defendant in a judicial pro- cess; but, equitably persuading and speaking, he will employ wise arguments to the intelligent, such as are credible to the faithful, and such as are 68 divine to divine men. He will say that divinity- assigned three powers, regions, and natures to the human soul, collecting them together, as if form- ing the cohabitation of a city. Among these, that which governs and deliberates he introduced into the acropolis, established it there, and assigned it no other province than that of reasoning \ but that part which possesses a vigorous energy, is skilful in acting, and is able to carry deliberations into effect, he conjoined and mingled, through its subserviency to command, with the deliberating power; and the third part, which is no other than this irrational multitude, intemperate and servile, full of desires, full of loves, full of licentiousness^ full of all-various pleasures, he allotted the third situation, as if it were a certain people, sluggish, noisy, full of passion and folly. The soul being thus distributed with respect to the economy of the co-arrangement of man, sedition is produced in it no otherwise than in a city. But with respect to cities, that which is subject to royal authority is happy, the other parts submitting, according to the law of divinity, to him who is naturally adapted to be the leader. The city, which is inferior to this in felicity, and which is denominated an aris- tocracy, being formed from the co-operation of thoss in power, though subordinate to a kingly government, is superior to a democracy. Such a city is powerful in action, such as was the Laconic, or Cretic, the Mantinic, or Pellenic, or Thetalic polity, very ambitious, and full of contention, litigious, busily occupied, impetuous ^and confi- 69 dent. The third form of polity, which is speci- ously denominated a democracy, but is in reality an ochlocracy, or the government of a mob, re- sembles the Attic, or Syracusian, or Milesian, or some other republic, which is strong in the multi- tude, is noisy, intemperate, and all-various. Of these three polities you may see three vital imitations in the human soul; the theoretic life of the soul being analogous to the deliberative and ruling form of government, and which is remote from action and manual operation; but the prae- tic life, which ranks in the second gradation, re- sembles that polity which is honoured and cele- brated in the second degree; and it is not difficult to perceive a democracy in man, since this kind of polity is largely distributed through the whole soul. This, however, we shall dismiss, since it is too degraded to come into competition with the most excellent form of life. But if we compare speculation with action, since each partakes of the beautiful, speculation indeed according to know- ledge, but action according to virtue, which shall we prefer? Reason answers, that if wre regard the use* of each, we must give the preference to ac- tion, but if the cause, whence the beauty of ac- tions is derived, we must prefer theory. So that, endeavouring to conciliate the one with the other, we shall distribute the powers and the form of life * Use must here be considered merely with relation to the necessities of the mortal part, and not with reference to the good of the immortal part of man. 70 in the soul, either according to nature,or according to age, or according to fortune. For one man differs from another by nature, one being im- becile in action but having a soul prompt to spe- culation, and another being feeble in speculation but robust in action. Men also differ in age; for action is adapted to youth, as Homer saj's, and as I am persuaded: «■ Youth is for all things fit." For the philosopher, when a young man acts, speaks, engages in politics, performs the part of a soldier, and governs cities. Thus the journies of Plato to Sicily, his labours, and his diligent atten- tion to the affairs of Dion, were accomplished in the flower of his age; but the academy, profound leisure, beautiful disciplines, and blameless con- templation, received him when old; for then he placed the end of life in the acquisition of abun- dant and mighty truth. I also love Xenophon^ who, when a young man, engaged in action; but I praise him, when an old man, for his literary pursuits. The form of life also differs according to fortune. For fortune surrounds one man with power and necessary action, but another with lei- sure and bland quiet. Of these characters, I praise the one for strenuous exertion in circum- stances of necessity, but I both praise and consi- der the other as blessed. I consider him as blessed on account of his leisure, I praise him for his quiet. 71 We regard, indeed, that man as blessed on ac- count of his vision, who sails from Europe into Asia, that he may see the land of the Egyptians, or the gates of the Nile, or the lofty pyramids, or foreign birds, an ox, or a goat. In like manner we speak of the felicity of him who has seen the Ister or the Ganges, the ruins of Babylon, the rivers in Sardis, the sepulchres in Ilium, or the regions in the Hellespont. This is also the case when fleets sail to Greece, either to behold the Athenian arts, or the Theban gates, or the Argive realms. With Homer too Ulysses is a wise man, from his abun- dant wandering; for, "Thro' many regions he observant stray'd, Their manners noted, and their states survey'd." And yet what were the spectacles of Ulysses, ex- cept Thracians,. or savage Cicons, or sunless Cim- merians, or guest-destroying Cyclops, or an en- chantress, or the prodigies in Hades? What be- sides Scylla or Charybdis, the gardens of Alcinous, or the stall of Eumseus? all mortal, all momen- tary, all fabulous! But to what shall I compare the spectacles of a philosopher? to a clear dream by Jupiter, circularly borne along in all direc- tions; in which, indeed, the body does not move, but the soul travels round the whole earth, from earth ascends to heaven, passes over every sea, flies through every region of the air, runs in con- junction with the sun, revolves with the moon, is carried round with the choir of the other stars, and 72 nearly governs and arranges the universe, in con- junction with Jupiter! O blessed journey, beau- tiful * visions, and true dreams! * The visions of a philosopher are in this case beautiful, because he contemplates the intelligible world and its ineffable cause. i DISSERTATION VII. WHETHER PLATO ACTED PROPERLY IN EXPEL- LING HOMER FROM HIS REPUBLIC*". A SYRACUSIAN sophist once came to Sparta, not furnished with the elegant diction of Pro- dicus, nor the empty garrulity of Hippias, nor the rhetoric of Gorgias, nor the injustice of Thrasy- machus, nor with any other apparatus of discourse; but the art of the Syracusian sophist consisted in action itself, and that mingled with advantage and pleasure. For he so prepared food by symmetry of seasoning, by temperament, variety, and the ministrant aid of fire, that it was far more grateful to the palate than in its natural state. Hence the name of Mithaecus was as celebrated among the Greeks for his art respecting banquets as that of Phidias in statuary. This man then came to Sparta at that time, when, from its dominion over other cities, it was invested with a noble power, with good hope that his art would be very acceptable to the Spartans. This, however, was not the case; * See my translation of, and notes on, the Republic of Plato. '~4 for the Lacedaemonian magistrates ordered him to depart immediately from Sparta, and betake him- self to some other country and other men; for we wish, said they, through labour, to require neces- sary rather than artificial food, and to have our bodies vmpampered and simple, and to be no more in want of dainties than the bodies of lions. Hence they desired him to hasten to that city where it was likely his art would be honoured, and where both pleasure and advantage would concur to render its professors agreeable. Thus Mithsecus, together with his art, left Sparta. He was not, however, on this account, less acceptable to the rest of Greece, who gladly received him for their own pleasure, and did not despise him for having been disgraced by the Lacedaemonians. „• But if it be requisite to introduce other ifhages in the present discourse more venerabWthan the art of Mithaecus, the Thebans study ^he melody of the pipe, and the muse who presides over this instrument is vernacular to the Boeotians. The Athenians apply themselves to eloquence, and the study of oratory is an Attic art. The Cretan dis- ciplines are, hunting, climbing mountains, ar- chery, and the race. The Thessalians study the equestrian art, the Cyrenians the art of driving a chariot, and the CEtolians plunder. The Acar- nanes hurl the javelin, the Thracians are skilful in the use of the short buckler, and the inhabitants of islands are expert in swimming. But if you trans- fer the pursuits of some to others you adulterate the arts. For "what have the inhabitants of the 75 continent to do with ships, or the immusical with pipes, or those who dwell on mountains with horses, or the inhabitants of plains with the race, or the light-armed soldier with the bow, or the archer with the shield? As, therefore, among these, the arts are distinguished by the places or the natures of those that use them, or the early at- tachment of their votaries, and neither each is ho- noured by all because it is by some, nor despised by dl because contemptible with some, but each is celebrated according to the advantage derived from its possession; this being the case, what hin- ders but that the inhabitants of this beautiful city, which Plato has instituted in discourse, and who are educated by him under foreign laws, and which are very remote from the manners of the multi- tude, should again be permitted to enjoy certain native and legal pursuits in which they have been nurtured from their youth, and which are honour- able in their estimation from their use, but are despised by others, as not harmonizing with their habits of life? For if we compare city with cit}r, polity with polity, laws with laws, legislator with legislator, and one mode of education with ano- ther, an enquiry of this kind will not be irrational, in which we investigate what is wanting to each. But if any one, separating a part from the whole, considers it by itself, employing the testimony of those who either do or do not use it after this manner, every thing else which is used by man- kind will equally partake of honour and infamy, and it will be dubious which among these ought to 16 be preferred to the rest. For education, remedies, modes of living, and whatever else is subservient to the advantage of mankind, are not all of them the same to all men; but the same thing injures one and benefits another, delights one and disgusts another. For use, occasion, and the form of life cause each of these to appear in a different light to different men. This being the case, let us pass on to Homer, and consider what pertains to him with candour and equity; not delighting in Plato and despising Homer, nor admiring Homer but blaming Plato: for they are not destined to be separated and di- vulsed from each other; but we may both honour the writings of Plato and admire Homer; and this may be accomplished as follows: Plato founded a city in theory; not the Cretan nor the Dorian, not the Peloponnesian nor Sicilian, nor by Jupiter an Attic city; for to establish such a city as this would not only require the assistance of Homer, but, besides Homer, of Hesiod and Orpheus, and whatever other ancient muse may be found capa- ble of charming and popularly alluring the souls of youth, and of gently mingling true arguments with accustomed pleasure. But the intention of Plato was to build a city and form a polity in the- ory, which should rather be characterized by ex- treme accuracy than extreme utility*. And in * We should rather say, that the republic of Plato is no less characterized by utility than accuracy; but that, from the depravity of all existing polities, its accuracy is more apparent fhan its utility. 77 this respect he acted similarly to those by whom our statues are formed: for these, collecting toge- ther the beauty of every individual body, and crowding all this beauty together from different bodies into one imitation, according to art, pro- duce one beauty sound and entire, and which har- monizes with itself; and you will not find any body, the beauty of which is in reality equally ac- curate with that of the statue. For the arts indeed aspire after the consummately beautiful; but the objects which continually present themselves to our view, and the use to which they are applied, fall far short of the perfection which the arts de- sire. I am of opinion, indeed, that if there were a certain plastic power in men, capable of fashioning fleshly bodies, the artificers of such bodies col- lecting together, and aptly tempering the powers of earth and fire, with every thing else which, har- monizing and according, could compose the na- ture of bodies, would produce, as it is reasonable to suppose, a body superior to the want of reme- dies, incantations, and medical prescriptions. If some one, therefore, on hearing one of those arti- ficers prescribing laws to the men whom he had fa- shioned, and informing them that they would not want the medical assistance of Hippocrates, and that it was requisite, having crowned him with wool, and perfumed* him with ointment, to send "* This is what Plato does by Homer in his Republic, as a sacred person: for Proclus informs us, that it was lawful to pour oil on the statues in the most oly temples, and crows {hem with wool, and this according toa certain sacred law. 78 him to -other men by whom he would be celt> brated, as disease with them would require the as- sistance of his art; if any one on hearing this should be indignant with the artificer, as despis^ ing the art of Esculapius and his followers, would he not be ridiculous for accusing him who does not ignominiously reject the medical art, but ex- pels it because he has no occasion for it with respect to use, and cannot embrace it with a view to plea- sure? For since there are two things through which Homer and Hesiod and any other were illustrious in poetic harmony, I mean utility and pleasure, the verses of these poets are not adapted, according to either of these, to the polity of Plato. For there utility consists in accurate education and neces- sary auscultations, nothing spontaneous, nothing licentious being admitted, nor fables fashioned by irrational rumor, such as children receive from their mothers. For nothing rash, nothing casual, ■whether precept, or discipline, or sport, can be admitted into such a city as this; nor can there be any need of Homer here, who so harmoniously and magnificently sings the opinions concerning the gods, and who raises the souls of the multitude from an abject imagination to astonishment. For . poetical diction, when it falls upon the ears of j those who have been improperly educated, plays j round them with a tuneful hum, and does not af- \ ford them leisure to disbelieve in assertions which have acquired a casual celebrity. All poetry, in- deed, contains a latent meaning, and we should 79 magnificently unfold its enigmas in the same man- ner as we interpret the oracles of the gods. But in a polity where every thing abject and every thine neHioent arc exterminated, what occasion can there be for such a remedy as this? A Gre- cian once asked the celebrated Anacharsis, if the art of playing on the pipe was known in Scythia. So far from it, said he, that even grapes are not there known. For one pleasure calls upon ano- ther; and it is a thing connascent, unceasing, and ever-running, when it begins to flow. The only artifice, therefore, that can procure safety, is, to stop the fountains, and impede the generation of pleasure. But such a city as Plato established was inaccessible to pleasure, and admitted nothing that could captivate the eyes and ears; so that neither could poetry, if it procures pleasure, be admitted into this polity, in which utility alone found an entrance, I omit to mention, that many cities, which have not only been devised in theory, but have been established in reality, have been soundly governed and legally established without any knowledge of Homer. For it is but lately that Sparta, Crete, and the Doric race in Lybia recited his verses. These nations, however, have been celebrated for their virtue, not lately, but from remote antiquity. And why is it necessary to mention the affairs of the barbarians? for surely they have not learnt the verses of Homer; and vet you will find virtue among the barbarians, for which they are not indebted to the poetry of Ho- mer. Indeed, if this be not admitted, the race of rhapsodists, who are the most unintelligent of all men, would be happy from a knowledge of art. This, however, is not the case. The verses of Homer are certainly beautiful, and of all verses the most beautiful and splendid, and fit to be sung by the Muses; but they are not beautiful to all men, nor are the;/ always beautiful. For there is neither one law nor one time of melody in music. In war, indeed, the orthion melody is beautiful, but in a banquet the paroinion. And among the Lace- daemonians the melody called embaterion is beauti- ful, but among the Athenians the cr/dion. In pursuing an enemy the enceleasticon is beautiful, but in flight the anacleticon. Every muse is indeed beautiful, but the use is not similar in all. If, therefore, you judge that Homer sung to men with a view to pleasure alone, you introduce an intempe- rate and bacchanalian choir of poets, who in plea- sure vanquish the melody of Homer, and thus you no longer allow him to be the artificer of delight. Homer is indeed captivating, but his beauty is more mature than the pleasure which he pro- duces, and does not afford us leisure to be de- lighted, but to praise. The praise is however at- tended with pleasure, yet is not pleasure itself. But if we embrace the poetry of Homer with a view to pleasure, as we do the melody of the pipe or the harp, we shall not only expel Homer from the pupils of Plato, but likewise from those of Lycurgus, from those of the Cretans, and from every region and every city where labours are ce- lebrated in conjunction with virtue. DISSERTATION VIII. IN WHAT THE AMATORY * ART OF SOCRATES CONSISTED. A CERTAIN Corinthian, whose name was &s- chylus, had a son Action, a Doric lad of sur- passing beauty. A Corinthian youth, of the race of the Bacchiadae loved Actaeon, the Bacchiadae at that time beino- the rulers of Corinth. As the lad, however, was modest, and despised licentious love, Iris lover, together with certain young men of his own family, wantonly entered the house of Actaeon, and deriving confidence from intoxica- tion, tyranny, and love, while they endeavoured to force him away, and his domestics to detain him, the lad, being torn in pieces by both, perished * According to the Platonic philosophy, those terrestrial heroes that descend into mortality to benefit oblivious souls, be- long to the amatory series. Hence Socrates, who ranks among the first of the terrestrial heroes, was of a disposition remarkably amatory; but the love of beautiful forms was with him nothing more than an instrument of reminiscence, by which he was enabled from the influx of apparent to recog- nize divine beauty. Hence his attachment to beautiful youths arose from his considering outward to be the forerunner of mental beauty. The amatory art therefore of Socrates con- sisted in leading the objects of his regard from corporeal beauty to that which is incorporeal and divine. G 82 through violence in their hands. Hence this atro- cious deed in Corinth was assimilated to that in Boeotia, on account of the equivocation in the names of the lads, the one being torn in pieces by his dogs in hunting, and the other by his lovers in intoxication. Periander, the tyrant of the Am- braciotse was