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THE GREEK PHILOSOPHERS
VOL. II.


THE GREEK PHILOSOPHERS

by

ALFRED WILLIAM BENN


  Εὑρηκέναι μὲν οὖν τινὰς τῶν ἀρχαίων καὶ μακαρίων φιλοσόφων
  τὸ ἀληθὲς δεῖ νομίζειν· τίνες δὲ οἱ τυχόντες μάλιστα καὶ πῶς ἂν
  καὶ ἡμῖν σύνεσις περὶ τούτων γένοιτο ἐπισκέψασθαι προσήκει
                                                            PLOTINUS

  Quamquam ab his philosophiam et omnes ingenuas disciplinas
  habemus: sed tamen est aliquid quod nobis non liceat, liceat illis
                                                              CICERO


In Two Volumes

VOL. II.






London
Kegan Paul, Trench, & Co., 1 Paternoster Square
1882

(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved)




                               CONTENTS

                                  OF

                          THE SECOND VOLUME.


                              CHAPTER I.

                              THE STOICS                      pages 1-52

I. Why the systems of Plato and Aristotle failed to secure a hold
on contemporary thought, 1—Fate of the schools which they founded,
2—Revival of earlier philosophies and especially of naturalism,
3—Antisthenes and the Cynics, 4—Restoration of naturalism to its former
dignity, 6.

II. Zeno and Crates, 7—Establishment of the Stoic school, 8—Cleanthes
and Chrysippus, 9—Encyclopaedic character of the Stoic teaching, 9—The
great place which it gave to physical science, 10—Heracleitean reaction
against the dualism of Aristotle, 11—Determinism and materialism of the
Stoics, 12—Their concessions to the popular religion, 14.

III. The Stoic theory of cognition purely empirical, 15—Development of
formal logic, 16—New importance attributed to judgment as distinguished
from conception, 16—The idea of law, 17—Consistency as the principle
of the Stoic ethics, 18—Meaning of the precept, Follow Nature,
19—Distinction between pleasure and self-interest as moral standards,
20—Absolute sufficiency of virtue for happiness, 21—The Stoics wrong
from an individual, right from a social point of view, 22—Theory
of the passions, 23—Necessity of volition and freedom of judgment,
24—Difficulties involved in an appeal to purpose in creation, 24.

IV. The Stoic paradoxes follow logically from the absolute distinction
between right and wrong, 25—Attempt at a compromise with the ordinary
morality by the doctrines (i.) of preference and objection, 26—(ii.) of
permissible feeling, 27—(iii.) of progress from folly to wisdom, 27—and
(iv.) of imperfect duties, 27—Cicero’s _De Officiis_, 28—Examples of
Stoic casuistry, 29—Justification of suicide, 30.

V. Three great contributions made by the Stoics to ethical speculation,
(i.) The inwardness of virtue, including the notion of conscience,
31—Prevalent misconception with regard to the Erinyes, 32—(ii.) The
individualisation of duty, 33—Process by which this idea was evolved,
35—Its influence on the Romans of the empire, 36—(iii.) The idea of
humanity, 36—Its connexion with the idea of Nature, 37—Utilitarianism
of the Stoics, 38.

VI. The philanthropic tendencies of Stoicism partly neutralised by
its extreme individualism, 40—Conservatism of Marcus Aurelius, 41—The
Stoics at once unpitying and forgiving, 42—Humility produced by their
doctrine of universal depravity, 42—It is not in the power of others to
injure us, 43—The Stoic satirists and Roman society, 44.

VII. The idea of Nature and the unity of mankind, 44—The dynamism of
Heracleitus dissociated from the teleology of Socrates, 46—Standpoint
of Marcus Aurelius, 46—Tendency to extricate morality from its external
support, 47—Modern attacks on Nature, 48—Evolution as an ethical
sanction, 49—The vicious circle of evolutionist ethics, 50—The idea of
humanity created and maintained by the idea of a cosmos, 51—The prayer
of Cleanthes, 52.


                              CHAPTER II.

                        EPICURUS AND LUCRETIUS              pages 53-119

I. Stationary character of Epicureanism, 53—Prevalent tendency to
exaggerate its scientific value, 55—Opposition or indifference of
Epicurus to the science of his time, 57.

II. Life of Epicurus, 58—His philosophy essentially practical, 59—The
relation of pleasure to virtue: Aristippus, 60—Pessimism of Hêgêsias,
61—Hedonism of Plato’s _Protagoras_, 61—The Epicurean definition of
pleasure, 62—Reaction of Plato’s idealism on Epicurus, 63—He accepts
the negative definition of pleasure, 64—Inconsistency involved in his
admissions, 65.

III. Deduction of the particular virtues: Temperance, 66—Points of
contact with Cynicism, 66—Evils bred by excessive frugality, 67—Sexual
passion discouraged by Epicureanism, 67—Comparative indulgence shown
to pity and grief, 68—Fortitude inculcated by minimising the evils of
pain, 69—Justice as a regard for the general interest, 70—The motives
for abstaining from aggression purely selfish, 70—Indifference of the
Epicureans to political duties, 73—Success of Epicureanism in promoting
disinterested friendship, 74.

IV. Motives which led Epicurus to include physics in his teaching,
75—His attacks on supernaturalism directed less against the old
Polytheism than against the religious movement whence Catholicism
sprang, 76—Justification of the tone taken by Lucretius, 78—Plato and
Hildebrand, 78—Concessions made by Epicurus to the religious reaction,
80—His criticism of the Stoic theology, 81.

V. Why Epicurus adopted the atomic theory, 82—Doctrine of infinite
combinations, 83—Limited number of chances required by the modern
theory of evolution, 84—Objections to which Democritus had laid
himself open, 85—They are not satisfactorily met by Epicurus, 85—One
naturalistic theory as good as another, 87—except the conclusions of
astronomy, which are false, 87.

VI. Materialism and the denial of a future life, 88—Epicurus tries to
argue away the dread of death, 89—His enterprise inconsistent with
human nature, 90—The belief in future torments is the dread of death
under another form, 92—How the prospect of death adds to our enjoyment
of life, 93—Its stimulating effect on the energies, 94—The love of life
gives meaning and merit to courage, 95.

VII. The Epicurean theory of sensation and cognition, 95—Negative
character of the whole system, 98—Theory of human history: the doctrine
of progressive civilisation much older than Epicurus, 98—Opposition
between humanism and naturalism on this point, 99—Passage from a drama
of Euphorion, 99.

VIII. Lucretius: his want of philosophic originality, 100—His alleged
improvements on the doctrine of Epicurus examined, 101—His unreserved
acceptance of the Epicurean ethics, 103—In what the difference
between Lucretius and Epicurus consists, 103—Roman enthusiasm for
physical science, 104—Sympathy of Lucretius with early Greek thought,
105—The true heroine of the _De Rerum Naturâ_, 105—Exhibition of life
in all its forms, 106—Venus as the beginning and end of existence,
106—Elucidation of the atomic theory by vital phenomena, 107—Imperfect
apprehension of law: the _foedera Naturai_ and the _foedera fati_,
108—Assimilation of the great cosmic changes to organic processes,
110—False beliefs considered as necessary products of human nature,
111—and consequently as fit subjects for poetic treatment, 112—High
artistic value of the _De Rerum Naturâ_, 113—Comparison between
Lucretius and Dante, 113.

IX. Merits and defects of Epicurus: his revival of atomism and
rejection of supernaturalism, 114—His theory of ethics, 115—His
contributions to the science of human nature, 116—His eminence as
a professor of the art of happiness, 116—His influence on modern
philosophy greatly exaggerated by M. Guyau, 117—Unique combination of
circumstances to which Epicureanism owed its origin, 119.


                             CHAPTER III.

   THE SCEPTICS AND ECLECTICS: GREEK PHILOSOPHY IN ROME    pages 120-194

I. Philosophic embassy from Athens to Rome, 120—Lectures of Carneades
on Justice _versus_ Expediency, 121—Public and private morality in
Rome: position of Cato, 122—His motion for the dismissal of the
embassy, 123—Carneades and Plato, 123.