enamoured of an elegant lad; but as his attachment was unjust, it was rather lust than love. But Periander, becoming confident from his authority, acted licentiously towards the lad. This licentiousness, however, brought the insolence of Periander to an end, and caused the lad to be- come, from an object of unjust love, the murderer of a tyrant. Such is the punishment of base love. Are you willing that I should present you with an image or two of the other kind of love, I mean the just? An Attic lad had two lovers, a private man and a tyrant; of which the one was just, through the equality of his condition, but the other was unjust from his absolute power. The lad, however, was truly beautiful, and worthy to be loved; in consequence of which he despised the tyrant and associated with the private man. But the tyrant, enraged at his contempt, acted injuri- ously towards both, and banished with ignominy the sister of Harmodius, who came to the Panathe- nsean festival for the purpose of carrying the sa- cred basket. The Pisistradidee were punished for this conduct; and the licentiousness of the tyrant, the boldness of the lad, just love, and the virtue of a lover, were the sources of liberty to the Atheni- ans. Epaminondas by an amatory stratagem li- 83 berated Thebes from the Lacedaemonians. In Thebes many youths were lovers of many beauti- ful lads. Epaminondas, therefore, giving arms both to the lovers and the beloved, formed a sa- cred amatory band, powerful and unconquerable, skilfully defended and infrangible. This was a band, such as neither Nestor formed about Ilion, though the most skilful of commanders, nor the Heraclidse about Peloponnesus, nor the Pelopon- nesians about Attica. For here it was requisite that each of the lovers should strenuously contend for victory, both through ambition, in consequence of fighting in the view of their rivals, and through necessity, as righting for the objects of their love. On the other hand, the lads who were beloved contended in virtue with their lovers, just as in hunting whelps run close by the side of the older dogs. But what is my intention in speaking of Epami- nondas and Ifeniodjus, and in adducing instances of unjust love? Because that which men denomi- nate by one word, love, is a twofold thing; virtue being the object of one of its species, and the other being connate with depravity; so that the same word signifies a divinity and a disease. Hence depraved lovers glory in consequence of having the same appellation with a god, but worthy lovers are not believed through the ambiguity of the pas- sion. But as with respect to two goldsmiths, if it were requisite to enquire which of them had a knowledge of genuine and adulterated money, we should consider him as very remote from art who 84 preferred money which was apparently to that which was really good, but we should say, that he had a knowledge of art who could distinguish ge- nuine from counterfeit money; after the same manner, let us consider the amatory art as being conversant with the nature of the beautiful as if it were a certain coin. For if with respect to this, one species appears to be beautiful, but is not so in reality, but another species both is and appears to be so, it is necessary that those who are desirous of apparent and not real beauty, should be lovers of spurious and adulterated beauty, but that those who aspire after that which both really is and ap- pears to be beautiful, should be lovers of genuine and true beauty. Be it so. Since, therefore, both an amatory discourse and a lover are after this manner to be investigated, let us also dare, with respect to Socrates, to enquire into the meaning of those expressions concerning himself, which occur so frequently in his dis- courses; such as, that he is the servant of love *, and that he is a white measure of beautiful bodies f, and skilful in the ajnatoyy art J. He likewise enu- merates as his preceptors in this art, Aspasia the Milesian and Diotima the prophetess, and consi- ders as his disciples in this art the most superb Alcibiades, the most graceful Critobulus, the most delicate Agatho, Phaedrus with a divine head, and the beautiful Charmides. But he conceals nothing * Vid. Xenophon. Sympos. viii. 1. f Vid. Plat, in Charmid. % Vid. Plat, in Theag. et Sympos. 85 pertaining to love, neither action nor passion, but freely discloses every thing in an orderly succes- sion. For he says that his heart leaps and his body swells towards Charmides; that he is terrified, and becomes enthusiastic like theBacchae, through the love of Alcibiades*, and that he turns his eyes towards Autolycus f in the same manner as to splendor in the night. And when, in establishing a city of worthy men, he frames laws for those who strenuously contend in battle, he does not as- sign them crowns or statues, those Grecian inani- ties, but permits the bravest man to love any one that he pleases among the beautiful. O admi- rable reward! And how does he describe love in the fable J which he devised concerning him? That he is deformed to the view and poor; that he approximates very near to his own fortune, is without shoes, has no lodging but the ground, is full of stratagem, is a hunter, an enchanter, a so- phist, a magician; and in short, every thing else, for which Socrates is reviled by comic poets in the festivals of Bacchus. But he said these things not only in the midst of the Greeks, but privately, in banquets, in the academy, in the Piraeus, on the road, under the plane tree, and in the Lyceum. And of every thing else indeed he denies § that he has any knowledge, such as the nature of virtue, * Vid. iEschin. apucl Aristidem. iii. p. 34. f Vid. Xenoph. in Sympos. cap. i. 9. X See the Banquet of Plato. § This is a mistake of Maximus; for, as I have shown in my translation of Plato, Socrates acknowledged that he was skilled in three sciences; viz. the amatory, the dialectic^ and the maieuiic, or that which leads forth latent conceptions into light. 86 opinions concerning the gods, and whatever else the sophists arrogantly profess to teach; but vin- dicating to himself the amatory art, he says that he has a scientific knowledge of this and is busily employed about it. What Socrates meant by these subtleties, whe- ther they are enigmas or ironical assertions, let Plato inform us for Socrates, or Xenophon, or yEschines, or some other of his familiars. I indeed admire and am astonished that Socrates should ba- nish from his wonderful polity, and the education of young men, the verses of Homer, and Homer himself, crowning the poet with wool, and per- fuming him with ointment/ assigning as the cause the freedom of speech which he employs; as when he represents Jupiter* having connexion with Juno on Mount Ida, and concealed by an immortal cloud; or Mars connected with Venus, and the bonds of Vulcan; or the gods drinking and laugh- ing with inextinguishable laughter; or Apollo flying and Achilles pursuing: (e A mortal chasing an immortal god;" Or the gods lamenting: '' Ah me! Sarpedon, most belov'd of men Predestin'd to be slain, must die," says Jupiter. And again: li Ah wretched me! unfortunately brave A son I bore;" says Thetis; or whatever else is enigmatically as- * See all these fables satisfactorily explained in the intro- duction to my translation of the second book of the Republic, 87 serted by Homer, but reprehended by Socrates.— I say, I am astonished that Socrates should banish Homer from his republic for such things as these, and yet this lover of wisdom, who was superior to poverty, the enemy of pleasure, and the friend of truth, should himself mingle such slippery and dangerous assertions in his familiar discourses, that, when compared with them, the enigmas of Homer are very remote from reprehension. For every one on hearing such things as these concerning Jupiter and Apollo, Thetis and Vulcan, will imme- diately consider them as oracular assertions, in which the apparent is different from the latent meaning *. Hence, while he receives delight by hearing, he will contend with the poet, will be elevated toge- ther with him in imagination, will devise together with him the figment, disbelieving and at the same time delighting in the licence of mythology. But Socrates, who is so celebrated for his attachment to truth, is more dangerous in his enigmas through the credibility of his assertions, his power of imita- tion, and the dissimilitude of his practice in ama- tory affairs to his theory. For in nothing is So- crates like himself, when he is in love, and when he speaks temperately; when he is agitated with a pleasing terror at the sight of beautiful forms, and when he confutes the unwise; when he opposes the amatory oration of Lysias, touches Critobulus, * This is a very remarkable passage, as it proves that however the fables of Homer might be considered by the li- centious Romans of the Augustan and following ages, they were regarded by the Greeks as divine enigmas. 88 returns from hunting the beauty of Alcibiades, and is atonished at Charmides. For how do these things accord with a philosophic life? They are neither consistent with his freedom of speech to the peo- ple, nor his boldness towards tyrants, nor his stre-. nuous contention at Delium, nor his contempt of his judges, nor his entering the prison, nor his pre- paration for death: they are very remote from all these particulars. For if these things are true, we should predict that they have a good meaning; but if beautiful actions are enigmatically signified through base words, the thing is dire and danger- ous. For to place the beautiful under the base, and to indicate the profitable through the noxious, is not the employment of one who wishes to bene- fit (for the utility is unapparent) but of one who desires to injure, and which is easily accomplished. These things I am of opinion Thrasymachus would say, or Callias, or Polus, or some other enemy to the philosophy of Socrates. Let us, therefore, that we may trifle no longer, answer the accusation. I appear to myself indeed to be willing to yield assistance, but to possess less ability than is requisite. It is proper, however, that power should concur with will. Let us then act in the same manner as those that are arraigned at the bar, with respect to this negligence of Socrates in his amatory discourses. For these, when in danger of being cast, not only speak respecting the thing for which they are accused, but secretly turn the crime upon others of greater authority than themselves, and thus by their as- 89 sociation with them diminish their own guilt. Thus, also, let us omit to enquire at present whether So- crates acted right or not in this respect; but reply as follows to these dire accusers: "You appear to me to be more absurd than those sycophants Anytus and Melitus: for they, indeed, accused Socrates as one who acted unjustly, who corrupted the young men, and was the cause that Critias tyrannized and Alcibiades acted licenti- ously; that he made the worse appear to be the better cause, and that he swore by the plane tree and the dog; but even those dire sycophants spared the amours of Socrates. In like manner, neither did Aristophanes, who ridiculed other things pertaining to Socrates, in the festivals of Bacchus, and who was the most severe of his ac- cusers, revile his love; though he calls him poor, andatrifler, and a sophist, and every thing, rather than one who .loved improperly. For this thing, as it seems, was beyond the reach of sycophants and comedians. Since, therefore, this escaped the theatre of the Athenians, and the court of judicature in which Socrates was condemned, in opposing the accusers of the present day, who are not less hostile than those of former times, we shall evince, in the first place, that the amatory pursuit wras not peculiar to Socrates, but is of far greater antiquity. Of the truth of this we may adduce Socrates himself as a witnesss, who praises and admires the employment, but asserts that he only increased the invention 90 For when the Myrrimisian Phaedrus * showed turn an amatory oration, composed by Lysiasthe son of Cephalus, he says, that he is not struck with admi- ration, in consequence of having his breast full like a vessel, of foreign streams, derived from the beau- tiful Sappho (for thus he is pleased to call her, from the elegance of her verses, though she was short and of a dark complexion) or the wise Anacreon. But when he praises the discourse in the Banquet, on love, he ascribes it to a prophetic woman. However, whether a prophetess or a Lesbian was the mother of the speech, amatory discourses were not peculiar to Socrates, nor was he their inventor. For let us thus consider the affair, beginning from Homer: for it appears to me, that he, being most eloquent, and skilled in relating things base in con- junction with such as are beautiful, and in indi- cating what should be pursued and what avoided, has instructed us in other things in a manner very simple, and adapted to remote antiquity; such as in what pertains to the medicinal art, to driving a chariot, and arranging an army. Thus he admo- nishes that the left-hand horse should keep clear of the goal. Thus he gives to the sick a potion of Pramnian wine; places cowards in the midst of the brave in battle, and separates the horse from the foot. For ail these wise precepts would excite laughter in the generals, physicians, and charioteers of the present day. But he discusses eveiy thing * See the Phaedrus of Plato. 91 pertaining to love in order, such as its works, age, species, passions, whatever is beautiful and what- ever is base; love, chaste and intemperate, just and licentious, furious and gentle. And in things of this kind he is no longer a rude ancient but a skilful artist, "Such as the moderns are*." Hence, in the very beginning of his Iliad, he in- troduces two lovers, the one bold and furious, but the other gentle and impassioned. From the eyes of the one fire flashes, and he reviles and threatens every one. But the other silently withdraws, hangs weeping over the margin of the deep, anxi- ously wanders, and says that he will depart, and yet abides. He presents us with another image of licentious love in Paris, who retires from battle into the bed-chamber, and always acts the part of an adulterer. You may also find in Homer an in- stance of just love perfectly reciprocal, such as that of Andromache and Hector, the former of whom calls her husband, father and brother and lover, and addresses him bv all the most endearing: appellations. But the latter says that she is more. the object of his concern than even his own mo- ther, Homer likewise indicates venereal love in Juno and Jupiter f; licentious love in the suitors; that which is produced by enchantments in Ca- * Iliad v. ver. 304. f See the whole of this fable concerning- the connexion of Jupiter and Juno unfolded in the introduction to my translation, of the second book of Plato's Republic. 92 lypso; that which is the effect of magic in Circe. In Patroclus manly love is displayed, which is ac- quired by labour, proceeds with time, and ends not but with death. Here too both are young, and beau- tifu), and chaste. The one instructs, the other is in- structed. The one is heavily afflicted, the other imparts consolation. The one sings, the other listens. This also is an amatory affection, to be desirous of having the liberty to fight, and yet to weep, as if this permission would not be granted by his lover. Achilles, however, complies with his request, adorns him with his own arms, is ter- rified at his long stay, desires to die when he finds that he is dead, and then lays aside his wrath. His nocturnal visions, his dreams, his tears, and his last gift, the cutting off his locks at his funeral, are all of them the effects of love. These are the amatory examples of Homer. But in Hesiod, what else do the muses sing besides the loves of women and men, of rivers, seas, and plants? I shall pass by in silence the amatory writings of Archilochus, because they are licentious. But what else are those of the Lesbian (if it is requisite to compare more ancient with modern writings) than the ama- tory art of Socrates? For each appears to me to study the same kind of love, the one as subsisting among males, but the other among females. Both acknowledge that they are lovers of many, and that they are allured by all beautiful forms. For what Alcibiades, and Charmides, and Phsedrus are with Socrates, that Gyrinna, and Atthis, and Anac- toria are with the Lesbian. And what those ri- 93 rals Prodicus, Gorgias, Thrasymachus, and Pro- tagoras were to Socrates, that Gorgo, and Andro- meda were to Sappho. At one time she reproves, at another she confutes them, and addresses them in the same ironical language as that of Socrates. Commend me to Io, says Socrates. Commend me very much to the son of Polyanax, says Sappho. Socrates says, that he did not form an acqiiamlance with Alcibiades, though he had loved him for a long time, till he thought himself sufficiently qualified to hear his discourses. You seem to me as yet to be but a small and elegant virgin, says Sappho. He reviles the habit of the sophist, and the manner in which he reclines; and she sings, (i The fair in rustic garment dress7d." Diotima says to Socrates, thai Love is not the off- spring, but the attendant and servant of Venus. Sappho also says, in one of her poems, u And thou, O fair attendant, Love!" Again, Diotima says, that love flourishes in abun- dance, but dies in want. Sappho conveys the same meaning when she calls love sweetly-bitter, and a painful gift. Socrates calls love a sophist; Sappho, a ringlet of words. Socrates says, that he is agi- tated with Bacchic fury through the love of Phce- drus; but she, that love shakes her mind as the wind when it falls on the mountain oaks. Socrates reproved Xantippe when she lamented that he must die; and Sappho writes to her daughter, Grief is not 94 lawful in the lofty residence of the muse, nor is it jit that it should be indulged by us. But the art of the Teian sophist * is the offspring of the same habit and manners: for he loves and praises all that are beautiful, and his verses are full of the hairs of Smerdias, the eyes of Cleobulus, and the mature beauty of Bathyllus. But in these also behold the chastity: I love, says he, to associate with you, for your manners are elegant. And again, justice is beautiful in love. You will also find, that in a cer- tain place he unveils his art. / am loved by youth, says he, for the sake of my words; for my gifts are agreeable, and I know how to speak elegantly. This also Alcibiades said concerning Socrates, assimilating the gracefulness of his manners to the melody on the pipe of Olympus and Marsias. Who, O ye gods! can blame such love as this, except Timarchus f? * i.e. Anacreon. \ Tips is he against whom ^Eschines wrote. DISSERTATION IX. AGAIN ON LOVE. ESUMING our discourse concerning love, as if it were the beginning of a long journey, after intervening rest, let us proceed to the end, invok- ing, as the leaders of the way, Mercury, the god of eloquence, together with Persuasion and the Graces, and Love himself. For the danger with which the undertaking is attended is neither small nor common; since, close to the popular road of the discourse about love there is a profound pre- cipice, and one of these two things is requisite; either that those who love in a becoming manner should proceed with security, or that, those who deviate from this road should love improperly, and be hurled down the precipice. Socrates, dreading this, and perceiving that this disease raged in the rest of Greece, and especially in Athens, and that all places were full of unjust lovers and deceived youths, he pitied either herd on account of the disease; neither being able to repress this licen- tiousness by law (for he was not Lycurgus, nor Solon, nor Clisthenes *, nor any one of those * Clisthenes was an Athenian, of the family of Alcma?on. It is said that he first established ostracism, and was the first