II. Different meanings of the word scepticism, 123—False scepticism
as an ally of orthodoxy, 125—Vein of doubt running through Greek
mythology, 126—Want of seriousness in Homer’s religion, 127—Incredulous
spirit shown by some of his characters, 127—Similar tendency in
Aeschylus and Herodotus, 128—Negative and sceptical elements in early
Greek thought, 128.

III. Protagoras the true father of philosophical scepticism, 129—The
three theses of Gorgias, 130—Sceptical idealism of the Cyrenaic school,
132—Scepticism as an ally of religion with Socrates and Plato, 133—The
_Parmenides_, the _Sophist_, and the _Timaeus_, 134—Synthesis of
affirmation and negation in metaphysics and in dialectics, 135—Use of
scepticism as a moral sanction by the Megarians, 136.

IV. Life and opinions of Pyrrho, 137—Denial of first principles:
present aspect of the question, 139—Practical teaching of Pyrrho,
140—Encouragement given to scepticism by the concentration of thought
on human interests, 141—Illogical compromise of Epicurus, 143—Parasitic
character of the sceptical school, 143.

V. Origin of the New Academy, 144—Character and position of Arcesilaus,
145—The Stoic theory of certainty, 146—Criticism of Arcesilaus: his
method of infinitesimal transitions, 147—Systematic development and
application of the Academic principle by Carneades, 148—His analysis
of experience, 149—His attack on syllogistic and inductive reasoning,
150—His criticism of the Stoic and Epicurean theologies, 151—Sceptical
conformity to the established religion, 153—Theory of probable evidence
as a guide to action, 154—_A priori_ reasoning of the ancient sceptics,
155—Their resemblance in this respect to modern agnostics, 156—and also
in their treatment of ethics, 157—Obedience to Nature inculcated by
Carneades, 158.

VI. Return of Greek thought to the Sophistic standpoint, 158—Obstacles
to a revival of spiritualism, 159—Platonising eclecticism of the
Academy: Philo and Antiochus, 160—Approximation of Stoicism to
Aristotle’s teaching, 162—General craving for certainty and stability
in philosophy, 163.

VII. Sudden paralysis of the Greek intellect, 165—Probable influence of
the new Latin literature, 165—Adaptation of Greek philosophy to Roman
requirements, 166—Increased prominence given to the anti-religious side
of Epicureanism, 167—Its ethics ill-suited to the Roman character,
168—Growing popularity of Stoicism: Panaetius and Posidonius, 168—It is
temporarily checked by the influence of the Academy, 169.

VIII. Academic eclecticism of Cicero, 170—His attempted return to the
principles of Socrates, 171—Natural instinct as the common ground of
philosophy and untrained experience, 172—Practical agreement of the
different ethical systems, 173—The weakness of Cicero’s character
favourable to religious sentiment, 173—His theological position,
174—Contrast between Cicero and Socrates, 175.

IX. The ideas of Nature, reason, and utility, 176—Meaning and value
which they possessed for a Roman, 177—Cynic tendencies of Roman
thought, 178—Influence exercised by the younger Cato in favour of
Stoicism, 179—The philosophy of natural law as illustrated in Roman
poetry, 180—Stoic elements in the _Aeneid_, 181—The Roman love of
simplification and archaism, 182—Cynicism of Juvenal, 183.

X. Neo-Scepticism as a reaction against Naturalism: Aenesidêmus,
184—Return to the standpoint of Protagoras, 184—Critical analysis of
causation and perception, 185—The ten Tropes, 186—Their derivation
from the categories of Aristotle, 186—Ethical scepticism of
Aenesidemus, 187—The Tropes simplified and extended to reasoning,
188—Their continued invincibility as against all appeals to authority,
189—Association of Scepticism with Empiricism, 189—Sextus Empiricus and
Hume on causation, 190.

XI. The philosophy of the dinner-bell and its implications,
191—Subsequent influence of Scepticism on Greek thought, 192—Unshaken
confidence of the Neo-Platonists in the power of reason, 193—Their
philosophy a genuine return to the standpoint of Plato and Aristotle,
193.


                              CHAPTER IV.

                         THE RELIGIOUS REVIVAL             pages 195-265

I. New views respecting the civilisation of the Roman empire,
195—Prejudices formerly entertained by its historians, 196—The literary
bias, 197—Evidence of intellectual and moral progress supplied by the
study of jurisprudence and epigraphy, 197—The new school of historians,
198—The vitality of polytheism much greater than was formerly supposed,
199—notwithstanding the scepticism of the most distinguished Roman
writers, 199—opposed as they were by a large and increasing body of
religious belief, 200.

II. Revival of religious authority under Augustus, 200—Feeling of
the provincials, 201—Isolated position of Horace, 201—The spread of
religious beliefs checked by the political organisation of the old
city-state, 202—and encouraged by the Roman conquest, 203—Sceptical
tendencies of the city-aristocracies, 204—the higher classes more
favourable than the people to free thought down to the time of the
French Revolution, 205.

III. Dissociation of wealth from education under the empire,
206—Stupidity and credulity of the centurions, 207—Ever-increasing
influence exercised by women, 208—and indirectly by children,
210—Slavery and religion, 211—The social despotism of the empire
destructive to intellectual independence, 211—Causes which prevented
the formation of a new aristocracy, 213.

IV. Nature-worship as a universal religion, 214—Isis and Serapis,
215—Mithras and the worship of the heavenly bodies, 215—Spread of
Judaism in Rome and elsewhere, 216—The Holy Land and the Sabbath,
218—Continued devotion paid to the Olympian deities, 219—Elasticity of
Graeco-Roman polytheism, 219—Development of indigenous superstition,
220.

V. Oracular character of the pagan religions, 221—Effect produced
by the intellectual movement in Greece, 221—Popular belief remains
stationary or becomes retrograde: Deisidaimonia, 222—Faith in omens
among the educated classes under Augustus, 223—Conversion of an infidel
by the oracle of Mopsus, 224—Alexander of Abonuteichus and his dupes,
224.

VI. Belief in prophetic dreams: the work of Artemidôrus, 227—Conversion
of an Epicurean, 229—The fighting-cock of Tanagra, 229—Piety displayed
by animals, 230—Increased reverence paid to Asclêpius and Heracles,
230—Aristeides the rhetor, 231—Deification of mortals, 232.

VII. The doctrine of immortality, 233—Epicurean epitaphs, 233—Attitude
of the Stoics and Peripatetics, 234—Opinions of literary and scientific
men, 234—Epitaphs testifying to the popular belief in a future
life, 235—Articles found in tombs, 236—Evidence afforded by figured
representations, 237—Frequency of ghostly apparitions, 240.

VIII. Reaction of supernaturalism on philosophy, 241—Decline
of Epicureanism, 241—Religious tendencies of Stoicism: Seneca,
241—Complete substitution of theology for physics by Epictêtus, 243—Why
he rejected the doctrine of human immortality, 244—Superstition of
Marcus Aurelius, 245—Decomposition of Stoicism: the Cynic revival,
246—Neo-Pythagoreanism: its temporary alliance with Stoicism, 247—and
subsequent return to the spiritualism of Plato and Aristotle, 248—The
Neo-Pythagorean creed, 249.

IX. Advantages possessed by Platonism in the struggle for existence,
250—Great extent of its influence, 250—The Platonist daemonology,
251—Conflicting tendencies in Plutarch’s writings, 253—Unmixed
superstition of Maximus Tyrius and Apuleius, 254—A prose hymn to Isis,
255—Combination of philosophy with Oriental theology, 256—Philo and the
Logos, 257—Dualistic pessimism of the Gnostics, 259.

X. Superficial analogy between modern Europe and the Roman empire,
261—Analysis of the points on which they differ, 262—Growth and
influence of physical science, 264—Spread of rationalism through all
classes of society, 265.


                              CHAPTER V.

                    THE SPIRITUALISM OF PLOTINUS           pages 266-362

I. Plutarch on _Delays in the Divine Vengeance_, 266—A vision of
judgment, 267—Nero forgiven for the sake of Greece, 268—A century of
western supremacy in politics and literature, 268—Reaction begun by
Nero, 269—Revival of Greek literature: Plutarch and his successors,
269—Renewed cultivation of philosophy and science, 270—Sophisticism
and Platonism of the second century, 271—The two methods of
interpreting Plato, 272—The problem of the age, 273.

II. Life of Plotinus, 273—His personal influence and popularity,
275—The part assigned to him in a dialogue of Leopardi’s,
277—Composition and arrangement of his writings, 277—Mythical elements
in his biography, 280—Alleged derivation of his teaching from Ammonius
Saccas, 281.

III. Difficulties presented by the style of Plotinus, 282—General
clearness of his philosophy, 284—His dependence on Plato and exclusive
attention to the metaphysical side of Plato’s teaching, 285—His
unacknowledged obligations to Aristotle, 287.

IV. Plotinus on the spiritual interpretation of love and beauty,
287—His departure from the method of Plato, 289—Aristotelian
influences, 290—His subjective standpoint shared by Plato and
Aristotle, 291—Relation of the post-Aristotelian schools to their
predecessors, 292—The antithesis between materialism and spiritualism
common to both, 292—Services rendered by the later schools, 293.

V. Anti-materialistic arguments of Plotinus, 294—Coincidence with
modern philosophy, 295—Criticism of the Aristotelian doctrine,
296—Weakness of Greek philosophy in dealing with the phenomena of
volition, 297—Difficulties raised by astrology, 298—Plotinus as a
philosophical critic and reformer, 299.

VI. Intermediate position of the soul between the principles of unity
and division, 302—Combination of the Aristotelian Nous with the
Platonic Ideas, 303—Difficulties to which it gave rise, 304—Unity and
plurality in the Ideas and in the Nous, 304—Descent of the soul into
the material world, 305—The triad of body, soul, and spirit, 307—Search
for a supreme principle of existence: data furnished by Plato and
Aristotle, 307—The unity of all souls, 309—Universal dependence of
existence on unity, 310—Method for arriving at the One, 310—To what
extent Plotinus can be called a mystic, 312—Mystical elements in the
systems of his predecessors, 313.

VII. Retrospect and recapitulation, 315—Transition to the constructive
philosophy of Plotinus, 317—Three aspects of the supreme principle,
317—Creative power of the One, 318—Influence of false physical
analogies on metaphysics, 319—Inconceivability of causation apart from
time, 320—Subjective nature of logical and mathematical sequence,
321—The Neo-Platonic method in the Christian creeds, 322—How Plotinus
employed the method of generation by contraries, 322—Difficulty of
explaining the derivation of Soul from Nous, 323—and of accounting for
the existence of Matter, 323—Return to the Platonic identification of
Matter with Extension, 326—Generation of the Infinite from the One,
327—Hesitation of Plotinus between monism and dualism, 328—Influence of
Stoicism, 329—Substitution of contemplation for action as a creative
principle, 330.

VIII. The ethics of Plotinus: derivation of the cardinal virtues,
331—Absence of asceticism, 332—Condemnation of suicide, 332—Similar
view expressed by Schopenhauer, 333—Dialectic as a method for attaining
perfection, 333—The later writings of Plotinus, 334.

IX. Four points of view from which every great philosophical system may
be considered, 334—Inferiority of Neo-Platonism to the older schools of
Greek thought in absolute value, 335—Deserved neglect into which it has
fallen, 336—In combining the metaphysics of Plato and Aristotle with
Stoicism, Plotinus eliminates the elements of truth and utility which
they severally contain, 336—High aesthetic value of Neo-Platonism,
338—Purity and unworldliness of Plotinus, 339—Complete self-absorption
of thought which he represents, 340.

X. Neo-Platonism not a product of Oriental tendencies, 341—Nor of the
religious revival of the empire, 342—Nor a mystical reaction against
Scepticism, 343—Independent attitude of Plotinus towards the old
religion, 344—His views on immortality, 345—His relation to pantheism,
346—His attack on the Gnostics, 347—Plotinus on the relation between
religion and morality, 348—Neo-Platonism a part of the great classical
revival, 349.

XI. The place of Plotinus in the history of philosophy, 350—The triumph
of spiritualism due to his teaching, 350—He secures the supremacy of
Plato and Aristotle during the Middle Ages, 351—His interpretation of
Plato universally accepted until a recent date, 352—The pantheistic
direction of modern metaphysics largely determined by Plotinus,
353—Neo-Platonic derivation of the Unknowable, 353—Atavism in
philosophy, 355.

XII. History of Neo-Platonism after Plotinus, 355—Its alliance with
the old religion, 356—Continued vitality of polytheism, 357—Increased
study of the classic philosophers, 358—Proclus and his system, 358—The
schools of Athens closed by Justinian, 360—The Greek professors in
Persia, 361—Final extinction of pagan philosophy, 362.


                              CHAPTER VI.

                 GREEK PHILOSOPHY AND MODERN THOUGHT       pages 363-430

I. Continuity in the history of thought, 363—The triumph of
spiritualism followed by a breach between the two spiritualistic
schools, 364—Importance of the Realistic controversy, 365—Why Realism
was at first favoured by the Church, 366—Revolution effected by the
introduction of Aristotle’s complete works into the West, 367—Platonic
reaction of the Renaissance, 368—Its influence on literature,
369—Shakspeare a Platonist, 370—Renewed ascendency of Aristotle in
science, 371.

II. Bacon as an Aristotelian, 372—History the matter of science,
373—Bacon’s method of arrangement taken from Aristotle, 374—Origin of
his confusion between Form and Law, 375—The superinduction of Forms
and the atomic theory, 376—Relation of the _Novum Organum_ to the
_Topics_, 377—The method of negative instances, 378—The Lord Chancellor
and Nature, 379—The utilisation of natural forces brought about by a
method opposed to Bacon’s, 380—Association of the formal philosophy of
Aristotle and Bacon with the geocentric astronomy, 381.

III. The philosophic importance of the Copernican system first
perceived by Giordano Bruno, 382—How it led to a revival of Atomism,
383—Common pantheistic tendency of the anti-Aristotelian schools,
384—The analytical method applied to mathematics, 385—Survival of
Aristotelian ideas in the physics of Galileo, 385—His affinities with
Plato, 386—Influence of Platonic ideas on Kepler, 387.

IV. Descartes’ theory of Matter derived from the _Timaeus_, 388—and
developed under the influence of Democritus, 389—How the identification
of Matter with Extension led to its complete separation from Thought,
390—The denial of final causes a consequence of this separation,
390—Difference between the Cartesian and Baconian views of teleology,
391—Doctrine of animal automatism, 391—Localisation of feeling in
the brain, 392—The _Cogito ergo sum_ and its antecedents in Greek
philosophy, 392—Descartes interprets Thought after the analogy
of Extension, 393—Revival of the Stoic and Epicurean materialism:
transition to Hobbes, 394.

V. Hobbes not a link between Bacon and Locke, 395—The different
meanings which they respectively attached to the notion of experience,
395—Deductive and mathematical method of Hobbes, 396—His opposition
to the ethics of Aristotle, 397—His identification of happiness with
power, 398—Subordination of the infinite to the finite in Greek
philosophy, 398—Contrast offered by the illimitable aspirations of the
Renaissance, 399—Elements out of which Spinozism was formed, 400.

VI. Platonic method of Spinoza, 401—The limiting principles of Greek
idealism, 402—Their tendency to coalesce in a single conception,
403—Similar result obtained by an analysis of extension and thought,
404—Genesis of Spinoza’s Infinite Substance, 405—The uses of unlimited
credit in metaphysics, 406—Spinoza’s theory of cognition, 407—The
identity of extension and thought, 408.