who was banished by that institution. Vid. Herodot. v. 66. Aristot. Volit. iii. 2. Plutarch de Repugn. Stoic, p. 1033, &c. 96 among the Greeks to whom the power of dominion was entrusted) nor compel them by his authority to better conduct (for to have effected this would have required Hercules, or Theseus, or some other stre- nuous corrector of manners) nor persuade them by reason (for desire, when agitated with fury, and approaching very near to madness, is not to be persuaded.) Socrates, therefore, not entirely dis- regarding the youths that were lovers, and the lads that were beloved, nor despairing of their safety, invented the following artifice of voluntarily lead- ing them to rectitude. But I will relate what this artifice is, by compos- ing a fable after the manner of the Phrygian JEsop: A shepherd and a cook travelling the same road, saw a well-fed lamb wandering from the flock, and abandoning his associates. Both on seeing this ran to the lamb. And, because at that time there was a communion of speech between men and brutes, the lamb enquired which of them would be willing to take charge of him and be his con- ductor. But as soon as he understood the true state of the case, and the art of both, he committed himself to the care of the shepherd, and at the ttame time thus addressed the cook: Thou art cruel, and a murderer of our flock, but this man is well satisfied with our wool. Assimilate, if you please, according to the fable, those lovers to a multitude of cooks, but Socrates to a shepherd, and the Attic lads to wandering lambs, possessing in reality a communion of speech, and not accord- ing to the licence adopted in fables. What then 97 will this shepherd do, when he sees these murder- ers longing for the beauty of lads, and eagerly run- ning to obtain it? Will he endure it, and stand a quiet spectator? But by such a conduct he will be more cruel than the murderers themselves. He will therefore run, and join himself with the slaughterers in the course, though not with the same design. And yet he who is unskilled in the amatory art, and in the cause of the race, will, on seeing him, think that he also runs to destroy. If, however, he waits till the end, he will praise the race, he will imitate the pursuit, will admire the hunter, and proclaim the hunting blessed. On this account Socrates said that he loved, and that he was a general lover. Hence he joined in the course, pursued the beautiful, outran his rivals, and frustrated the attempts of the murderers. For he surpassed them in the endurance of labour, was more skilful in hunting, and more dexterous in ob- taining the objects of his pursuit. Nor is this surprising; for with the others love was nothing more than the name of desire wandering in plea- sures. But the principle of this is the flower of body passing into the eyes*, and through these flowing into the soul; for the eyes are the avenues of love. The love of Socrates indeed was in endeavour si- milar to that of the rest, but in desire different, in pleasure more temperate, in virtue more sagaci- ous: and the principle of this is the flower of the soul, the splendor of which becomes manifest in * See my translation of the Phsedrus of Plato. H 9S the body. Just as if 3^011 conceive the beauty of a river flowing over a meadow. The flowers under the stream are indeed beautiful, but through the water become splendid to the eye. This also the flower of the soul is able to effect when implanted in a beautiful body; for it is illuminated by such a body, shines forth, and transfuses its splendor. And the beauty of body is nothing else than the flower of future virtue, and the prelude as it were of more perfect beauty. For as a certain splendor from the summits of mountains precedes the rising of the sun, which is a delightful spectacle to the eye, through the expectation of a brighter light: in like manner a certain beauty in the extremities of the body precedes the rising of the splendid soul, which is a delightful spectacle to philosophers, through the expectation of what will follow. The Thessalian indeed delights in a colt, the Egyptian in a calf, and the Spartan in a whelp. But the philanthropist, who is fond of educating man, will not conduct himself after the manner either of the Egyptian husbandman, or the Thes- salian horseman, or the Lacedaemonian hunter. For the culture of these animals compensates the labour with which such culture is attended. But the philanthropist pays an obsequious attention to the objects of his love for the sake of communion in virtue. In order to effect this he selects those that are best adapted to the expectation of virtue, and these are the most beautiful. Beauty, how- ever, though one and the same, appears one thing to depraved eyes and another to legitimate lovers; 99 just as a sword, which is one and the same, appears to the brave man one thing and to the murderer another; and as Ulysses saw Penelope in one light but Eurymachus in another; and as Pythagoras saw the sun as one thins: and Anaxao;oras as allo- ts o ther; Pythagoras, indeed, as a god, but Anaxa- goras as a stone: and as Socrates pursued virtue in one way but Epicurus in another; Socrates as a lover of felicity, but Epicurus as a lover of plea- sure. After the same manner Socrates pursued a beautiful body in one way, but Clisthenes in ano- ther; Socrates as a lover of virtue, but Clisthenes as a lover of pleasure. When, therefore, you hear that a philosopher loves, and that a depraved man also loves, do not call the love by one and the same name. For the one is furiously impelled to pleasure, but the other is a lover of beauty. The one is unwillingly dis- eased, the other willingly loves. The one loves with a view to the good of the beloved, the love of the other is attended with the destruction of both. Virtue is the business of the love of this, licenti- ousness of that. Friendship is the end of the love of the one, hatred is the end of the love of the other. That love is gratuitous, this is merce- nary; that is laudable, this is reprehensible; that is Grecian, this barbaric; that is manlv, this effe- minate; that is stable, this is volatile and unstable. The man who possesses the former love is dear to divinity and dear to love, is full of modesty and full of liberty. The former in the day-time se- dulously attends his beloved, and is delighted with 100 his love. He wrestles with him in the gymnasium^ runs with him in the stadium, is his associate in hunting, contends together with him in battle for victory, shares his felicity in prosperity, and even dies with him when he dies, and requires for mu- tual converse neither ni^ht nor solitude. But the other lover is an enemy to the gods, for his con- duct is disorderly. He is also an enemy to law, for he acts illegally. Hence he is without confi- dence, is void of hope, is destitute of shame, and is a friend to solitude, to night, and concealment. He is never willing to be seen by day by the ob- jects of his love, but flies the sun and pursues night and darkness, "To shepherds odious, but the thief's delight *." For the one resembles a shepherd, but the other a thief, and therefore prays that he may be con- cealed; for he knows the evil which he does, but knowing it, is led away by pleasure. Thus the husbandman cautiously approaches to fruit-bearing plants, but by the thief they are plucked with vio- lence, and are thus injured and lacerated. When you see a beautiful body flourishing and fruitful, pollute it not, defile it not, touch not the flower, but praise it as the traveller does a plant. "Thus seems the palm, with stately honours crown'd, By Phoebus' altars; thus o'erlooks the ground f." * See Iliad iii. ver. 10. f Odyss. vii. ver. III'?.- 101 Spare the plant of Apollo and Jupiter, wait for the fruits, and your love will be more just. Nor is the undertaking difficult, since it is not the pro- vince of Socrates only nor of a philosopher only. For a certain Spartan *, who was neither educated in the Lyceum, nor exercised in the Academy, nor disciplined in philosophy, happening to meet with a lad f, barbaric indeed, but consummately beautiful, and in the flower of his age, became enamoured with him, for why should he not? But his love proceeded no farther than the eyes. | I praise Agesilaus more for his fortitude in this respect than Leonidas for his victories. For it is more difficult to vanquish love than the barbarian, \ and the darts of love wound more than the Cadu-; sian or Median. Hence Xerxes trampled on Le- / onidas and entered Pylre; but love with Agesilaus 1 proceeding as far as to the eyes, stopt there, at the very gates of the soul. A greater atchievement this. I give him the reward of strenuous conten- tion. For thus acting I praise Agesilaus more than when he pursued Tisaphernes, or vanquished the Thebans, or endured stripes. For those things pertained to the nurture and education of the body, but these are the works of a soul truly exer- cised and properly chastised. * Agesilaus. f Megabates, the son of Spithridates. Vid. Xenophon, Ages. cap. v. 4, 5. DISSERTATION X. AGAIN CONCERNING THE AMATORY ART OF SOCRATES. (^MERDIES the Thracian, aroyal lad, of a superb aspect, being captured by the Greeks, was by them bestowed as a gift on the Ionic tyrant, the Samian Polycrates. But the tyrant was delighted with the gift, and became enamoured with Smer- dies: and at the same time the youth was beloved by the Te'ian poet Anacreon. From Polycrates Smerdies received gold and silver, and whatever else it was likely a beautiful lad should receive from a royal lover; but by Anacreon he was pre- sented with odes and praises, and such things as it is likely a poet in love would bestow. But if any one compares love with love, the tyrannic with the poetic, which of them will appear to be more di- vine and celestial? which will deserve to be called the offspring of Venus and the work of divinity? I indeed am of opinion that the love which is mingled with the Muses and Graces is to be pre- ferred to that which is mingled with necessity and fear. For the one resembles a captive, or merce- nary, who is not very happy, but the other a free man and a Greek. 103 On which account it appeal's to me that liberal love is scarcely to be found among the barbarians. For where the people is servile, and the prince despotic, there that which subsists between these is exterminated; viz. freedom of speech and equa- lity of honour and law. But nothing is so hostile to love as necessity. For it is a thing superb and free in the extreme, and even more free than Sparta herself. For love alone of every thing per- taining to men, when it subsists with purity, nei- ther admires wealth, nor dreads a tyrant, nor is astonished by empire, nor avoids a court of judica- ture, nor flies from death. It does not consider as dire either wild beasts, or fire, or a precipice, or the sea, or a sword, or a halter; but to it things impervious are most pervious, things dire are most easily vanquished, things terrible are most readily encountered, and things difficult are most speedily accomplished. All rivers are passable, tempests most navigable, mountains most easily run over. It is everywhere confident, despises all things, and subdues all things. To love, when love is of this kind, is a thing of great worth. I indeed think that the man of intellect will pray never to be liberated from such love as this, if it is at the same time attended with liberty, intrepidity, and an immunity from guilt. I fear, however, that it is not such in all men, but is a certain similitude of a base pursuit, and that, assuming the pretext of a beautiful work, and glorying in its resemblance, it has a similar appearance, but deviates from the end. Thus the 104 apothecary imitates the physician, the sycophant the rhetorician, and the sophist the philosopher. And you will everywhere find evil connate with good, and mingled with much of similitude, but separated from it either by choice, as the rhetori- cian from the sycophant, or by the end, as the physician from the apothecary, or by virtue, as the philosopher from the sophist. Choice, how- ever, and virtue and the end are known but to a few. When, therefore, in twofold and ambiguous pursuits similitude is not wanting, but dissimili- tude is present, it is necessary that he who, through ignorance of the dissimilar, is not able to separate arts, should conjoin them so far as they are assimilated. Are we, therefore, to judge after this manner concerning love, and ouerht we to consider it as a common name placed as a medium between virtue and vice, and that being properly allured by both, and fashioned according as it adheres to either, it is denominated by the property of that by which it is allured? Indeed the soul, according to Plato, receiving a twofold division, one part of which he denominates reason, and the other passion, it is necessary that love, if it is a vice, should be a cer- tain passion destitute of reason; but if it ranks among things beautiful, one of these two things must follow, either that it must be arranged ac- cording to reason, and be liberated from passion, or according to passion in conjunction with reason. And if indeed love is the impulse of friendship, and the appetite of the similar naturally hastening 105 to the similar, and desiring to be mingled with it, this will be passion and not reason. It will there- fore be necessary to add reason to this passion as a governor, that virtue and not disease may be produced. For as in the temperament of bodies health is a certain passion * of powers that are moist and dry, that are cold and hot, either mingled by art in a becoming manner, or artifi- cially harmonized by nature, but if from these you take away either nature or art, you disturb the passion and exterminate health; in like manner with respect to love, it is at the same time passion, though united with reason; but if you take away reason, you disturb its symmetry, and cause the whole to be disease. j Let love then be an appetite of the soul, but this j appetite, like a spirited horse, requires a bridle. But if you suffer the soul to be borne along where- \ ever it pleases, according to the Homeric image, you permit a wanton courser f to run through the * The word passion, when applied to other things than the soul, signifies with Plato and Platonic writers a property considered as participated. This word is likewise used in the same sense by Aristotle. f Maximus here alludes to the following verses in the 6th book of the Iliad, which are thus elegantly translated by Pope: "The wanton courser thus, with reins unbound, Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling; ground; Pamper'd and proud, he seeks the wonted tides, And laves, in height of blood, his shining sides, His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies; His mane dishevel'd o'er his shoulders flies; He snuffs the females in the distant plain, And springs, exulting, to his fields again.,> 106 plain beating the ground, pampered and proud, without a bridle and without a master, neither be- taking himself to his accustomed baths, nor cours- ing according to art. But as it is shameful to see a horse without restraint, so it is shameful to hear Insolent love. This is the love which leaps preci- pices, which swims over rivers, which seizes a sword, employs a halter, attacks a step-mother, forms stratagems against grandfathers, acts con- trary to law, is furious, and void of munificence. This is the love which tragedies represent on the stage, which is reprobated in fables, is full of fu- ries and full of tears; which bitterly mourns and laments, is but little fortunate, is praised contrary to its desert, is exposed to all various and sudden mutations, and is wholly intent on corporeal plea- sures; which burns to mingle body with body, and seeks neither a becoming, nor legal, nor truly amatory embrace. The report of beauty attracts it, agitated with insane fury, and wandering through ignorance. But the love which is contrary to this, alone en- gages with the prolific sex, in order to beget its like, being impelled by natural appetite, forming a just connection, and separating the female from the male. This is the sacred institution of the gods who preside over nuptials, over kindred, and the procreation of children, and is naturally im- planted in all animals, some of which are sponta- neously impelled to connection through proper love in the season of begetting; but others are led by the presiding art of the shepherd, the goat- herd, the neatherd, and the equerry, each joining 107 the animals under his care according to nature, and again separating them through fear of their becoming wanton: "Apart the kids, apart the middle-aged And lambkins went But the royal and pastoral art, which presides over the gregarious race of men, can find no de- vice for exterminating wantonness in any one till he willingly commits his soul to reason as to a shepherd, that it may be nourished with modesty and temperance. For as different animals are al- lotted different means of defence for the security of their lives; as lions strength, stags the course, dogs hunting, the aquatic genus swimming, the elevated flying, and reptiles caves; ip like manner the human race, which in other things is inferior to all other species of animals (for it is most imbe- cile with respect to strength, most slow in run- ning, is incapable of flying, is scarcely able to swim, and has not the power of dwelling in ca- verns) is gifted by Divinity with reason, as that which is equivalent to every other possession. To this Divinity also subjected amatory appetite; as a horse to the bridle, as a bow to the archer, as a ship to the helm, and as an instrument to the ar- tificer. As often, therefore, as the reason of man is dull in the extreme, he is without love; but when his love is perfectly stupefied then he is most unobedient to reason. But persuasion is a con- * Odyss. x. ver. 221. 103 junction of love and reason impelled to the beau- tiful, and abundantly, illuminated by it in their course. But he who thinks that the beautiful is buried in the nature of flesh changes beauty for pleasure, by which he is deceived; for pleasure is a plausible evil, and is full of flattery. It was this which impelled the Trojan lad*, who before had been a neatherd wrandering about Mount Ida, but was now no longer content with domestic pleasures, it was this which impelled liim from the mountains to the sea, placed him in a ship, and brought the piratic lover to Pelopon- nesus. For there was no other beautiful body about Asia, neither Trojan nor Dardan, neither Hellespontic nor Indian, whose language was al- lied to that of the lover, and which had been nou- rished in the same manners and legal institutions. The transmarine suitor, therefore, came to Sparta and Eurotas, becoming a lover from dreams, un- justly rose in arms against his guest, and dissolved the Grecian marriage. O intemperate love, un-. just dreams, base eyes, and pleasure the leader of so many evils! Thus too, neither the tall Indian virgin, nor the Mede with her tiara, nor the Dar- dan with her mitre, neither the Carian armed, nor the Lydian with her song, neither the Ionic nor the Hellespontic maid could lead the mighty Xerxes to love, who engaged the Greeks at Salamis and Platsea, and who beheld and was the lord of so many beautiful bodies; but he became enamoured * Viz. Paris. 