VII. Influence of Aristotle’s logic on Spinoza, 409—Meaning of ‘the
infinite intellect of God,’ 410—Contingency as a common property
of extension and thought, 411—The double-aspect theory not held by
Spinoza, 412—The distinction between necessity and contingency in its
application to ethics, 413—The study of illusion in Malebranche and
Molière, 414—Intellectual character of Spinoza’s ethics, 415—Parallel
between knowledge and virtue, 416—Enumeration of the Greek elements in
Spinoza’s philosophy, 417.

VIII. The place of Scepticism in Greek thought, 418—Parallel between
Locke and the New Academy, 419—Results obtained by a complete
application of the analytical method, 420—Close connexion between
philosophy and positive science, 420—Increased prominence given to
ethical and practical interests by the method of Locke, 421—The idea of
Nature and the revival of teleology, 422—New meaning given to hedonism
by modern philosophy, 423—The Stoic side of modern utilitarianism,
423—Different combinations of the same ideas in ancient and modern
systems, 425.

IX. Conflict between analytical criticism and scholasticism,
426—The theory of evolution as a new application of the atomistic
method, 427—Transitional character of the principal systems of the
nineteenth century, 428—Aristotelian ideas in modern French thought,
428—Contrasting relations of ancient and modern philosophy to theology,
430.




                        THE GREEK PHILOSOPHERS.




CHAPTER I.

THE STOICS.


I.

The systems of Plato and Aristotle were splendid digressions from the
main line of ancient speculation rather than stages in its regular
development. The philosophers who came after them went back to an
earlier tradition, and the influence of the two greatest Hellenic
masters, when it was felt at all, was felt almost entirely as a
disturbing or deflecting force. The extraordinary reach of their
principles could not, in truth, be appreciated until the organised
experience of mankind had accumulated to an extent requiring the
application of new rules for its comprehension and utilisation; and
to make such an accumulation possible, nothing less was needed than
the combined efforts of the whole western world. Such religious,
educational, social, and political reforms as those contemplated
in Plato’s _Republic_, though originally designed for a single
city-community, could not be realised, even approximately, within
a narrower field than that offered by the mediaeval church and the
feudal state. The ideal theory first gained practical significance
in connexion with the metaphysics of Christian theology. The place
given by Plato to mathematics has only been fully justified by the
development of modern science. So also, Aristotle’s criticism
became of practical importance only when the dreams against which
it was directed had embodied themselves in a fabric of oppressive
superstition. Only the vast extension of reasoned knowledge has enabled
us to disentangle the vitally important elements of Aristotle’s logic
from the mass of useless refinements in which they are imbedded; his
fourfold division of causes could not be estimated rightly even by
Bacon, Descartes, or Spinoza; while his arrangement of the sciences,
his remarks on classification, and his contributions to comparative
biology bring us up to the very verge of theories whose first
promulgation is still fresh in the memories of men.

Again, the spiritualism taught by Plato and Aristotle alike—by the
disciple, indeed, with even more distinctness than by the master—was
so entirely inconsistent with the common belief of antiquity as to
remain a dead letter for nearly six centuries—that is, until the time
of Plotinus. The difference between body and mind was recognised by
every school, but only as the difference between solid and gaseous
matter is recognised by us; while the antithesis between conscious
and unconscious existence, with all its momentous consequences, was
recognised by none. The old hypothesis had to be thoroughly thought out
before its insufficiency could be completely and irrevocably confessed.

Nor was this the only reason why the spiritualists lost touch of their
age. If in some respects they were far in advance of early Greek
thought, in other respects they were far behind it. Their systems
were pervaded by an unphilosophical dualism which tended to undo
much that had been achieved by their less prejudiced predecessors.
For this we have partly to blame their environment. The opposition
of God and the world, heaven and earth, mind and matter, necessity
in Nature and free-will in man, was a concession—though of course an
unconscious concession—to the stupid bigotry of Athens. Yet at the
same time they had failed to solve those psychological problems which
had most interest for an Athenian public. Instead of following up
the attempt made by the Sophists and Socrates to place morality on a
scientific foundation, they busied themselves with the construction
of a new machinery for diminishing the efficacy of temptation or for
strengthening the efficacy of law. To the question, What is the highest
good? Plato gave an answer which nobody could understand, and Aristotle
an answer which was almost absolutely useless to anybody but himself.
The other great problem, What is the ultimate foundation of knowledge?
was left in an equally unsatisfactory state. Plato never answered it at
all; Aristotle merely pointed out the negative conditions which must be
fulfilled by its solution.

It is not, then, surprising that the Academic and Peripatetic schools
utterly failed to carry on the great movement inaugurated by their
respective founders. The successors of Plato first lost themselves in
a labyrinth of Pythagorean mysticism, and then sank into the position
of mere moral instructors. The history of that remarkable revolution
by which the Academy regained a foremost place in Greek thought, will
form the subject of a future chapter: here we may anticipate so far
as to observe that it was effected by taking up and presenting in
its original purity a tradition of older date than Platonism, though
presented under a new aspect and mixed with other elements by Plato.
The heirs of Aristotle, after staggering on a few paces under the
immense burden of his encyclopaedic bequest, came to a dead halt, and
contented themselves with keeping the treasure safe until the time
should arrive for its appropriation and reinvestment by a stronger
speculative race.

No sooner did the two imperial systems lose their ascendency than the
germs which they had temporarily overshadowed sprang up into vigorous
vitality, and for more than five centuries dominated the whole
course not only of Greek but of European thought. Of these by far the
most important was the naturalistic idea, the belief that physical
science might be substituted for religious superstitions and local
conventions as an impregnable basis of conduct. In a former chapter[1]
we endeavoured to show that, while there are traces of this idea in the
philosophy of Heracleitus, and while its roots stretch far back into
the literature and popular faith of Greece, it was formulated for the
first time by the two great Sophists, Prodicus and Hippias, who, in the
momentous division between Nature and Law, placed themselves—Hippias
more particularly—on the side of Nature. Two causes led to the
temporary discredit of their teaching. One was the perversion by
which natural right became the watchword of those who, like Plato’s
Callicles, held that nothing should stand between the strong man
and the gratification of his desire for pleasure or for power. The
other was the keen criticism of the Humanists, the friends of social
convention, who held with Protagoras that Nature was unknowable, or
with Gorgias that she did not exist, or with Socrates that her laws
were the secret of the gods. It was in particular the overwhelming
personal influence of Socrates which triumphed. He drew away from the
Sophists their strongest disciple, Antisthenes, and convinced him that
philosophy was valuable only in so far as it became a life-renovating
power, and that, viewed in this light, it had no relation to anything
outside ourselves. But just as Socrates had discarded the physical
speculations of former teachers, so also did Antisthenes discard the
dialectic which Socrates had substituted for them, even to the extent
of denying that definition was possible.[2] Yet he seems to have kept
a firm hold on the two great ideas that were the net result of all
previous philosophy, the idea of a cosmos, the common citizenship of
which made all men potentially equal,[3] and the idea of reason as the
essential prerogative of man.[4]

Antisthenes pushed to its extreme consequences a movement begun by
the naturalistic Sophists. His doctrine was what would now be called
anarchic collectivism. The State, marriage, private property, and
the then accepted forms of religion, were to be abolished, and all
mankind were to herd promiscuously together.[5] Either he or his
followers, alone among the ancients, declared that slavery was wrong;
and, like Socrates, he held that the virtue of men and women was
the same.[6] But what he meant by this broad human virtue, which
according to him was identical with happiness, is not clear. We only
know that he dissociated it in the strongest manner from pleasure.
‘I had rather be mad than delighted,’ is one of his characteristic
sayings.[7] It would appear, however, that what he really objected
to was self-indulgence—the pursuit of sensual gratification for its
own sake—and that he was ready to welcome the enjoyments naturally
accompanying the healthy discharge of vital function.[8]