109 with Amestris, the wife of his son. O most base love! which, neglecting grateful food, requires such as is bitter and not fit to be eaten, through intemperate licence abusing the power of love. For when you deprive the soul of knowledge, but afford it power, you impart to crimes an influx, a licence, and a passage. Deprive Paris of the power of Priam, and the confidence which he thence derived, and he will remain a keeper of oxen, and will not even dream of Helen. Deprive Xerxes of unrestrained authority, and will not Amestris be deformed, and ranked among private women? Royal power is licentious, and the eyes become wanton when reason is absent. Deprive these of intemperate liberty, and neither Critias will wan- tonly love Euthydemus *, nor Callias Autolycus, nor Pausanias Agatho f, nor any one man another. On this account I praise the law of the Cretans, and blame that of the Eleans. I praise that of the Cretans from its necessity, I blame that of the Eleans for its licentiousness. It was disgraceful in a Cretan lad not to be beloved; but at the same time it was disgraceful in a Cretan youth to be enamoured with those of his own sex. O law, beautifully mingled with modesty and love! I shall pass by the Eleans in silence ; but I will speak of the Lacedaemonians. A Spartan loves a La- conic lad, but he loves him no otherwise than he * Vid. Xenoph. Memor. lib. i. cap. ii. 30. f Vid. jElian. Var. Hist, ii. 21. 110 would a beautiful statue: there many love one, and one loves many. For licentious pleasure does not admit of society : but the love which subsists from the eyes alone admits of communion, and extends itself to all amatory natures. For what is more beautiful than the sun, and more sufficient to a multitude of lovers? But at the same time all eyes love the sun. In Locris, an Italian city, there was a beautiful lad, and a beautiful law, and base lovers. This lad they were compelled to love on account of his beauty; but they were forbidden by law to love him improperly. Through the fury of passion, however, becoming insolent, as they could not persuade the lad (for he was one that obeyed the laws) the miserable lovers in succession finished their lives by a halter. Worthy indeed of such a death: for why ought that man to live who can- not restrain his eyes? He who sees a statue and praises its beauty does not demand a halter. And a horseman, though he sees a horse and praises its beauty, and is not able to obtain it, does not require a halter. The sight of a beautiful plant in the garden of a neighbour satisfies the botanist. The huntsman is satisfied with the sight of a beau- tiful whelp, though it is the property of another; and no one of these dies through penury of pos- session. The avaricious love gold more than lo- vers beautiful bodies, and are more willing to be buried with gold than lovers with the objects of their love: yet no one of these dies if he happens not to possess gold. For neither did the Persian Ill king hang himself through being disappointed in obtaining gold, though, he was the most insatiate and the most insane of all collectors of wealth; who, though his empire was so extended, and though he rolled in so many pleasures as might have abundantly satisfied the appetites of an in- temperate king, insidiously opened the tomb of the dead. In consequence of a report that gold had been buried with the dead body, the mighty king with his tiara became a digger of sepulchres: and gold * indeed he did not find, but he read the following inscription in the tomb: O most insa- tiable of all men, who hast dared to touch a dead body through love of gold. In like manner one Grecian may say to another, who is impelled by insatiable desire to corporeal insolence and injus- tice, when he is hurried away by the report of beauty buried in body: O most stupid of all men, you are digging out a dead body; for otherwise you would not dare to touch masculine flesh, a thing unlawful for a man to touch. The mingling is unjust, the connexion unprolific. You are sow- ing in rocks, you are ploughing the sands. Betake yourself to those pleasures which nature prescribes, Turn your eyes to agriculture, and you will be de- lighted with prolific pleasures: il Lest, wanting seed, the future race should fail f. * Maximus here speaks of the sepulchre of Nitocris, a ce- lebrated queen of Babylon, which Darius opened, t Horn. Iliad xx. ver. 303. DISSERTATION XL AGAIN CONCERNING LOVE, "TT assertl°n is not true," says the Himeraean * poet, in a certain part of his works, in which he abjures his former verses on Helen, acknow- ledging that he had spoken falsely concerning her. He subverts, therefore, the former blame by the latter praise. It appears to me, that I also, after the example of the poet, ought to recant what I have said respecting Love: for he too is a god no less able to punish those who offend his divinity. What then is the offence which we say must be vehemently opposed? It is dire and mighty, and requires a generous poet and initiating priest, if we wish to appease this uncorrupted deity; not by an offering of seven tripods f> or Lesbian virgins, or Trojan horses, but by abolishing one discourse by another, the bad by the good, and the false by the true. Such a recompence as this, they say, the Te'ian poet Anacreon gave to Love. In the forum of the Ionians, in Panionium, a nurse hap- pened to be carrying an infant. Anacreon, as he * Stesichorus. See the Prised rus in vol, iii. of my transla- tion of Plato's works. f Iliad, lib. ix. ver. 120, &c 113 Was walking in that place singing, crowned, and staggering from intoxication, pushed the nurse with the child, and reviled the infant. The wo- man was no otherwise offended with Anacreon, than by praying that this insolent man might, some time or other, praise the child as much as he had now reproached hiim The god assented to her prayer; for the child, when arrived at matu- rity, became the most beautiful Cleobulus; and Anacreon bestowed abundant praises on Cleobu- lus, as a recompence for a little defamation* What then hinders but that we, to-day, in imita- tion of Anacreon, voluntarily submit to receive from love the punishment of an unjust tongue? For is it not highly improper to say that love leads to adultery, as in the instance of Paris, or to an il- legal connection, as in that of Xerxes, or to lust, as in that of Critias, and to ascribe a thing impious to divinity? To be convinced of this, however, let us thus consider the affair: Ts love any thing else than the love of beauty? By no means. For it cannot with propriety be said to be love unless it is conversant with beauty. When, therefore, we say that Darius loved riches, or Xerxes the land of the Greeks, or Clearchus war, or Agesilaus ho- nour, or Critias tyranny, or Alcibiades Sicily, and Gylippus gold; do we, in consequence of perceiv- ing a certain apparent beauty, and denominating the impulse towards it love, say that each of these loves, and is a lover of a different object? By no means* For in so doing, by adorning the basest of things among men with an unfit name, we should i 114 sin against truth itself. For how can there be any beauty in riches, the worst of all things? or in war, the most unstable of all things? or in tyranny, the most savage of all things? or in gold, the most proud of all things? But if you speak of Sicily, or the land of the Greeks, you speak of hopes of pleasures, but by no means of beauty. Nor would this be the case though you should speak of the land of the Egyptians, with its mighty pyramids and capacious river, or of Babylon itself, with its impenetrable walls, or of Media, abound- ing in horses, or of the Phrygian land, with its fer- tile pastures, or of Sardes, renowned for its gold. For it is requisite that each of these should be so far beautiful as it is pleasant, and that it should ra- ther be pleasant to him who is able to derive plea- sure from it than beautiful to him who is not able to be benefited by it. For you cannot consider any thing as beautiful which is unstable, which contributes to depravity, or leads to calamity, or ends in repentance. Be it so. According to us love is the love of beauty; and he who loves any thing else than beauty is a lover of pleasure. Let us, if you please, take away the name, and say, that he who pursues pleasure desires but does not love; lest by an illegitimate use of the word we ignorantly change the thing, and not the word only. Let/we, therefore, be conversant with beauty, but desire with pleasure. But does not he who loves beauty desire it? Very much so. For scarcely will love be any thing else if it is not a certain ap- petite. However, I beg pardon of those wise in- 115 vestigators of names if I call the same thing at one time appetite and at another desire. For I accord with Plato, both in other things and in the liberty of words. Let love, then, if they are willing, be appetite, and not desire; and let the following distinction be adopted: If the soul is impelled to apparent beauty let this be called love and not de- sire; but if it is not so impelled, let this be called desire and not love. What then, if any intempe- rate sophist, using the addition of the word appa- rent, should say that something which is pleasant appears to him to be beautiful, shall we also grant that he loves it? And again, if any one, looking to those true lovers who are impelled to the beauti- ful, and beholding the pleasant in the appetite of beauty, through the admixture of pleasure, should say that these also desire but do not love, in what manner are these to be distinguished by us? For if things which are pleasant appear to be beau- tiful, and things beautiful are mingled with plea- sures, there is danger that desire also will be min- gled with love. Are you willing, therefore, that we should take away from the beautiful the appa- rent, lest pleasure should deceive us in the shape of beautjr, but not from pleasure? For the beau- tiful being honourable, ought from its very nature to be beautiful, that it may be lovely; but it is suf- ficient to pleasure to have the appearance of beauty, though it is destitute of the realit}^. For since pleasure derives its subsistence from the delight of him who is passive to its energy, and has not a 116 being of its own, it is sufficient if appearance is present with it though reality is absent. My meaning is this (for I perceive that I have made a superficial distinction, and that I am in want of an image :) it is impossible for the body to be nourished without the assumption of food, and unless the teeth operate, the intestines receive, and the nutriment becomes subservient to the in- ward oeconomy. But the food of man under the reign of Saturn * consisted, it is said, of the beech tree and pears; and hence the earth is said to have produced spontaneous fruits, because the inhabi- tants of that period living on native nutriment had no occasion for agriculture. If, therefore, you add cookery and seasonings, various food, and a different sauce for different appetites, toge- ther with Sicilian and Sybaritic delicacies, and Persian luxury, }^ou will call all these by the name of pleasure; and you will say that nutriment is common to all of them, but that pleasure is pecu- liar to each. You will also say that nutriment subsists according to nature, but pleasure accord- ing to art. And if you change the tables, the Sicilian for the Persian, and the Persian for the Sicilian, you will similarly leave nutriment to each, but you will change pleasure into pain through its mutation into the unusual. Nourishment, * The golden age, which is said to have been under the reign of Saturn, signifies nothing more than a life according to intellect; for Saturn is a deity of an intellectual charac- teristic. 117 therefore, is produced according to the essence of that which is able to nourish, but pleasure accord- ing to the passion of that which is accustomed to be delighted. But with respect to custom, it is different in different persons. Thus the Grecians and Per- sians, the Lydians and Phoenicians, and perhaps other nations, having planted vines, and laboured in their culture, plucked the grape, and prepared wine, a drink not necessary as to use, but possess- ing the very acme of pleasure. But many of the Scythians live on milk as others do on wine. For some the bees, building their hives in rocks and oaks, prepare a delicious drink; and there are those who are not offended with the streams of the nymphs, but use spontaneous water for their drink. There is also, I think, a race of Scythians, who drink water indeed, but when they are in want of the pleasure of intoxication raise a pyre on which they burn odoriferous herbs. Round this pyre they sit in a circle, as if it were a bowl, and feast on the smell as others do on drink; at length, becoming intoxicated with fragrance, they leap, and sing, and dance. What, however, does the circuit of my discourse intend? to point out to you the difference be- tween beauty and pleasure. For grant me that the beautiful itself, which ought really to be, and not only to have an apparent subsistence, is te be considered according to the necessary and the spontaneous in meat and drink; but pleasure ac- cording to the various and adventitious, by which 118 different, appetites are differently delighted : for it is necessary that this should only have an ap- parent subsistence. This being the case, love indeed will be reason, virtue, and art; reason according to its truth, virtue according to its disposition, and art according to its unerring tendency to the beautiful. But the desires of pleasures are irrational, since they are the desires of things foreign from reason. As therefore it is necessary that the beautiful should be beautiful, in order that it may produce love, what kind of a thing shall we say it is, and how does it produce love? Are you willing that I should speak to you according to the divination of Socrates? that the soul formerly saw the beautiful itself, which is in- effable, and too excellent to be seen by the eyes; and that in the present life she does not clearly perceive it, but only remembers it as in a dream. That this happens through her being remote from it both by place and fortune, through being ex- pelled from the vision of beauty to this terrene abode, and merged in deep and all-various mire, by which she is disturbed, and is bound to an ob- scure and confused life, which is full of tumult and abundant error. The nature of the beautiful, however, thence originating, gradually descends hither, more and more losing its splendor as it de- scends, and abandoning its pristine acme. Thus the most noble of rivers which flow into the sea, at the first exit from their source, pre- serve their stream unmingled with another more bitter nature, and afford a pure drink to marine 119 sailors; but when these rivers have advanced far- ther in their course, and have fallen into the broad sea, and delivered their stream to the winds and waves, to tempest and storm, they lose in the mixture their ancient nature. In like manner in- effable and immortal beauty first proceeds into the heavens and the bodies which they contain, and falling there, remains pure, unmingled, and en- tire, but when it descends from the heavens to this terrene abode, its force is broken and its splendor obscured. And scarcely, indeed, can the ma- rine sailor know the influx of beauty when he sees it obscurely wandering on the earth, and mingled with a foreign nature. If, however, he has been accustomed to it, and has preserved the nature of it in his memory, when he meets with, he will recognize it, and like Ulysses *, when he beheld the smoke ascending from his native coast, he leaps, and is inflamed, is exhilarated and enamoured. Of this beauty a certain portion accedes to the well-flowing river, to the welk ger- minating plant, and to the generous horse, though this portion is most sluggish and debile. If, how- ever, there is a certain nature of it which arrives to the earth, you will see it nowhere but in man, the most beautiful and intellectual of terrene bo- dies, and who is allotted a soul allied to the beau- tiful itself. Hence he who is endued with intel- lect, on seeing a statue praises the art, but does not become enamoured of the statue; on seeing: a * Odyss. i. ver. 5S. 120 plant praises the fruit, but does not love the plant; and praises a river for the gentleness of its course, but is not enamoured of the stream. But in man, when he sees beauty breathing, intellectual, and preluding virtue, in appearance indeed, he loves that which is visible, but in reality is enamoured of a more true beauty. On this account Socrates rapidly surveyed beautiful bodies, and inspected all of this description. Nor was beauty concealed from him, either in the palaestrae, or when wandering in the academy, or feasting at banquets, but like a skilful hunter, through human bodies he pursued the recollection of true beauty. DISSERTATION XII. THAT THE PLEASURE OF PHILOSOPHIC DISCOURSES IS SUPERIOR TO THAT OF ALL OTHER DISCOURSE. TJOMER * relates concerning Ulysses, that having fashioned for himself a raft, through penury of a ship, a storm arising, his raft was dis- persed; and that as he was swimming, Leucothea having thrown him a fillet, he reached the land of the Phseacians: there, supplicating a royal virgin, he was brought by her to the city, and meeting with a favourable reception from Alcinous, he was hospitably entertained, with the best of the Phaea- cians, and after this addressed Alcinous as follows: "King Alcinous, it is a beautiful thing to hear a good harper, such as this, a man divine in his art. For what can be more pleasant than a joyful peo- ple, and a house full of guests, listening to the song, and seated in order, before an abundant table and flowing bowls?" But I ask Ulysses, what, O wisest of men, do you conceive pleasure to be? Does it consist in a plenteous table and full bowls * Odyss x. ver. 2, &c. See the apology for the fables of Homer in the 1st vol. of my translation of Plato's works. 122 of wine, and besides these in one singing, like that harper *, u Whence the dire strife arose That made Ulysses and Achilles foes?" or the hollow horse, into which the best of the Greeks entering, for the purpose of invading Ilion, poured down its sides, and attacking, captured the intoxicated city, r) &oy ccigHoSc&i tov apf-ov, rj^uy ya.g (Zvtov 7j o-vvwSeicc irowcru. TlXovro<; oicr^Evn? otyKvgciy $o£« trt ct, fire, but wvqerog, a fever. Again, there is another kind of malady, when a part of the body is the cause and the fountain of disease; but the evil hence origi- nating, draws and divulses into a participation of the malady all the rest of the body. For thus the transition is most rapid from the diseased to the sound part, as is evident when the extremity of the foot is hurt; since in this case, as they say, the pain runs in a moment from the nails to the head. Do you think then this would happen un- less the soul comprehended on all sides the whole body in its embrace, and was mingled with it in the same manner as light * with the air? Or, ra- ther, let us thus speak: as the smell of fumiga- * The union of the aoul with the body resembles the rising of the sun, which fills all things at once with light. For thus the soul at once enkindles life in the whole body, and vivifies it, in consequence of its being adapted to this union. As the life and power of the soul, however, are impartable, we must aot conceive that in this union there are any divisible illumi- nations or participations: for the soul is present with the body unconnected with time. 182 tions extends to those at a distance, diffusing its fragrance through the intervening air; or as co- lours, when they reach the eyes from afar, paint the air with their own nature; thus also conceive that the soul is diffused everywhere, and that no part of the body is without soul. The hairs and nails, however, must be an exception; for they are analogous to the leaves of trees, since these are the most insensible parts of plants. The soul, therefore, thus subsisting with respect to the body, it becomes mingled with its pleasures and pains. And the pain indeed originates from the body, but the passion from the soul; and malady extends it- self from both to the man. But again, there is a second malady opposite to the former, which ori- ginates from the soul and ends in the body. For when the soul is weary with pain, the body also is weary and wastes away. And this it is, indeed, which sends the trickling tears from the eyes: -—this it is which causes the body to grow pale and become attenuated ; as in the pains which are pro- duced by love, the afflictions arising from poverty, and the negligence occasioned by sorrow. Anger, too, rage, and envy, and other inordinate motions of the soul, are the sources of malady to the body. But why are these things mentioned by us? to show that pain being sent from the soul to the body, and being also produced from the body in the soul *, one medicinal art is requisite to afree- * The motions of the nutritive part, and the impulses of aense, are the causes of disturbance to the soul. We must not, however, suppose that the soul suffers any thing in reality 183 dom from pain, in the same manner as one art of the pilot to a prosperous navigation through the Euripus. And after this manner let these things be rendered manifest. But who will tell us what the medicinal art is which can heal the dire mala- dies acceding on both sides? (for I doubt whe- ther any one skilled in this art like Chiron can be -found) that I may become the possessor of twofold goods. And neither do I confide in the artifice (for the work is great and more lofty than Ossa and Olympus) nor entirely disbelieve in it. For what is it which the all-daring soul cannot accom- plish when it is willing *? from these particulars. For, as Proclus, in his Commentary on the Timajus, beautifully observes, "If some one, standing on the margin of a river, should behold the image and form of himself in the floating stream, he indeed will preserve his face unchanged; but the stream, being ail-variously moved, will change the image, so that at different times it will appear to him different, oblique, and erect, and perhaps divulsed and continuous. Let us suppose, too, that such a one, through being unaccustomed to the spectacle, should think that it was himself that suffered this distortion, in consequence of surveying his shadow in the water, and thus thinking, should be afflicted and disturbed, astonished and impeded. After the same man- ner, the soul, beholding the image of herself in body, borne along in the river of generation, (i. e. the whole of that which is visible,) and variously disposed at different times, through in- ward passions and external impulses, is indeed herself impas- sive, but thinks that she suffers; and, being ignorant of, and mistaking her image for herself, is disturbed, astonished, and perplexed.*' * Agreeably to this, one of the Chaldasan oracles (as cited by Proclus in his book on Providence) says, "Believe your- 184 Being situated, however, between belief and unbelief, through my ignorance on this subject, it appears to me that the strife may be dissolved as follows: I suspect, then, that there is one art, not indeed of the two; viz. the soul and the body; but which, by attending to the more excellent part, takes care of the deficiency of the other. For while I assert these things I recollect what Socrates says to Charmides*; not, indeed, the Thracian incantation, which he there mentions, but vice versa. For he says that the part must be healed in conjunction with the whole, and that it is impossible for safety to accede to a part before it has arrived at the whole; speaking rightly, as I am persuaded, so far as pertains to the body; but I say it is vice versa in the conjunction of the soul and body. For here, when the part is in a good condition, it is also necessary that the whole should be well. This, however, is not true of either of the parts indifferently, but only of that part which is the more excellent. For in the association of the subordinate with the more excellent, the for- mer depends on the safety of the latter. Or does it appear to you that a man, whose soul is in a healthy condition, will be concerned about pain from wounds f, or from any other calamity which self to be above body and you are." See my collection of those oracles in the Supplement to the third volume of The Monthly Magazine. * See my translation of the Charmides of Plato. + See an illustrious instance of the triumph of the soul over the maladies of the body in Plutarch's life of Philopcemeh. 135 happens to the body? By Jupiter, by no means. This is the medicinal art, therefore, which is to be inquired after and explored ; and this is the health which is to be imparted and investigated. For thus the body will be in a prosperous condition, or at least a contempt of every thing dreadful in it will be the result. DISSERTATION XIX. WHAT THE END OF PHILOSOPHY IS. rJpHE inhabitant of Crotoniatis * loves the wild olive, the Athenian a naval victory, the Spar- tan conquest in heavy armour, the Cretan hunting, the Sybarite luxury, the Theban the flute, and the Ionian the dance: and, further still, the mer- chant loves gold, the wine-bibber intoxication, the musician love, the songster melody, and the rheto- rician orations. But with respect to this animal which they call a philosopher, is he a lover of no- thing? This, however, would be the life of a stone, and not of an animal, seeing, breathing, moving, and understanding, and possessing im- pulses, senses, and appetites. He aspires, indeed, after something, but that which he loves cannot be expressed by one name. He says, I am a lover of felicity. Blessed are you indeed in your sim- plicity, if you think that any one from the cata- logue of men admires the pursuits that are dear to him for their own sake, and not on account of * A country near Crotona; and Crotona is a town of Italy, still known by the same name, in the Bay of Tarentum, founded 759 years before the Augustan age by a colony from Achaia. 187 felicity; and that, when interrogated, one man would not say he contends, another that he la- bours, another that he wages war, another that he loves, another that he sings, and another that he speaks for the sake of felicity alone. Or do you think that Sardanapalus himself, with his smooth body, emaciated eyes, and platted hair, who was buried in purple, concealed in his palace, and mingled with harlots, pursued any thing else than felicity? for he was not willingly unhappy. But what? Did the Persian *, who destroyed the tem- ples of the Egyptians with fire, who reviled the sea, and immolated the ox Apis, did he pursue any thing else? Certainly, he ralso perpetrated these things in consequence of hastening to feli- city. For Xerxes appears to me to have contended with Jupiter concerning felicity, so large a por- tion of it had he received in his own opinion, be- cause he had whipt the sea, and bound Asia to Europe with a diurnal bond, that of ships fastened together in the form of a bridge. And though Neptune in Homer claims an equality of honour with Jupiter, yet by Xerxes, at least as he con- ceived, he is whipped and hurled into prison. But why do I speak of barbarous kings? Do you not see Pisistratus, a Greek, an Athenian, al- wa}Ts running to the Acropolis, as if his felicity was * Maximus here speaks of Cambyses, king of the Per- sians, whose impious deeds are related by Sirabo, lib. xvii. p. 1158. Justin, i. 9,; and especially by Herodotus, iii. 16. seq. 188 there buried together with the ancient olive *; and though he was frustrated of his wish, yet could not endure to live in quiet? Neither, too, could the admonition from Egypt persuade Poly- crates f not to think highly of himself on account of his felicity, because he was master of the Ionian sea, and possessed many three-ranked galleys, a beautiful seal, Anacreon as his associate, and Smerdies as the object of his love. It is likely, however, that potentates should be deceived by those specious evils, luxury and pleasure; but will you not hear Hesiod celebrating the CEacidae as men, ", whom war no less than banquets pleas'd?" And yet what is less grateful than war? This thing, however, though so unacceptable, has had lovers by no means vile, such as once was Philip; who, though he might have remained in Mace- donia, and lived in the possession of the goods of Amyntas and the felicity of Perdiccas, yet sought after happiness by a circuitous course, as if it were not to be found in the land of the Macedonians. Hence through this, as it seems, he warred on the * Maximus alludes to the olive, which Minerva is fabled to have produced. See Hyginus Fab. cixiv. and Liban. Progymn, p. 88. f A tyrant of Samos, remarkable for the continual flow of good fortune which always attended him. Amasia, king of the Egyptians, was his monitor. See Herodotus, iii. 40, 41. and Strabo, lib. xiv. p. 915. 189 Triballi, invaded the Ulyrians, besieged Byzan- tium, subverted Olynthus, deceived the Athenians, joined himself to the Thessalians, formed a league with the Thebans, captured Elatea, rose against the Phocenses, swore, lied, and was mutilated. There was nothing which was avoided by Philip, neither word, nor deed, nor disgrace, nor infamy. Let us ask Philip, what it is for which he under- goes such mighty labours and dangers, and mutila- tions of body. Are you a lover of infelicity? the question is ridiculous. But Philip, it may be said, did not find the object of his search. I grant it: felicity, however, impelled him thus to act. Hence, too, Alexander, bidding farewel to Eu- rope, as barren of good, passed over into Asia, suspecting * that he should find felicity either in Sard is, buried in fragments of gold, or in Caria, among the treasures of Mausolus, in the walls of Babylon, or the Phoenician ports, in the shores of the Egyptians, or the Ammonian f sands. But neither the flight of Darius satisfied him, nor the conquest of Egypt, nor his father Ammon, nor the capture of Babylon; but he ran with his arms even to the Indies. Let us ask Alexander the * The design, however, of Alexander (with submission to Maximus) in all his conquests, appears to have been that of civilization, and of introducing among barbarous nations Gre- cian rites and customs; as is shown, with great elegance and force of reasoning, by Plutarch, in his treatise on the fortune of Alexander. f Maximus here alludes to the well-known expedition of Alexander to the temple of Jupiter Ammon. 190 cause of his expedition. What do you desire? With what are you in love? To what are you hastening? Would his answer be any thing else than, to felicity? Let us, however, dismiss kings and potentates. Do you not see the same thing among the vulgar? Do you not see how every man hastens on all sides to this? For this, one man is occupied on the land, another is busily employed on the sea; one man is anxiously engaged in war, another devotes himself to literature; one takes a wife, another educates children; one lives by rapine, another acts insolently; this man is delighted to receive gifts, another to commit adultery, and another to act the part of a hireling. The multitude, too, proceed in dangerous and slippery paths, through precipices and profundities: and though some one may pity them, yet they are not ignorant of the dangers with which they are beset: and these, in- deed, are ardent in their pursuits. But what will you say of the indolent and dissolute? Do you think that they abandon the hope of good? By no means, by Jupiter. For, if this were the case, flatterers would not be subservient to the desires of the rich, nor would jesters strive to excite admira- tion and laughter, nor would mountebanks bend and distort their bodies, nor would any one, in short, earnestly engage in any undertaking, how- ever vain it may be. An Ionian came to Babylon to the great king, exhibiting a certain art remarkable for its contriv- ance: for, having made farinaceous little balls, he 191 threw them with so certain an aim, at a needle placed at a considerable distance, as to fix them on the point of it. And for this dexterity he thought no less highly of himself than Achilles did for his spear from Mount Pelion. In Lybia, too, there was a native of that country, whose name was Psaphon, a lover of no grovelling felicity, by Jupiter, nor of that to which the vulgar aspire: for he wished to appear to be a god. Hence, collecting together many singing-birds, he taught them to sing these words: " the great god psaphon!" and, after he had taught them, again sent them to the woods. Both these birds, therefore, and others, from being accustomed to the sounds, sang these words: and the Lybians, thinking that it was a divine voice, sacrificed to Psaphon; and thus he became among them a god elected by birds. Nor was he, in my opinion, viler than the Persian * king, who was not adored by the Persians till he was elected to empire by a wanton horse. * Darius, die son of Hystaspes, who conspired, with six other noblemen, to destroy Smerdis, the usurper of the crown of Persia, after the death of Cambyses. On the murder of the usurper the seven conspirators agreed that he whose horse neighed first should be appointed king. The groom of Da- rius previously led his master's horse to a mare, at a place near which the seven noblemen were to pass. On the morrow, before sun-rise, when they proceeded all together, the horse, recollecting the mare, suddenly neighed; and at the same time a clap of thunder was heard, as if in approbation of the choice. The noblemen then dismounted from their horses, and saluted Darius king. 192 Thus, then, in human affairs, one thing has no concord with another. All men, however, agree in one thing; viz. a tendency to good, though they pursue it in many and all-various ways; dif- ferent men engaging in different actions, and par- taking of a different cjestiny and fortune. And the desire of good, indeed, is common to all, but one man no more obtains the object of his investi- gation than another; just as those who in the dark search for silver and gold, not being able to try by sound that for which they search, but, form- ing an uncertain conjecture by the weight and the touch, fall on each other, no one daring to relin- quish what he has got, lest it should be that which he wants, nor yet to cease from the labour of searching, lest he should not obtain it*. Hence tu- mult and contention arise, together with exhorta- tions, and the voices of those that seek, groan, pursue, lament, seize, and plunder. And all, in- deed, exclaim and exult, as having found the good which they sought, though no one possesses it, but through incredulity each explores what his neighbour has discovered. This passion disturbs both the land and the sea, this convenes assemblies, this collects together courts of justice, this fills prisons, this builds ships, this brings forth three-ranked galleys, this * All men pursue good, either real or apparent; but the multitude, who only pursue apparent, which at the same time they fancy to be real good, may be aptly compared, according to the simile of Maximus, to men searching for silver and gold in the dark. 193 composes the tumult of war, this places knights on their horses, charioteers in their cars, and tyrants in the acropolis. Through this foreign and hire- ling soldiers are collected: Ta?of, most inquisitive. See a very long and beautiful extract from this work in the additional notes on the third volume of my Plato. P 210 which is in want of another, is naturally adapted from neces- sity to be subservient to that of which it is indigent. But if they are mutually in want of each other, each being indigent of the other in a different respect, neither of them will be the principle. For the unindigent is most adapted to that which is truly the principle. And if it is in want of any thing, accord- ing to this, it will not be the principle. It is, however, neces- sary that the principle should be this very thing, the principle alone. The unindigent, therefore, pertains to this, nor must it by any means be acknowledged that there is any thing prior to it. This, however, would be acknowledged, if it had any con- nection with the indigent. Let us then consider body, that is a triply extended sub- stance, endued with quality; for this is the first thing effable by us, and is sensible. Is this then the principle of things? But it is two things, body, and quality which is in body as a subject. Which of these, therefore, is by nature prior? For both are in- digent of their proper parts: and that also which is in a sub- ject is indigent of the subject. Shall we say then that body it- self is the principle and the first essence? But this is impossible. For in the first place, the principle will not receive any thing from that which is posterior to itself. But body, we say, is the recipient of quality. Hence quality, and a subsistence in con- junction with it, are not derived from body, since quality is pre- sent with body as something different. And in the second place, body is every way divisible, its several parts are indi- gent of each other; and the whole is indigent of all the parts. As it is indigent, therefore, and receives its completion from things which are indigent, it will not be entirely unindigent. Farther still, if it is not one but united, it will require, as Plato says, the connecting one. It is likewise something com- mon and formless, being as it were a certain matter. It requires therefore ornament, and the possession of form, that it may not be merely body, but a body with a certain particular quality ; as for instance, a fiery or earthly body, and in short, body adorn- ed and invested with a particular quality. Hence the things which accede to it finish and adorn it. Is then that which ac- cedes the principle? But this is impossible. For it does not abide in itself, nor does it subsist alone, but is in a subject, of which also it is indigent. If, however, some one should assert,, that body is not a subject, but one of the elements in each, as 21 i For instance, animal in horse and man, thus also each will be indigent of the other, viz. this subject and that which is in the subject; or rather the common element, animal, and the pecu- liarities, as the rational and irrational, will be indigent. For elements are always indigent of each other, and that which is composed from elements is indigent of the elements. In short, this sensible nature, and which is so manifest to us, is neither body; for this does not of itself move the senses; nor quality; for this does not possess an interval commensurate with sense. Hence, that which is the object of sight, is neither body nor colour; but coloured body, or colour corporalized, is that which is motive of the sight, and universally that which is sensible, which is body with a particular quality, is motive of sense. From hence it is evident that the thing which excites the sense is something incorporeal- For if it was body, it would not yet be the object of sense. Body therefore requires that which is incorporeal, and that which is incorporeal, body. For an incorporeal nature is not of itself sensible. It is however different from body, because these two possess prerogatives different from each other, and neither of these subsists prior to the other; but being elements of one sensible thing, they are present with each other; the one imparting interval to that which is void of interval, but the other introducing to that which is formless, sensible variety invested with form. In the third place, neither are both these together the principle; since they are not unindigent. For they stand in need of their proper elements, and of that which conducts them to the generation of one form. For body cannot effect this, since it is of itself im- potent, nor quality, since it is not able to subsist separate from the body in which it is, or together with which it has its being. The composite therefore either produces itself, which is impos- sible, for it does not converge to itself, but the whole of it is multifariously dispersed, or it is not produced by itself, and there is some other principle prior to it. Let it then be supposed to be that which is called nature, being a principle of motion and rest, in that which is moved and at rest, essentially and not according to accident. For this is something more simple, and is fabricarive of composite forms. If, however, it is in the things fabricated, and does not subsist separate from nor