Antisthenes and his school, of which Diogenes is the most popular and
characteristic type, were afterwards known as Cynics; but the name
is never mentioned by Plato and Aristotle, nor do they allude to the
scurrility and systematic indecency afterwards associated with it.
The anecdotes relating to this unsavoury subject should be received
with extreme suspicion. There has always been a tendency to believe
that philosophers carry out in practice what are vulgarly believed to
be the logical consequences of their theories. Thus it is related of
Pyrrho the Sceptic that when out walking he never turned aside to
avoid any obstacle or danger, and was only saved from destruction by
the vigilance of his friends.[9] This is of course a silly fable; and
we have Aristotle’s word for it that the Sceptics took as good care
of their lives as other people.[10] In like manner we may conjecture
that the Cynics, advocating as they did a return to Nature and defiance
of prejudice, were falsely credited with what was falsely supposed
to be the practical exemplification of their precepts. It is at any
rate remarkable that Epictêtus, a man not disposed to undervalue the
obligations of decorum, constantly refers to Diogenes as a kind of
philosophical saint, and that he describes the ideal Cynic in words
which would apply without alteration to the character of a Christian
apostle.[11]

Cynicism, if we understand it rightly, was only the mutilated form of
an older philosophy having for its object to set morality free from
convention, and to found it anew on a scientific knowledge of natural
law. The need of such a system was not felt so long as Plato and
Aristotle were unfolding their wonderful schemes for a reorganisation
of action and belief. With the temporary collapse of those schemes
it came once more to the front. The result was a new school which so
thoroughly satisfied the demands of the age, that for five centuries
the noblest spirits of Greece and Rome, with few exceptions, adhered
to its doctrines; that in dying it bequeathed some of their most
vital elements to the metaphysics and the theology by which it was
succeeded; that with their decay it reappeared as an important factor
in modern thought; and that its name has become imperishably associated
in our own language with the proud endurance of suffering, the
self-sufficingness of conscious rectitude, and the renunciation of all
sympathy, except what may be derived from contemplation of the immortal
dead, whose heroism is recorded in history, or of the eternal cosmic
forces performing their glorious offices with unimpassioned energy and
imperturbable repose.


II.

One day, some few years after the death of Aristotle, a short, lean,
swarthy young man, of weak build, with clumsily shaped limbs, and head
inclined to one side, was standing in an Athenian bookshop, intently
studying a roll of manuscript. His name was Zeno, and he was a native
of Citium, a Greek colony in Cyprus, where the Hellenic element had
become adulterated with a considerable Phoenician infusion. According
to some accounts, Zeno had come to the great centre of intellectual
activity to study, according to others for the sale of Tyrian purple.
At any rate the volume which he held in his hand decided his vocation.
It was the second book of Xenophon’s Memoirs of Socrates. Zeno eagerly
asked where such men as he whose sayings stood recorded there were to
be found. At that moment the Cynic Crates happened to pass by. ‘There
is one of them,’ said the bookseller, ‘follow him.’[12]

The history of this Crates was distinguished by the one solitary
romance of Greek philosophy. A young lady of noble family, named
Hipparchia, fell desperately in love with him, refused several most
eligible suitors, and threatened to kill herself unless she was given
to him in marriage. Her parents in despair sent for Crates. Marriage,
for a philosopher, was against the principles of his sect, and he
at first joined them in endeavouring to dissuade her. Finding his
remonstrances unavailing, he at last flung at her feet the staff and
wallet which constituted his whole worldly possessions, exclaiming,
‘Here is the bridegroom, and that is the dower. Think of this matter
well, for you cannot be my partner unless you follow the same calling
with me.’ Hipparchia consented, and thenceforth, heedless of taunts,
conformed her life in every respect to the Cynic pattern.[13]

Zeno had more delicacy or less fortitude than Hipparchia; and the
very meagre intellectual fare provided by Crates must have left his
inquisitive mind unsatisfied. Accordingly we find him leaving this
rather disappointing substitute for Socrates, to study philosophy
under Stilpo the Megarian dialectician and Polemo the head of the
Academy;[14] while we know that he must have gone back to Heracleitus
for the physical basis from which contemporary speculation had by this
time cut itself completely free. At length, about the beginning of the
third century B.C., Zeno, after having been a learner for twenty years,
opened a school on his own account. As if to mark the practical bearing
of his doctrine he chose one of the most frequented resorts in the city
for its promulgation. There was at Athens a portico called the Poecile
Stoa, adorned with frescoes by Polygnôtus, the greatest painter of the
Cimonian period. It was among the monuments of that wonderful city,
at once what the Loggia dei Lanzi is to Florence, and what Raphael’s
Stanze are to Rome; while, like the Place de la Concorde in Paris, it
was darkened by the terrible associations of a revolutionary epoch.
A century before Zeno’s time fourteen hundred Athenian citizens had
been slaughtered under its colonnades by order of the Thirty. ‘I will
purify the Stoa,’ said the Cypriote stranger;[15] and the feelings
still associated with the word Stoicism prove how nobly his promise was
fulfilled.

How much of the complete system known in later times under this
name was due to Zeno himself, we do not know; for nothing but a
few fragments of his and of his immediate successors’ writings is
left. The idea of combining Antisthenes with Heracleitus, and both
with Socrates, probably belongs to the founder of the school. His
successor, Cleanthes, a man of character rather than of intellect,
was content to hand on what the master had taught. Then came another
Cypriote, Chrysippus, of whom we are told that without him the Stoa
would not have existed;[16] so thoroughly did he work out the system
in all its details, and so strongly did he fortify its positions
against hostile criticism by a framework of elaborate dialectic.
‘Give me the propositions, and I will find the proofs!’ he used to
say to Cleanthes.[17] After him, nothing of importance was added to
the doctrines of the school; although the spirit by which they were
animated seems to have undergone profound modifications in the lapse of
ages.

In reality, Stoicism was not, like the older Greek philosophies, a
creation of individual genius. It bears the character of a compilation
both on its first exposition and on its final completion. Polemo, who
had been a fine gentleman before he became a philosopher, taunted
Zeno with filching his opinions from every quarter, like the cunning
little Phoenician trader that he was.[18] And it was said that the
seven hundred treatises of Chrysippus would be reduced to a blank
if everything that he had borrowed from others were to be erased.
He seems, indeed, to have been the father of review-writers, and to
have used the reviewer’s right of transcription with more than modern
license. Nearly a whole tragedy of Euripides reappeared in one of his
‘articles,’ and a wit on being asked what he was reading, replied, ‘the
_Medea_ of Chrysippus.’[19]

In this respect Stoicism betrays its descent from the encyclopaedic
lectures of the earlier Sophists, particularly Hippias. While
professedly subordinating every other study to the art of virtuous
living, its expositors seem to have either put a very wide
interpretation on virtue, or else to have raised its foundation
to a most unnecessary height. They protested against Aristotle’s
glorification of knowledge as the supreme end, and declared
its exclusive pursuit to be merely a more refined form of
self-indulgence;[20] but, being Greeks, they shared the speculative
passion with him, and seized on any pretext that enabled them to
gratify it. And this inquisitiveness was apparently much stronger in
Asiatic Hellas, whence the Stoics were almost entirely recruited,
than in the old country, where centuries of intellectual activity had
issued in a scepticism from which their fresher minds revolted.[21]
It is mentioned by Zeller as a proof of exhaustion and comparative
indifference to such enquiries, that the Stoics should have fallen
back on the Heracleitean philosophy for their physics.[22] But all the
ideas respecting the constitution of Nature that were then possible had
already been put forward. The Greek capacity for discovery was perhaps
greater in the third century than at any former time; but from the very
progress of science it was necessarily confined to specialists, such as
Aristarchus of Samos or Archimedes. And if the Stoics made no original
contributions to physical science, they at least accepted what seemed
at that time to be its established results; here, as in other respects,
offering a marked contrast to the Epicurean school. If a Cleanthes
assailed the heliocentric hypothesis of Aristarchus on religious
grounds, he was treading in the footsteps of Aristotle. It is far
more important that he or his successors should have taught the true
theory of the earth’s shape, of the moon’s phases, of eclipses, and of
the relative size and distance of the heavenly bodies.[23] On this last
subject, indeed, one of the later Stoics, Posidonius, arrived at or
accepted conclusions which, although falling far short of the reality,
approximated to it in a very remarkable manner, when we consider what
imperfect means of measurement the Greek astronomers had at their
disposition.[24]

In returning to one of the older cosmologies, the Stoics placed
themselves in opposition to the system of Aristotle as a whole,
although on questions of detail they frequently adopted his
conclusions. The object of Heracleitus, as against the Pythagoreans,
had been to dissolve away every antithesis in a pervading unity
of contradictories; and, as against the Eleatics, to substitute
an eternal series of transformations for the changeless unity of
absolute existence. The Stoics now applied the same method on a scale
proportionate to the subsequent development of thought. Aristotle
had carefully distinguished God from the world, even to the extent
of isolating him from all share in its creation and interest in its
affairs. The Stoics declared that God and the world were one. So far,
it is allowable to call them pantheists. Yet their pantheism was very
different from what we are accustomed to denote by that name; from the
system of Spinoza, for example. Their strong faith in final causes and
in Providence—a faith in which they closely followed Socrates—would
be hardly consistent with anything but the ascription of a distinct
and individual consciousness to the Supreme Being, which is just
what modern pantheists refuse to admit. Their God was sometimes
described as the soul of the world, the fiery element surrounding and
penetrating every other kind of matter. What remained was the body
of God; but it was a body which he had originally created out of his
own substance, and would, in the fulness of time, absorb into that
substance again.[25] Thus they kept the future conflagration foretold
by Heracleitus, but gave it a more religious colouring. The process
of creation was then to begin over again, and all things were to run
the same course as before down to the minutest particulars, human
history repeating itself, and the same persons returning to live the
same lives once more.[26] Such a belief evidently involved the most
rigid fatalism: and here again their doctrine offers a pointed contrast
to that of Aristotle. The Stagirite, differing, as it would seem, in
this respect from all the older physicists, maintained that there was
an element of chance and spontaneity in the sublunary sphere; and
without going very deeply into the mechanism of motives or the theory
of moral responsibility, he had claimed a similar indeterminateness
for the human will. Stoicism would hear of neither; with it, as with
modern science, the chain of causation is unbroken from first to last,
and extends to all phenomena alike. The old theological notion of an
omnipotent divine will, or of a destiny superior even to that will, was
at once confirmed and continued by the new theory of natural law; just
as the predestination of the Reformers reappeared in the metaphysical
rationalism of Spinoza.[27]

This dogma of universal determinism was combined in the Stoical
system with an equally outspoken materialism. The capacity for either
acting or being acted on was, according to Plato, the one convincing
evidence of real existence; and he had endeavoured to prove that there
is such a thing as mind apart from matter by its possession of this
characteristic mark.[28] The Stoics simply reversed his argument.
Whatever acts or is acted on, they said, must be corporeal; therefore
the soul is a kind of body.[29] Here they only followed the common
opinion of all philosophers who believed in an external world,
except Plato and Aristotle, while to a certain extent anticipating
the scientific automatism first taught in modern times by Spinoza,
and simultaneously revived by various thinkers in our own day. To
a certain extent only; for they did not recognise the independent
reality of a consciousness in which the mechanical processes are either
reflected, or represented under a different aspect. And they further
gave their theory a somewhat grotesque expression by interpreting those
qualities and attributes of things, which other materialists have
been content to consider as belonging to matter, as themselves actual
bodies. For instance, the virtues and vices were, according to them,
so many gaseous currents by which the soul is penetrated and shaped—a
materialistic rendering of Plato’s theory that qualities are distinct
and independent substances.[30]

We must mention as an additional point of contrast between the Stoics
and the subsequent schools which they most resembled, that while these
look on the soul as inseparable from the body, and sharing its fortunes
from first to last, although perfectly distinct from it in idea, they
emphasised the antithesis between the two just as strongly as Plato,
giving the soul an absolutely infinite power of self-assertion during
our mortal life, and allowing it a continued, though not an immortal,
existence after death.[31]

What has been said of the human soul applies equally to God, who
is the soul of the world. He also is conceived under the form of a
material but very subtle and all-penetrating element to which our
souls are much more closely akin than to the coarse clay with which
they are temporarily associated. And it was natural that the heavenly
bodies, in whose composition the ethereal element seemed so visibly to
predominate, should pass with the Stoics, as with Plato and Aristotle,
for conscious beings inferior only in sacredness and majesty to the
Supreme Ruler of all.[32] Thus, the philosophy which we are studying
helps to prove the strength and endurance of the religious reaction to
which Socrates first gave an argumentative expression, and by which he
was ultimately hurried to his doom. We may even trace its increasing
ascendency through the successive stages of the Naturalistic school.
Prodicus simply identified the gods of polytheism with unconscious
physical forces;[33] Antisthenes, while discarding local worship,
believed, like Rousseau, in the existence of a single deity;[34] Zeno,
or his successors, revived the whole pantheon, but associated it with
a pure morality, and explained away its more offensive features by an
elaborate system of allegorical interpretation.[35]

It was not, however, by its legendary beliefs that the living power
of ancient religion was displayed, but by the study and practice of
divination. This was to the Greeks and Romans what priestly direction
is to a Catholic, or the interpretation of Scripture texts to a
Protestant believer. And the Stoics, in their anxiety to uphold
religion as a bulwark of morality, went entirely along with the popular
superstition; while at the same time they endeavoured to reconcile it
with the universality of natural law by the same clumsily rationalistic
methods that have found favour with some modern scientific defenders of
the miraculous. The signs by which we are enabled to predict an event
entered, they said, equally with the event itself, into the order of
Nature, being either connected with it by direct causation, as is the
configuration of the heavenly bodies at a man’s birth with his after
fortunes, or determined from the beginning of the world to precede it
according to an invariable rule, as with the indications derived from
inspecting the entrails of sacrificial victims. And when sceptics asked
of what use was the premonitory sign when everything was predestined,
they replied that our behaviour in view of the warning was predestined
as well.[36]

To us the religion of the Stoics is interesting chiefly as a part
of the machinery by which they attempted to make good the connexion
between natural and moral law, assumed rather than proved by their
Sophistic and Cynic precursors. But before proceeding to this branch
of the subject we must glance at their mode of conceiving another side
of the fundamental relationship between man and the universe. This is
logic in its widest sense, so understood as to include the theory of
the process by which we get our knowledge and of the ultimate evidence
on which it rests, no less than the theory of formal ratiocination.


III.

In their theory of cognition the Stoics chiefly followed Aristotle;
only with them the doctrine of empiricism is enunciated so distinctly
as to be placed beyond the reach of misinterpretation. The mind is at
first a _tabula rasa_, and all our ideas are derived exclusively from
the senses.[37] But while knowledge as a whole rests on sense, the
validity of each particular sense-perception must be determined by
an appeal to reason, in other words, to the totality of our acquired
experience.[38] So also the first principles of reasoning are not to be
postulated, with Aristotle, as immediately and unconditionally certain;
they are to be assumed as hypothetically true and gradually tested
by the consequences deducible from them.[39] Both principles well
illustrate the synthetic method of the Stoics—their habit of bringing
into close connexion whatever Aristotle had studiously held apart.
And we must maintain, in opposition to the German critics, that their
method marks a real advance on his. It ought at any rate to find more
favour with the experiential school of modern science, with those who
hold that the highest mathematical and physical laws are proved, not
by the impossibility of conceiving their contradictories, but by their
close agreement with all the facts accessible to our observation.