prior to them, but stands in need of them for its being, it will not be unindigent; though it possesses some- p 2 212 tiling transcendent with respect to them, viz. the power of fashioning and fabricating them. For it has its being together with them, and has in them an inseparable subsistence; so that when they are it is, and is not when they are not, and this in consequence of perfectly verging to them, and not being able to sustain that which is appropriate. For the power of increas- ing, nourishing, and generating similars, and the one prior to these three, viz. nature., is not wholly incorporeal, but is nearly a certain quality of body, from which it alone differs, in that it imparts to the composite to be inwardly moved and at rest. For the quality of that which is sensible imparts that which is apparent in matter, and that which falls on sense. But body imparts interval every way extended ; and nature, an inwardly proceeding natural energy, whether according to place only, or according to nourishing, increasing, and generating things simi- lar. Nature however is inseparable from a subject, and is in- digent so that it will not be in short the principle, since it is in- digent of that which is subordinate. For it will not be wonder- ful, if being a certain principle it is indigent of the principle above it; but it would be wonderful, if it were indigent of things posterior to itself, and of which it is supposed to be the principle. By the like arguments we may show that the principle can- not be irrational soul, whether sensitive, or orectic. For if it appears that it has something separate, toge; her with impulsive and gnostic energies, yet at the same time, it is bound in body, and has something inseparable from it; since it is not able to convert itself to itself, but its energy is mingled with its sub- ject. For it is evident that its essence is something of this kind; since if it were liberated, and in itself free, it would also evince a certain independent energy, and would not always be con- verted to body ; but sometimes it would be converted to itself. Or, though it were always converted to body, yet it would judge and explore itself. The energies therefore of the multi- tude of mankind, though they are conversant with externals, yet at the same time they exhibit that which is separate about them. For they consult how they should engage in them, and observe that deliberation is necessary, in order to effect or be passive to apparent good, or to decline something of the con- trary. But the impulses of other irrational animals are uniform and spontaneous, are moved together with the sensible organs, 213 and require the senses alone that they may obtain from sensi- bles the pleasurable, and avoid the painful. If, therefore, the body communicates in pleasure and pain, and is affected in a certain respect by them, it is evident that the psychical energies (i. e. energies belonging to the soul) are exerted, mingled with bodies, and are not purely psychical, but are also corporeal; for perception is of the animated body, or of the soul corporalized, though in such perception the psychical idiom predominates over the corporeal; just as in bodies the corporeal idiom has domi- nion according to interval and subsistence. As the irrational soul therefore has its being in something different from itself, so far it is indigent of the subordinate. But a thing of this kind will not be the principle. Prior then to this essence, we see a certain form separate from a subject, and converted to itself, such as is the rational nature. Our soul, therefore, presides over its proper energies, and corrects itself. This however would not be the case, un- less it was converted to itself. And it would not be converted to itself, unless it had a separate essence. It is not, therefore, indigent of the subordinate. Shall we then say, that it is the most perfect principle) But it does not at once exert all its energies, but is always indigent of the greater part. The prin- ciple, however, wishes to have nothing indigent. But the ra- tional nature is an essence in want of its own energies. Some one, however, may say that it is an eternal essence, and has never failing essential energies, always concurring with its es- sence, according to the self-moved and ever vital, and that it is therefore unindigent, and will be the principle. To this we reply, that the whole soul is one form and one nature, partly unindigent and partly indigent; but the principle is perfect- ly unindigent. Soul, therefore, and which exerts mutable energies, will not be the most proper principle. Hence it is necessary that there should be something prior to this, which is in every respect immutable, according to nature, life, and knowledge, and according to all powers and energies, such as we assert an eternal and immutable essence to be, and such as is much-honoured intellect, to which Aristotle having ascended, thought he had discovered the first principle. For what can be wanting to that which perfectly comprehends in itself its own plenitudes (-n-x^w^ara), and of which neither ad- dition nor ablation changes any thing belonging to it? Or is 214 not this also, one and many, whole and parts, containing in it- self, things first, middle, and last? The subordinate plenitudes also stand in need of the more excellent, and the more excel- lent of the subordinate, and the whole of the parts. For the things related are indigent of each other, and what are first of what are last, through the same cause; for it is not of itself that which is first. Besides, the one here is indigent of the many, because it has its subsistence in the many. Or it may- be said, that this one is collective of the many, and this not by itself, but in conjunction with them. Hence there is much of the indigent in this principle. For since intellect generates in itself its proper plenitudes, from which the whole at once re- ceives its completion, it will be itself indigent of itself, not only that which is generated of that which generates, but also that which generates of that which is generated, in order to the whole completion of that which wholly generates itself.. Far- ther still, intellect understands and is understood, is intellective of, and intelligible to itself, and both these. Hence the intel- lectual is indigent of the intelligible, as of its proper object of desire; and the intelligible is in want of the intellectual, because it wishes to be the intelligible of it. Both also are indigent of either, since the possession is always accompanied with indi- gence, in the same manner as the world is always present with matter. Hence a certain indigence is naturally co-essential- lized with intellect, so that it cannot be the most proper prin- ciple. Shall we therefore, in the next place, direct our atten- tion to the most simple of beings, which Plato calls the one being, tv ov? For as there is no separation there throughout the whole, nor any multitude, or order, or duplicity, or conversion to itself, what indigence will there appear to be in the perfectly united? And especially what indigence will there be of that which is subordinate? Hence the great Parmenides ascended to this most safe principle, as that which is most unindigent. Is it not, however, here necessary to attend to the conception of Plato, that the united is not the one itself, but that which is passive* to it? And this being the case, it is evident that it ranks after the one ; for it is supposed to be the united, and not the one itself. If also being is composed from the elements. hound and infinity', as appears from the Philebus of Platos * See the Sophista of Plato, where this is asserted, 215 where he calls it that which is mixt, it will be indigent of its elements. Besides, if the conception of being, is different from that of being united, and that which is a whole is both united and being, these will be indigent of each other, and the whole which is called one being is indigent of the two. And though the one in this is better than being, yet this is indigent of being, in order to the subsistence of one being. But if being here su- pervenes the one, as it were form in that which is mixt and united, just as the idiom of man in that which is collectively rational—mortal—animal, thus also the one will be indigent of being. If however, to speak more properly the one is two- fold, this being the cause of the mixture, and subsisting prior to being, but that conferring rectitude on being—if this be the case, neither will the indigent perfectly desert this nature. Af- ter all these, it may be said that the one will be perfectly unin- digent. For neither is it indigent of that which is posterior to itself for its subsistence, since the truly one is by itself separated from all things; nor is it indigent of that which is inferior or more excellent in itself; for there is nothing in it besides itself; nor is it in want of itself. But it is one, because neither has it any duplicity with respect to itself. For not even the relation of itself to itself must be asserted of the truly one; since it is perfectly simple. This, therefore, is the most unindigent of all things. Hence this is the principle and the cause of all; and this is at once the first of all things. If these qualities, how- ever, are present with it, it will not be the one. Or may we not say that all things subsist in the one according to the one f And that both these subsist in it, and such other things as we predicate of it, as for instance, the most simple, the most excel- lent, the most powerful, the preserver of all things, and the good itself? If these things however are thus true of the one, it will thus also be indigent of things posterior to itself, accord- ing to those very things which we add to it. For the principle is, and is said to be the principle of things proceeding from it, and the cause is the cause of things caused, and the first is the first of things arranged posterior to it*. Farther still, the sim- ple subsists according to a transcendency of other things, the most powerful according to power with relation to the sub- * For a thing cannot be said to be a principle or cause without the subsistence of the things of which it is the principle or cause. Hence so far as it is a principle or cause it will be indigent of the subsistence of these. 216 jects of it; and the good, the desirable, and the preserving, are so called with reference to things benefitted, preserved, and desiring. And if it should be said to be all things according to the pre-assumption of all things in itself, it will indeed be said to be so according to the one alone, and will at the same time be the one cause of all things prior to all, and will be this and no other according to the one. So far, therefore, as it is the one alone, it will be unindigent; but so far as unindigent, it will be the first principle and stable root of all principles. So far, however, as it is the principle and the first cause of all things, and is pre-established as the object of desire to all things, so far it appears to be in a certain respect indigent of the things to which it is related. It has, therefore, if it be lawful so to speak, an ultimate vestige of indigence, just as on the contrary matter has an ultimate echo of the unindigent, or a most ob- scure and debile impression of the one. And language indeed appears to be here subverted. For so far as it is the one, it is also unindigent, since the principle has appeared to subsist ac- cording to the most unindigent and the one. At the same time, however, so far as it is the one, it is also the principle; and so far as it is the one, it is unindigent, but so far as the principle, indigent. Hence so far as it is unindigent, it is also indigent, though not according to the same; but with respect to being that which it is, it is unindigent; but as producing and compre- hending other things in itself it is indigent. This, however, is the peculiarity of the one; so that it is both unindigent and in- digent according to the one. Not indeed that it is each of these, in such a manner as we divide it in speaking of it, but it is one alone; and according to this is both other things, and that which is indigent. For how is it possible it should not be indigent also so far as it is the one? just as it is all other things which proceed from it. For the indigent also is some- thing belonging to all things. Something else therefore must be investigated which in no respect has any kind of indigence. But of a thing of this kind, it cannot with truth be asserted that it is the principle, nor can it even be said of it that it is most unindigent, though this appears to be the most venerable of all assertions'*'. For this signifies transcendency, and an exemp- * See the extracts from Damascius, in the additional notes to the third volume of my Plato, which contain an inestimable treasury of the most profound conceptions concerning the ineffable. 217 tion from the indigent. We do not, however, think it proper to call this even the perfectly exempt; but that which is in every respect incapable of being apprehended, and about which we must be perfectly silent, will be the most just axiom of our conception in the present investigation; nor yet this as uttering any thing, but as rejoicing in not uttering, and by this vene- rating that immense unknown. This then is the mode of ascent to that which is called the first, or rather to that which is be- yond every thing which can be conceived, or become the sub^ ject of hypothesis. There is also another mode, which does not place the unin- digent before the indigent, but considers that which is indigent of a more excellent nature, as subsisting secondary to that which is more excellent. Every where then that which is in capacity is secondary to that which is in energy. For that it may proceed into energy, and that it may not remain in capa- city in vain, it requires chat which is in energy. For the more excellent never blossoms from the subordinate nature. Let this then be previously defined by us, according to common unper- vcrted conceptions. Matter, therefore, has, prior to itself, ma- terial form; because all matter is form in capacity, whether it be the first matter which is perfectly formless, or the second which subsists according to body void of quality, or in other words, mere triple extension, to which it is likely those directed their attention who first investigated sensibles, and which at first ap- peared to be the only thing that had a subsistence. For the existence of that which is common in the different elements, persuaded them that there is a certain body void of quality. But since among bodies of this kind, some possess the govern- ing principle inwardly, and others externally, such as things ar- tificial, it is necessary besides quality to direct our attention to nature, as being something better than qualities, and which is pre-arranged in the order of cause, as art is of things artificial. Of things, however, which are inwardly governed, some ap- pear to possess being alone, but others to be nourished and in- creased, and to generate things similar to themselves. There is, therefore, another certain cause prior to the above mentioned nature, viz. a vegetable power itself. But it is evident that all such things as are ingenerated in body as in a subject, are of themselves incorporeal, though they become corporeal, by the participation of that in which they subsist, so that they are said 218 to be and are material in consequence of what they suffer from matter. Qualities, therefore, and still more natures, and in a still greater degree the vegetable life, preserve the incorporeal in themselves. Since, however, sense exhibits another more conspicuous life, pertaining to beings which are moved accord- ing to impulse and place, this must be established prior to that, as being a more proper principle, and as the supplier of a cer- tain better form, that of a self-moved animal, and which na- turally precedes plants rooted in the earth. The animal, how- ever, is not accurately self-moved. For the whole is not such through the whole; but a part moves, and a part is moved. This therefore is the apparent self-moved. Hence prior to this, it is necessary there should be that which is truly self-moved, and which according to the whole of itself moves and is moved, that the apparently self-moved may be the image of this. And indeed the soul which moves the body, must be considered as a more proper self-moved essence. This however is twofold, the one rational, the other irrational. For that there is a rational soul is evident. Or has not every one a co-sensation of himself, more clear or more obscure, when converted to himself in the attentions to and investigations of himself, and in the vital and gnostic animadversions of himself? For the essence which is capable of this, and which can collect universals by reasoning, will very justly be rational. The irrational soul also, though it does not appear to investigate these things, and to reason with itself, yet at the same time it moves bodies from place to place, being itself previously moved from itself; for at different times it exerts a different impulse. Does it therefore move itself from one impulse to another? or is it moved by something- else, as for instance, by the whole rational soul in the universe? But it would be absurd to say, that the energies of every irra- tional soul are not the energies of that soul, but of one more di- vine; since they are infinite, and mingled with much of the base and imperfect. For this would be just the same as to say, that the irrational energies are the energies of the rational soul. I omit to mention the absurdity of supposing that the whole es- sence is not generative of its proper energies. For if the irra- tional soul is a certain essence, it will have peculiar energies of its own, not imparted from something else, but proceeding from itself. The irrational soul therefore will also move itself, at dif- ferent times to different impulses. But if it moves itself, it will 219 be converted to itself. If, however, this be the case, it will have a separate subsistence, and will not be in a subject. It is therefore rational, if it looks to itself: for in being converted to, it surveys itself. For when extended to things external, it looks to externals, or rather it looks to coloured body, but does not see itself, because sight itself is neither body, nor that which is coloured. Hence it does not revert to itself. Neither, there- fore, is this the case with any other irrational nature. For nei- ther does the phantasy project a type of itself, but of that which is sensible, as for instance of coloured body. Nor does irrational appetite desire itself, but aspires after a certain object of desire, such as honour, or pleasure, or riches. It does not therefore move itself. But if some one on seeing that brutes exert rational energies, should apprehend that these also participate of the first self- moved, and on this account possess a soul converted to itself, it may, perhaps, be granted to him that these also are rational natures, except that they are not so essentially, but accord- ing to participation, and this most obscure, just as the ra- tional soul may be said to be intellectual according to participa- tion, as always projecting common conceptions without distor- tion. It must however be observed that the extremes are, that which is capable of being perfectly separated, such as the ra- tional form, and that which is perfectly inseparable, such as corporeal quality, and that in the middle of these nature sub- sists, which verges to the inseparable, having a small represen- tation of the separable, and the irrational soul which verges to the separable; for it appears in a certain respect to subsist by itself, separate from a subject; so that it becomes doubtful, whether it is self-motive, or alter-motive. For it contains an abundant vestige of self-motion, but