It was a consequence of the principle just stated that in formal
logic the Stoics should give precedence to the hypothetical over the
categorical syllogism.[40] From one point of view their preference
for this mode of stating an argument was an advance on the method
of Aristotle, whose reasonings, if explicitly set out, would have
assumed the form of disjunctive syllogisms. From another point of
view it was a return to the older dialectics of Socrates and Plato,
who always looked on their major premises as possessing only a
conditional validity—conditional, that is to say, on the consent of
their interlocutor. We have further to note that both the disjunctive
and the hypothetical syllogism were first recognised as such by the
Stoics; a discovery connected with the feature which most profoundly
distinguishes their logic from Aristotle’s logic. We showed, in dealing
with the latter, that it is based on an analysis of the concept, and
that all its imperfections are due to that single circumstance. It was
the Stoics who first brought judgment, so fatally neglected by the
author of the _Analytics_, into proper prominence. Having once grasped
propositions as the beginning and end of reasoning, they naturally and
under the guidance of common language, passed from simple to complex
assertions, and immediately detected the arguments to which these
latter serve as a foundation. And if we proceed to ask why they were
more interested in judgment than in conception, we shall probably
find the explanation to be that their philosophy had its root in the
ethical and practical interests which involve a continual process
of injunction and belief, that is to say, a continual association
of such disparate notions as an impression and an action; while the
Aristotelian philosophy, being ultimately derived from early Greek
thought, had for its leading principle the circumscription of external
objects and their representation under the form of a classified
series. Thus the naturalistic system, starting with the application of
scientific ideas to human life, ultimately carried back into science
the vital idea of Law; that is, of fixed relations subsisting between
disparate phenomena. And this in turn led to the reinterpretation
of knowledge as the subsumption of less general under more general
relations.

Under the guidance of a somewhat similar principle the Stoic logicians
attempted a reform of Aristotle’s categories. These they reduced to
four: Substance, Quality, Disposition, and Relation (τὸ ὑποκείμενον,
τὸ ποιὸν, τὸ πῶς ἔχον, and τὸ πρός τι πῶς ἔχον[41]); and the change
was an improvement in so far as it introduced a certain method and
subordination where none existed before; for each category implies, and
is contained in, its predecessor; whereas the only order traceable
in Aristotle’s categories refers to the comparative frequency of the
questions to which they correspond.

With the idea of subsumption and subordination to law, we pass at once
to the Stoic ethics. For Zeno, the end of life was self-consistency;
for Cleanthes, consistency with Nature; for Chrysippus, both the one
and the other.[42] The still surviving individualism of the Cynics is
represented in the first of these principles; the religious inspiration
of the Stoa in the second; and the comprehensiveness of its great
systematising intellect in the last. On the other hand, there is
a vagueness about the idea of self-consistency which seems to date
from a time when Stoicism was less a new and exclusive school than an
endeavour to appropriate whatever was best in the older schools. For to
be consistent is the common ideal of all philosophy, and is just what
distinguishes it from the uncalculating impulsiveness of ordinary life,
the chance inspirations of ordinary thought. But the Peripatetic who
chose knowledge as his highest good differed widely from the Hedonist
who made pleasure or painlessness his end; and even if they agreed in
thinking that the highest pleasure is yielded by knowledge, the Stoic
himself would assert that the object of their common pursuit was with
both alike essentially unmoral. He would, no doubt, maintain that the
self-consistency of any theory but his own was a delusion, and that
all false moralities would, if consistently acted out, inevitably
land their professors in a contradiction.[43] Yet the absence of
contradiction, although a valuable verification, is too negative a
mark to serve for the sole test of rightness; and thus we are led on
to the more specific standard of conformability to Nature, whether
our own or that of the universe as a whole. Here again a difficulty
presents itself. The idea of Nature had taken such a powerful hold on
the Greek mind that it was employed by every school in turn—except
perhaps by the extreme sceptics, still faithful to the traditions of
Protagoras and Gorgias—and was confidently appealed to in support of
the most divergent ethical systems. We find it occupying a prominent
place both in Plato’s _Laws_ and in Aristotle’s _Politics_; while the
maxim, Follow Nature, was borrowed by Zeno himself from Polemo, the
head of the Academy, or perhaps from Polemo’s predecessor, Xenocrates.
And Epicurus, the great opponent of Stoicism, maintained, not without
plausibility, that every animal is led by Nature to pursue its own
pleasure in preference to any other end.[44] Thus, when Cleanthes
declared that pleasure was unnatural,[45] he and the Epicureans could
not have been talking about the same thing. They must have meant
something different by pleasure or by nature or by both.

The last alternative seems the most probable. Nature with the Stoics
was a fixed objective order whereby all things work together as
co-operant parts of a single system. Each has a certain office to
perform, and the perfect performance of it is the creature’s virtue, or
reason, or highest good: these three expressions being always used as
strictly synonymous terms. Here we have the teleology, the dialectics,
and the utilitarianism of Socrates, so worked out and assimilated that
they differ only as various aspects of a single truth. The three lines
of Socratic teaching had also been drawn to a single point by Plato;
but his idealism had necessitated the creation of a new world for their
development and concentration. The idea of Nature as it had grown up
under the hands of Heracleitus, the Sophists, and Antisthenes, supplied
Zeno with a ready-made mould into which his reforming aspirations could
be run. The true Republic was not a pattern laid up in heaven, nor was
it restricted to the narrow dimensions of a single Hellenic state.
It was the whole real universe, in every part of which except in the
works of wicked men a divine law was recognised and obeyed.[46] Nay,
according to Cleanthes, God’s law is obeyed even by the wicked, and
the essence of morality consists only in its voluntary fulfilment. As
others very vividly put it, we are like a dog tied under a cart; if we
do not choose to run we shall be dragged along.[47]

It will now be better understood whence arose the hostility of the
Stoics to pleasure, and how they could speak of it in what seems such
a paradoxical style. It was subjective feeling as opposed to objective
law; it was relative, particular, and individual, as opposed to their
formal standard of right; and it was continually drawing men away from
their true nature by acting as a temptation to vice. Thus, probably
for the last reason, Cleanthes could speak of pleasure as contrary
to Nature; while less rigorous authorities regarded it as absolutely
indifferent, being a consequence of natural actions, not an essential
element in their performance. And when their opponents pointed to the
universal desire for pleasure as a proof that it was the natural end of
animated beings, the Stoics answered that what Nature had in view was
not pleasure at all, but the preservation of life itself.[48]

Such an interpretation of instinct introduces us to a new
principle—self-interest; and this was, in fact, recognised on all hands
as the foundation of right conduct; it was about the question, What is
our interest? that the ancient moralists were disagreed. The Cynics
apparently held that, for every being, simple existence is the only
good, and therefore with them virtue meant limiting oneself to the bare
necessaries of life; while by following Nature they meant reducing
existence to its lowest terms, and assimilating our actions, so far as
possible, to those of the lower animals, plants, or even stones, all of
which require no more than to maintain the integrity of their proper
nature.

Where the Cynics left off the Stoics began. Recognising simple
self-preservation as the earliest interest and duty of man, they held
that his ultimate and highest good was complete self-realisation, the
development of that rational, social, and beneficent nature which
distinguishes him from the lower animals.[49] Here their teleological
religion came in as a valuable sanction for their ethics. Epictêtus,
probably following older authorities, argues that self-love has
purposely been made identical with sociability. ‘The nature of an
animal is to do all things for its own sake. Accordingly God has so
ordered the nature of the rational animal that it cannot obtain any
particular good without at the same time contributing to the common
good. Because it is self-seeking it is not therefore unsocial.’[50]
But if our happiness depends on external goods, then we shall begin
to fight with one another for their possession:[51] friends, father,
country, the gods themselves, everything will, with good reason, be
sacrificed to their attainment. And, regarding this as a self-evident
absurdity, Epictêtus concludes that our happiness must consist solely
in a righteous will, which we know to have been the doctrine of his
whole school.