not that which is true, and converted to itself, and on this account perfectly separated from a subject. And the vegetable soul has in a certain respect a middle subsistence. On this account, to some of the ancients it appeared to be a certain soul, but to others, nature. Again, therefore, that we may return to the proposed object of investigation, how can a self-motive nature * of this kind* which is mingled with the alter-motive, be the first principle of things? For it neither subsists from itself, nor does it in reality perfect itself; but it requires a certain other nature both for its subsistence and perfection. And prior to it is that which U no truly self-moved. Is therefore that which is properly self- moved the principle, and is it indigent of no form more excel- lent than itself? Or is not that which moves always naturally prior to that which is moved; and in short, does not every form which is pure from its contrary subsist by itself prior to that which is mingled with it? And is not the pure the cause of the co-mingled? For that which is co-essentialized with another, has also an energy mingled with that other. So that a self- moved nature will indeed make itself, but thus subsisting it will be at the same time moving and moved, but will not be made a moving nature only. For neither is it this alone. Every form however is always alone according to its first sub- sistence; so that there will be that which moves only without being moved. And indeed it would be absurd that there should be that which is moved only, such as body, but that prior both to that which is self-moved and that which is moved only, there should not be that which moves only. For it is evident that there must be, since this will be a more excellent nature, and that which is self-moved, so far as it moves itself, is more excel- lent than so far as it is moved. It is necessary, therefore, that the essence which moves unmoved should be first, as that which is moved, not being motive, is the third, in the middle of which is the self-moved, which we say requires that which moves in order to its becoming motive. In short, if it is moved, it will not abide, so far as it is moved; and if it moves, it is necessary it should remain moving so far as it moves. Whence then does it derive the power of abiding? For from itself it derives the power either of being moved only, or of at the same time abiding and being moved wholly according to the same. Whence then does it simply obtain the power of abiding? Cer- tainly from that which simply abides. But this is an immove- able cause. We must therefore admit that the immoveable is prior to the self-moved. Let us consider then if the immove- able is the most proper principle. But how is this possible? For the immoveable contains as numerous a multitude im- moveably, as the self-moved self-moveably. Besides, an im- moveable separation must necessarily subsist prior to a self- moveable separation. The unmoved therefore is at the same time one and many, and is at the same time united and sepa- rated; and a nature of this kind is denominated intellect. But it is evident that the united in this, is naturally prior to and 221 more honourable than the separated. For separation is aL* ways indigent of union; but not, on the contrary, union of se- paration. Intellect, however, has not the united pure from its opposite: for intellectual form is co-essentialized with the sepa- rated through the whole of itself. Hence that which is in a certain respect uniied requires that which is simply united; that which subsists with another is indigent of that which sub' sistsby itself; and that which subsists according to participation of that which subsists according to essence. For intellect being self-subsistent produces itself as united and at the same time se- parated. Hence it subsists according to both these. It is pro- duced, therefore, from that which is simply united and alone united. Prior, therefore, to that which is formal is the uncir- cumscribed and undistributed into forms. And this is that which we call the united, and which the wise men of anti- quity denominated being, possessing in one contraction multi^ tude subsisting prior to the many. Having, therefore, arrived thus far, let us here rest for awhile, and consider with ourselves whether being is the inves- tigated principle of all things: for what will there be which does not participate of being? May we not say, that this, if it is the united, will be secondary to the one, and that by parti- cipating of the one it becomes the united? But in short, if we conceive the one to be something different from being, if being is prior to the one it will not participate of the one. It will, therefore, be many only, and these will be infinitely infinites. But if the one is with being, and being with the one, and they are either co-ordinate or divided from each other, there will be two principles, and the above-mentioned absurdity will happen. Or they will mutually participate of each other, and there will be two elements. Or they are parts of something else con- sisting from both. And if this be the case what will that be which leads them to union with each other. For if the one unites being to itself (for this may be said) the one also will energize prior to being, that it may call forth and convert being to itself. The one, therefore, will subsist from itself self-perfect prior to being. Farther still, the more simple is always prior to the more composite. If, therefore, they are similarly sim- ple, there will either be two principles, or one from the two, and this will be a composite. Hence the simple and perfectly incomposite is prior to this, which must be either one, or not 222 one; and if not one, it must either be many or nothing. But with respect to nothing, if it signifies that which is perfectly- void it will signify something vain. But if it signifies the arJ cane, this will not even be that which is simple* In short, we cannot conceive any principle more simple than the one. The one, therefore, is in every respect prior to being. Hence this is the principle of all things, and Plato, recurring to this, did not require any other principle in his reasonings. For the arcane in which this our ascent terminates is not the principle of rea- soning, nor of knowledge, nor of animals, nor of beings, nor of unities, but simply of all things, being arranged above every conception and suspicion that we can frame. Hence Plato indi- cates nothing concerning it, but makes his negations of all other things except the one from the one. For that the one is he de- nies in the last place, but he does not make a negation of the" one. He also, besides this, even denies this negation, but not the one. He denies, too, name, and conception, and all know- ledge, and what can be said more, whole itself and every being. But let there be the united and the unical, and, if you will, the two principles bound and the infinite. Plato, however, never in any respect makes a negation of the one which is beyond all these. Hence in the Sophista he considers it as the one prior to being, and in the Republic as the good beyond every essence; but at the same time the one alone is left. Whether, how- ever, is it known and effable, or unknown and ineffable? Or is it in a certain respect these and in a certain respect not? For by a negation of this it may be said the ineffable is affirmed. And again, by the simplicity of knowledge it will be known or suspected, but by composition perfectly unknown. Hence neither will it be apprehended by negation. And, in short, so far as it is admitted to be one, so far it will be co-arranged with other things which are the subject of position : for it is the sum- mit of things which subsist according to position. At the same time there is much in it of the ineffable and unknown, the un- co-ordinated, and that which is deprived of position, but these are accompanied with a representation of the contraries; and the former are more excellent than the latter. But everywhere things pure subsist prior to their contraries, and such as are un- mingled to the co-mingled. For either things more excellent subsist in the one essentially, and in a certain respect the con- traries of these also will be there at the same time; or they sub- 223 sist according to participation, and are derived from that which is first a thing of this kind. Prior to the one, therefore, is that which is simply and perfectly ineffable, without position, un- co-ordinated, and incapable of being apprehended, to which also the ascent of the present discourse hastens through the clearest indications, omitting none of those natures between the first and the last of things. P. 9.—But intelligibles are, indeed, unknown to the mul- titude, fyc. Intelligibles, or the proper objects of intellectual vision, are no other than those incorporeal forms resident in deity, which are called by Plato ideas, and are the paradigms or patterns- of every thing in the universe which has a perpetual subsistence according to nature. These divine forms, too, are not only paradigmatic but likewise paternal, and are by their very- essence causes generative of the many. They are also perfect live, possess a guardian power, and connect and unite all se- condary natures. The following are the arguments which the Platonic philo- sophy affords in proof of the existence of these luminous beings, of which the eye of modern philosophy has not, nor ever can have, the s?nallest glimpse. The whole is nearly extracted from the manuscript commentary of Proclus on the Parmenides of Plato, and is also to be found in the introduction to my translation of that dialogue. This visible world is either self-subsistent, or it derives its subsistence from a superior cause. But if it is admitted to be self-subsistent many absurd consequences will ensue. For it is necessary that every thing self-subsistent should be imparti- ble; because every thing which makes and every thing which generates is entirely incorporeal: for bodies make, through incorporeal powers, fire by heat and snow by coldness. But if it is necessary that the maker should be incorporeal, and in things self-subsistent, the same thing is the maker and the thing made, the generator and the thing generated, that which is self-subsistent will be perfectly impartible. But the world is not a thing of this kind: for every body is every way divisible, and consequently is not self-subsistent. Again, every thing 2M self-subsistent is also self-energetic: for as it generates itself, it is, by a much greater priority, naturally adapted to energize in itself; since to make and to generate are no other than to energize. But the world is not self-motive because it is cor- poreal. No body, therefore, is naturally adapted to be moved, and at the same time to move according to the whole of itself. For neither can the whole at the same time heat itself and be heated by itself. For because it is heated, it will not yet be hot, in consequence of the heat being gradually propagated through all its parts; but because it heats it will possess heat, and thus the same thing will be and yet will not be hot. As, therefore, it is impossible that any body can move itself accord- ing to internal change, neither can this be effected by any other motion. And, in short, every corporeal motion is more similar to passion than to energy; but a self-motive energy is immate- rial and impartible: so that if the world is corporeal it will not be self-motive. But if not self-motive neither will it be self- subsistent. And if it is not self-subsistent it is evident that it is produced by another cause. For, again, that which is not self-subsistent is twofold; viz. it is either better than or inferior to cause. And that which is more excellent than cause *, as is the ineffable principle of things, has something posterior to itself, such as is a self-sub- sistent nature. But that which is subordinate to cause is en- tirely suspended from a self-subsistent cause. It is necessary, therefore, that the world should subsist from another more ex- cellent cause. But with respect to this cause, whether does it- make according to free-will and the reasoning energy, or pro- duce the universe by its very essence? for if according to free-will its energy in making will be unstable and ambiguous, and will subsist differently at different times. The world, therefore, will be corruptible: for that which is generated from a cause moving differently at different times, is mutable and corruptible. But if the cause of the universe operated from reasoning and enquiry in producing the world his energy could not be spontaneous and truly his own; but his essence would be similar to that of the artificer, who does not derive his produc- tions from himself but procures them as something adventitious * This is demonstrated by Proclus in his Elements of Theology. 225 by learning and enquiry.- Hence we infer that the world is eternal, and that its maker produced it by his very essence. For, in short, every thing which makes according to free-will has also the essential energy. Thus our soul, which energizes in many things according to free-will, imparts at the same time life to the body by its very essence, which life does not depend on our free will; for otherwise the animal from every adverse circumstance would be dissolved, the soul on such occasions condemning its association with the body. But not every thing which operates from its very essence has also another energy according to free-will. Thus fire heats by its very essence alone, but produces nothing from the energy of will, nor is this effected by snow, nor in short by any body, so far as body. If, therefore, the essential energy is more extended than that of free-will, it is evident that it proceeds from a more venerable and elevated cause. And this very properly. For the creative energy of natures that operate from their very essence is unat- tended with anxiety. But it is especially necessary to con- ceive an energy of this kind in divine natures; since we also then live more free from anxiety, and with greater ease, when our life is divine, or according to virtue. If, therefore, there is a cause of the universe operating from his very essence, he is that primarily which his production is secondarily; and that which he is primarily he imparts in a secondary degree to his production» Thus fire both imparts heat to something else, and is itself hot, and soul imparts life and possesses life; and this reasoning will be found to be true in every thing which operates essentially. The cause of the universe, therefore, fa- bricating from his very essence, is that primarily which the world is secondarily. But if the world is full of all-various forms, these will subsist primarily in the cause of the world: for it is the same caus.e_which gave subsistence to the sun and moon, to man and horse. These, therefore, are primarily in the cause of the world; another sun besides the apparent, another man, and in a similar manner every other form. There are, therefore, forms prior to sensibles, and demiurgic causes of the phenomena presubsisting in the one cause of the universe. But if any one should say that the world has indeed a cause, yet not producing but final, and that thus all things are orderly disposed with relation to this cause, it is so far well, indeed, that they admit the good to preside over the universe* But it 226 may be asked, whether does the world receive any thing ff om this cause or nothing, according to desire: for if nothing* the desire by which it extends itself towards this cause is vain. But if it receives something from this cause, and this cause not only imparts good to the world, but imparts it essentially, by a much greater priority, it will be the cause of existence to the universe, that it may impart good to it essentially; and thus it will not only be the final, but the producing cause of the uni- verse. In the next place, let us direct our attention to the pheno- mena, to things equal and unequal, similar and dissimilar, and all such sensible particulars as are by no means truly denomi- nated. For where is there equality in sensibles which are mingled with inequality? where similitude in things filled with dissimilitude? where the beautiful among things of which the subject is base? where the good in things in which there is ca- pacity and the imperfect? Each of these sensible particulars, therefore, is not that truly which it is said to be. For how can things, the nature of which consists in the impartible and in pri- vation of interval, subsist perfectly in things partible and endued with interval? But our soul is able both to conceive and gene- rate things far more accurate and pure than the phenomena. Hence it corrects the apparent circle, and points out how far it falls short of the perfectly accurate. And it is evident that in so doing it beholds another form more beautiful and more per- fect than this. For unless it beheld something more pure it could not say that this is not truly beautiful, and that is not in every respect equal. If, therefore, a partial soul, such as ours, is able to generate and contemplate in itself things more perfect than the phenomena, such as the accurate sphere and circle, the accurately beautiful and equal, and in a similar manner every other form, but the cause of the universe is neither able to generate nor contemplate things more beautiful than the phenomena, how is the one the fabricator of the universe but. the other of a part c^f the universe? For a greater power is effective of things more perfect, and a more immaterial intellect contemplates more excellent spectacles. The maker of the world, therefore, is able both to generate and understand forms much more accurate and perfect than the phenomena. Where, then, does he generate, and where does he behold them? Evidently in himself; for he contemplates himself. So that by 22? beholding and generating himself, he at the same time generate*^ in himself, and gives subsistence to forms more immaterial and more accurate than the phenomena. In the third place, if there is no cause of the universe, but all things are from chance, how are all things co-ordinated to each other, and how do things perpetually subsist? and whence is it that all things are thus generated according to nature with a frequency of subsistence? For whatever originates from chance does not subsist frequently, but seldom. But if there is one cause, the source of co-ordination to all things, and this cause is ignorant of himself, must there not be some nature prior to this, which by knowing itself imparts being to this cause? For it is impossible that a nature which is ignorant should be more ex- cellent than that which has a knowledge of itself. If, therefore, this cause knows itself, it is evident that, knowing itself to be a cause, it must also know the things of which it is the cause; so that it will also comprehend the things which it knows. If, therefore, intellect is the cause of the universe, it also co-ordi- nated all things to each other: for there is one artificer of all things. But the universe is various, and all its parts do not participate either of the same dignity or order. Who is it, then, that measures the dignity of these, except the power that gave them subsistence? who distributed every thing in a conve- nient order, and fixed it in its proper seat; the sun here, and there the moon; the earth here, and there the mighty heaven, except the Being by whom these were produced? who gave co- ordination to all things, and produced one harmony from all, except the Power who imparted to every thing its essence and nature. If, therefore, he orderly disposed all things, he cannot be ignorant of the order and rank which every thing maintains in the universe. For to operate in this manner would be the province of irrational nature, and not of a divine cause, and would be the characteristic of necessity, and not of intellectual providence. Since if, intellectually perceiving himself, he knows himself; but, knowing himself, and the essence which he is allotted, he knows that he is an immoveable cause, and the object of desire to all things, he will also know the natures to which he is desirable: for he is not desirable from accident but essentially. He will, therefore, either be ignorant of what he is essentially, or, knowing this, he will also know that he is the object of desire; and, together with this, he will know that 228 all things desire him, and what the natures are by which he if desired. For of two relatives, to know one definitely, and the other indefinitely, is not the characteristic of science, and much less of intellectual perception. But knowing definitely the things by which he is desired, he knows the causes of them, m consequence of beholding himself, and not things of a poste- rior nature. If, therefore, he does not in vaiii possess the causes of all things,, he must necessarily, according to them,' bound the order of all things, and thus be of all things the immoveable cause, as bounding their order by his very es- sence. But whether shall we say, that because he designed to make all things, he knew them,.or because he understands all things, on this account he gave subsistence to all things. But if, in conse- quence of designing to make all things, he knows all things,, he will possess inward energy,., and a conversion to himself subordi- nate to that which proceeds outwardly, and his knowledge of beings will subsist for the sake of things different from himself.- But if this is absurd, by knowing himself he will be the maker of all things. And if this be the case he will make things external similar to those which he contains in himself. For such is the natural order of things that externally proceeding should be sus- pended from inward energy, the whole world from the all- perfect monad of ideas,, and the parts of the visible universe from monads which are separated from each other. In the fourth place we say that man is generated from man,, and from every thing its like. After what manner, therefore, are they generated? for you will not say that the generation of these is from chance :. for neither nature nor divinity makes any thing in vain. But if the generation of men knot from chance,- whence is it > you will say, it is evidently from seed. Let if be then admitted that man is from seed ;. but seed possesses productive powers in capacity and not in energy. For since it is- a body it is- not naturally adapted to possess productive powers impartibly and in energy. For everywhere a subsist' ence in energy precedes a subsistence in capacity; since, being imperfect, it requires- the assistance of something else endued with a perfective power. This something else,.you will say, is the nature of the mother; for this- perfects and fashions' the offspring by its productive powers. For the apparent form of the mother does not make the infant,,but nature, which is. aiv 229 incorporeal power and the principle of motion. By therefore, nature changes the productive powers of seed from capacity to a subsistence in energy, nature must herself possess these pro- ductive powers in energy. Hence being irrational and without imagination she is at the*same time the cause of physical rea- sons. As the nature of man, therefore, contains human pro- ductive powers, does not also nature in a lion contain those of the lion; as, for instance, the reasons or productive powers of the head, the hair, the feet, and the other parts of the lion? or whence,* on shedding a tooth, does another grow in its place, unless from an inherent power which is able to make the teeth? how, likewise, does it at the same time make bone and flesh, and each of the other parts? for the same thing energizing ac- cording to the same would not be able to fashion such a variety of organization. But does not nature in plants also possess pro- ductive powers as well as in animals? or shall we not say, that in these, likewise, the order of generation and the lives of the plants evince that they are perfected from orderly causes? It is evident, therefore, from the same reasoning, that the natures of these also comprehend the apparent productive powers. Let us, then, ascend from these to the one nature of the earth, which generates whatever breathes and creeps on its surface, and which, by a much greater priority, contains the productive powers of plants and animals. Or whence the generation of things from putrefaction? (for the hypothesis of the experi- mentalists is weak and futile) whence is it that different kinds of plants grow in the same place, without human care and atten* tion? is it not evident that it is from the whole nature of the earth, containing the productive powers of all these in herself? And, thus proceeding, we shall find that the nature in each of the elements and celestial spheres comprehends the productive powers of the animals which it contains, And if from the ce- lestial spheres we ascend to the nature of the universe itself, we may also enquire respecting this, whether it contains forms or not, and we shall be compelled to confess, that in this also the productive and motive powers of all things are contained. For whatever is perfected from inferior subsists in a more excellent and perfect manner from more universal natures. The nature of the universe, therefore, being the mother of all things, com- prehends the productive powers of all things: for otherwise it would be absurd that art, imitating natural reasons, should ope- rate according to productive principles, but that nature herself should energize without reasons and without inward measures. But if nature contains productive principles it is necessary that there should be another cause prior to nature, which is compre- hensive of forms. For nature verging to bodies energizes in them, just as if we should conceive an artist verging to pieces of timber, and inwardly, by various operations, reducing them to a certain form. For thus nature, merged together with and dwelling in corporeal masses, inspires them with her produc- tive powers and with motion; since things which are moved by others require a cause of this kind, a cause which is pro- perly irrational, indeed, that it may not depart from bodies, which cannot subsist without a cause continually residing with them, but containing the productive powers of bodies, that it may be able to preserve all things in their proper boundaries, and move every thing in a convenient manner. Nature, therefore, belongs to other things, being merged in or co-or- dinated with bodies. But it is requisite that the most principal and proper cause should be exempt from its productions: for by how much the maker is exempt from the thing made, by so much the more perfectly and purely will he make: and, in short, if nature is irrational it requires a leader. There is, therefore, something prior to nature, which contains productive powers, and from which it is requisite that every thing in the world should be suspended. Hence a knowledge of generated natures will subsist in the cause of the world more excellent than the knowledge which we possess, so far as this cause not only knows but gives subsistence to all things; but we possess knowledge alone. But if the demiurgic cause of the universe knows all things, if he beholds them externally, he will again be ignorant of himself, and will be subordinate to a partial soul; but if he beholds them in himself he will contain in him- self all forms both intellectual and gnostic. In the fifth place, things produced from an immoveable cause are immoveable and without mutation, but things produced from a moveable cause are again moveable and mutable, and subsist differently at different times. If this be the case, all such things as are essentially eternal and immutable must be the progeny of an immoveable cause; for if from a moveable cause, they will be mutable, which is imposiSWf. Are not, therefore, the form of man and the form of horse from a cause if the whole world subsists from a cause? from what cause, therefore? is it from an immoveable or from a moveable cause? But if from a moveable cause the human species will, some time or other, fail; since every thing which subsists from a moveable cause ranks among things which are naturally adapted to perish. We may also make the same enquiry respecting the sun and moon and each of the stars; for if these are pro- duced from a moveable cause, in these also there will be a mu- tation of essence. But if these, and all such forms as eternally subsist in the universe, are from an immoveable cause, where does the immoveable cause of these subsist? for it is evidently not in bodies, since every natural body is naturally adapted to be moved: it therefore subsists proximately in nature. But na- ture is irrational; and it is requisite that causes, properly so called, should be intellectual and divine. Hence the immove- able causes of these forms subsist primarily in intellect, secon- darily in soul, in the third gradation in nature, and, lastly, in bodies. For all things either subsist apparently or unappa- rently, either separate or inseparable from bodies; and, if se- parate, either immoveably, according to essence and energy, or immoveably according to essence, but moveably according to energy. Those things, therefore, are properly immoveable, which are immutable both according to essence and energy; such as are intelligibles; but those possess the second rank which are immoveable, indeed, according to essence, but moveable according to energy, and such are souls; in the third place, things unapparent, indeed, but inseparable from the phe- nomena, are such as belong to the empire of nature; and those rank in the last place which are apparent, subsist in sensibles, and are divisible: for the gradual subjection of forms proceed- ing as far as to sensibles ends in these. In the sixth place, let us speculate after another manner con- cerning the subsistence of forms or ideas, beginning from de- monstrations themselves. For Aristotle has proved, in his last analytics, and all scientific men must confess that demonstra- tions are entirely from things which, have a priority of subsist- ence, and which are naturally more honourable. But if the things from which demonstrations consist are universal; for every demonstration is from these; hence these must be 232 causes to tfffmings which are unfolded from them. When, therefore, the astronomer says that the circles in the heaven* bisect each other, since every greatest circle bisects its like, whether does he demonstrate or not? for he makes his con- clusion from that which is universal. But where shall we find the causes of this section of circles in the heavens, which are more universal than the circles? for they wilhtiot be in bodies, since every thing which is in body is divisible. They must, therefore, reside in an incorporeal essence; and hence there must be forms which have a subsistence prior to apparent forms, and which are the causes of subsistence to these, in consequence of being more universal and more powerful. Science, there- fore, compels us to admit that there are universal forms, which have a subsistence prior to particulars, are more essential and more causal, and from which the very being of particulars is derived. By ascending from motion we may also, after the same man- ner, prove the existence of ideas. Every body from its own proper nature is alter-motive, or moved by another, and is indi- gent of motion externally derived. But the first, most proper, and principal motion is in the power which moves the mundane wholes. For he possesses the motion of a mover, and body the motion of that which is moved, and corporeal motion is the image of that which pre-subsists in this power. For that is perfect motion because it is energy; but the motion in body is imperfect energy, and the imperfect derives its subsistence from the perfect. From knowledge, also, we may perceive the necessity of the same conclusion. For last knowledge is that of bodies, whether it be denominated sensible or imaginable. For all such knowledge is destitute of truth, and does not contemplate any thing universal and common, but beholds all things invested with figure, and all things partial. But more perfect know- ledge is that which is without figure, which is immaterial, and which subsists by itself and from itself; the image of which is sense, since this is imperfect knowledge subsisting in another, and not originating from itself. If, therefore, as in motion, so also in knowledge and in life, that which participates, that which is participated, and that which is imparticrpable, are different from each other, there is also the same reasoning with respect to other forms. For matter is one thing, the form which it contains another, and still different frol^ither is the separate form. For God and nature do not make things im- perfect, which subsist in something different from themselves, and which have an obscure and debile existence,- but have not produced rhings perfect, and which subsist from themselves, but by a much greater priority they have given subsistence to these, and from these have produced things which are partici- pated by and merged in the darkness of matter. But if it be requisite summarily to relate the cause that in- duced the Pythagoreans and Plato to adopt the hypothesis of ideas, we must say that all these visible natures, celestial and sublunary, are either from chance, or subsist from a cause. But that they should be from chance is impossible: for things more excellent will subsist in things subordinate; viz. intellect, rea- son, and cause, and that which proceeds from cause. To which we may add, as Aristotle observes, that, prior to causes according to accident, it is requisite that there should be things which have an essential subsistence ;• for the accidental is that in which the progressions of these are terminated. So that a subsistence from cause will be more" ancient than a subsistence from chance, if the most divine of things apparent are the pro* geny of chance. But if there is a cause of all things there will either be manyunconjoined causes, or one cause. But if many, we shall not be able to assign to what it is owing that the world is one, since there will not he one cause according to which all things are co-ordinated. It will also be absurd to suppose that this cause is irrational. For, again, there will be something among things posterior better than the cause of all things ; viz. that, which being within the universe, and a part of the whole, operates according to reason ami knowledge, and yet derives this prerogative from an irrational cause. But if this cause is rational and knows itself, it will certainly know itself to be the cause of all; or, being ignorant of this, it will be ignorant of its own nature^ But if it knows that it is essentially the cause of the universe it will also definitely know that of which it is the cause; for that which definitely knows the one will also defi- nitely know the other. Hence he will know every thing which the universe contains, and of which he is the cause; And, if this be the case, beholding himself, and knowing himself, he knows things posterior to himself. By immaterial reasons, therefore, and forms, he knows the mundane reasons and forms from which the universe consists, and the universe is contained in him as in a cause serjiBrfe from matter. This, Proclus adds, was the doctrine of the Eleatic Zeno, and the advocates for ideas. Nor did these men alone, says he, form conceptions of this kind respecting ideas, but their doctrine was also conformable to that of the theologists. For Orpheus says, that after the ab- sorption of Fhanes in Jupiter, all things were generated ; since, prior to this, the causes of all mundane natures subsisted unit- edly in Phanes, but secondarily and with separation in the demiurgiis of the universe. For there the sun and the moon, heaven itself, and the elements, Jove the source of union, and, in short, all things, were produced: for there was a natural conflux of all things in the belly of Jupiter. Nor did Orpheus stop here, but he also delivered the order of demiurgic forms, through which sensible natures were allotted their present distri- bution. Proclus further adds, the gods also have thought fit to unfold to mankind the truth respecting ideas, and have de- clared what the one fountain is whence they proceed; where ideas first subsist in full perfection, and how in their progression they assimilate all things, both wholes and parts, to the father of the universe. What Proclus here alludes to is the following Chaldaic oracle: Noi/£ rrciloo; t$s£oi^cri voncrag a%(j.abi $ouX*? Jlcifj.fj.o^ov; iSsag. Ttnyn; %s fAiag cinoTclao-ai H^eQooov' 7icir£o9;v yao SovXrils rsXo; re. AXX' tfj.spicr^r^t7av yoe^ixi Ttv^i lAoi^nBticrcu TLig ccXXag votpctf" xocyxu; yao c6V«-£ iroXvfxo^iy Jl^0v9^'A.(V VOEPOV TfTTOV CltyQlTOV OV XCljci HO(T(J.QV Tyyog eniiyoy.tyo; /j-figtong fxsra ycoa(xo; f7> Tlavloiaig i&eetig xc)^a.^ia^yog, u)y fxta Trrjyrj, Eif r,g coi^ovylai fj.tfxi^cr^.iyai ctXXni «.7rXt?7oi, Friyvvfj-evai xoo-fxov ntgi cnv(j.cccrtv} at mot xoXnoug l(j.s^aXeovg, a-^xnyicrcny toinuiai tpoosovrat, T^ut: overt TTJ^t r' ixa^a, ay^t^oy aXKvhg aXX>< Ewoifti vojpfii irnyrig Ttcti gtityg aTro, tioXv &£aTlofj<.£Vca Tiv^og avOog ax,ot(j.rirov Xgovov, ax/xn A^tyoyovg tSiag tt^ojIv vjar^o; t^Xvat rag ce AvrorzXng Knyn. i. e. The intellect of the father made a crashing noise, under- standing with unwearied counsel omniform ideas. But with winged speed they leaped forth from one fountain: for both the counsel and the end were from the father. In consequence, too, of being allotted an intellectual fire they are divided into other 235 intellectual forms: for the king previously placed in the multi- form world an intellectual incorruptible impression, the vestige of which hastening through the world causes it to appear in- vested with form, and replete with all-various ideas, of which there is one fountain: from this fountain other immense-distri- buted ideas rush with a crashing noise, bursting forth about the bodies of the world, and are borne along its terrible bosoms like swarms of bees. They turn themselves too on all sides, and nearly in all directions. They are intellectual conceptions from the paternal fountain, plucking abundantly the flower of the fire of sleepless time. But a self-perfect fountain pours forth primogenial ideas from the primary vigour of the father. Through these things, says Proelus, the gods have clearly shown where ideas subsist, who the divinity is that comprehends the one fountain of these, and that from this fountain a multitude proceeds. Likewise how the world is fabricated according to ideas; that they are motive of all mundane systems; that they are essentially intellectual; and that they are all-various ac- cording to their characteristics. If, therefore, he adds, arguments persuade us to admit the hypothesis respecting ideas, and the wise unite in the same de- sign; viz. Plato, Pythagoras, and Orpheus, and the gods clearly bear witness to these, we should but little regard sophis- tical arguments, which are confuted by themselves, and assert nothing scientific, nothing sane. For the gods have manifestly declared that they are conceptions of the father: for they abide in his intelligence. They have likewise asserted that they pro- ceed to the fabrication of the world, for the crashing noise sig- nifies their progression: that they are omniform, as compre- hending the causes of all divisible natures; that from fontal ideas others proceed, which are allotted the fabrication of the world, according to its parts, and which are said to be similar to swarms of bees; and, lastly, that they are generative of se- condary natures. END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer, Dean Street- '1 1915 A 662267 UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 3 9015 0 372 42