We have now reached the great point on which the Stoic ethics differed
from that of Plato and Aristotle. The two latter, while upholding
virtue as the highest good, allowed external advantages like pleasure
and exemption from pain to enter into their definition of perfect
happiness; nor did they demand the entire suppression of passion, but,
on the contrary, assigned it to a certain part in the formation of
character. We must add, although it was not a point insisted on by the
ancient critics, that they did not bring out the socially beneficent
character of virtue with anything like the distinctness of their
successors. The Stoics, on the other hand, refused to admit that there
was any good but a virtuous will, or that any useful purpose could be
served by irrational feeling. If the passions agree with virtue they
are superfluous, if they are opposed to it they are mischievous; and
once we give them the rein they are more likely to disagree with than
to obey it.[52] The severer school had more reason on their side than
is commonly admitted. Either there is no such thing as duty at all,
or duty must be paramount over every other motive—that is to say, a
perfect man will discharge his obligations at the sacrifice of every
personal advantage. There is no pleasure that he will not renounce, no
pain that he will not endure, rather than leave them unfulfilled. But
to assume this supremacy over his will, duty must be incommensurable
with any other motive; if it is a good at all, it must be the only
good. To identify virtue with happiness seems to us absurd, because
we are accustomed to associate it exclusively with those dispositions
which are the cause of happiness in others, or altruism; and happiness
itself with pleasure or the absence of pain, which are states of
feeling necessarily conceived as egoistic. But neither the Stoics
nor any other ancient moralists recognised such a distinction. All
agreed that public and private interest must somehow be identified;
the only question being, should one be merged in the other, and if so,
which? or should there be an illogical compromise between the two. The
alternative chosen by Zeno was incomparably nobler than the method of
Epicurus, while it was more consistent than the methods of Plato and
Aristotle. He regarded right conduct exclusively in the light of those
universal interests with which alone it is properly concerned; and if
he appealed to the motives supplied by personal happiness, this was a
confusion of phraseology rather than of thought.

The treatment of the passions by the Stoic school presents greater
difficulties, due partly to their own vacillation, partly to the very
indefinite nature of the feelings in question. It will be admitted that
here also the claims of duty are supreme. To follow the promptings of
fear or of anger, of pity or of love, without considering the ulterior
consequences of our action, is, of course, wrong. For even if, in
any particular instance, no harm comes of the concession, we cannot
be sure that such will always be the case; and meanwhile the passion
is strengthened by indulgence. And we have also to consider the bad
effect produced on the character of those who, finding themselves the
object of passion, learn to address themselves to it instead of to
reason. Difficulties arise when we begin to consider how far education
should aim at the systematic discouragement of strong emotion. Here
the Stoics seem to have taken up a position not very consistent either
with their appeals to Nature or with their teleological assumptions.
Nothing strikes one as more unnatural than the complete absence of
human feeling; and a believer in design might plausibly maintain that
every emotion conduced to the preservation either of the individual
or of the race. We find, however, that the Stoics, here as elsewhere
reversing the Aristotelian method, would not admit the existence of
a psychological distinction between reason and passion. According to
their analysis, the emotions are so many different forms of judgment.
Joy and sorrow are false opinions respecting good and evil in the
present: desire and fear, false opinions respecting good and evil in
the future.[53] But, granting a righteous will to be the only good,
and its absence the only evil, there can be no room for any of these
feelings in the mind of a truly virtuous man, since his opinions on the
subject of good are correct, and its possession depends entirely on
himself. Everything else arises from an external necessity, to strive
with which would be useless because it is inevitable, foolish because
it is beneficent, and impious because it is supremely wise.

It will be seen that the Stoics condemned passion not as the cause
of immoral actions but as intrinsically vicious in itself. Hence
their censure extended to the rapturous delight and passionate grief
which seem entirely out of relation to conduct properly so called.
This was equivalent to saying that the will has complete control
over emotion; a doctrine which our philosophers did not shrink from
maintaining. It might have been supposed that a position which the
most extreme supporters of free-will would hardly accept, would find
still less favour with an avowedly necessarian school. And to regard
the emotions as either themselves beliefs, or as inevitably caused
by beliefs, would seem to remove them even farther from the sphere
of moral responsibility. The Stoics, however, having arrived at the
perfectly true doctrine that judgment is a form of volition, seem to
have immediately invested it as such with the old associations of free
choice which they were at the same time busily engaged in stripping off
from other exercises of the same faculty. They took up the Socratic
paradox that virtue is knowledge; but they would not agree with
Socrates that it could be instilled by force of argument. To them vice
was not so much ignorance as the obstinate refusal to be convinced.[54]

The Stoic arguments are, indeed, when we come to analyse them, appeal
to authority rather than to the logical understanding. We are told
again and again that the common objects of desire and dread cannot
really be good or evil, because they are not altogether under our
control.[55] And if we ask why this necessarily excludes them from
the class of things to be pursued or avoided, the answer is that man,
having been created for perfect happiness, must also have been created
with the power to secure it by his own unaided exertions. But, even
granting the very doubtful thesis that there is any ascertainable
purpose in creation at all, it is hard to see how the Stoics could
have answered any one who chose to maintain that man is created for
enjoyment; since, judging by experience, he has secured a larger
share of it than of virtue, and is just as capable of gaining it by
a mere exercise of volition. For the professors of the Porch fully
admitted that their ideal sage had never been realised; which, with
their opinions about the indivisibility of virtue, was equivalent to
saying that there never had been such a thing as a good man at all.
Or, putting the same paradox into other words, since the two classes
of wise and foolish divide humanity between them, and since the former
class has only an ideal existence, they were obliged to admit that
mankind are not merely most of them fools, but all fools. And this,
as Plutarch has pointed out in his very clever attack on Stoicism,
is equivalent to saying that the scheme of creation is a complete
failure.[56]


IV.

The inconsistencies of a great philosophical system are best explained
by examining its historical antecedents. We have already attempted to
disentangle the roots from which Stoicism was nourished, but one of the
most important has not yet been taken into account. This was the still
continued influence of Parmenides, derived, if not from his original
teaching, then from some one or more of the altered shapes through
which it had passed. It has been shown how Zeno used the Heracleitean
method to break down all the demarcations laboriously built up by Plato
and Aristotle. Spirit was identified with matter; ideas with aerial
currents; God with the world; rational with sensible evidence; volition
with judgment; and emotion with thought. But the idea of a fundamental
antithesis, expelled from every other department of enquiry, took hold
with all the more energy on what, to Stoicism, was the most vital of
all distinctions—that between right and wrong.[57] Once grasp this
transformation of a metaphysical into a moral principle, and every
paradox of the system will be seen to follow from it with logical
necessity. What the supreme Idea had been to Plato and self-thinking
thought to Aristotle, that virtue became to the new school, simple,
unchangeable, and self-sufficient. It must not only be independent of
pleasure and pain, but absolutely incommensurable with them; therefore
there can be no happiness except what it gives. As an indivisible
unity, it must be possessed entirely or not at all; and being eternal,
once possessed it can never be lost. Further, since the same action may
be either right or wrong, according to the motive of its performance,
virtue is nothing external, but a subjective disposition, a state
of the will and the affections; or, if these are to be considered
as judgments, a state of the reason. Finally, since the universe is
organised reason, virtue must be natural, and especially consonant to
the nature of man as a rational animal; while, at the same time, its
existence in absolute purity being inconsistent with experience, it
must remain an unattainable ideal.

It has been shown in former parts of this work how Greek philosophy,
after straining an antithesis to the utmost, was driven by the very
law of its being to close or bridge over the chasm by a series of
accommodations and transitions. To this rule Stoicism was no exception;
and perhaps its extraordinary vitality may have been partly due to
the necessity imposed on its professors of continually revising their
ethics, with a view to softening down its most repellent features. We
proceed to sketch in rapid outline the chief artifices employed for
this purpose.

The doctrine, in its very earliest form, had left a large neutral
ground between good and evil, comprehending almost all the common
objects of desire and avoidance. These the Stoics now proceeded to
divide according to a similar principle of arrangement. Whatever,
without being morally good in the strictest sense, was either conducive
to morality, or conformable to human nature, or both, they called
preferable. Under this head came personal advantages, such as mental
accomplishments, beauty, health, strength, and life itself; together
with external advantages, such as wealth, honour, and high connexions.
The opposite to preferable things they called objectionable; and what
lay between the two, such as the particular coin selected to make a
payment with, absolutely indifferent.[58]

The thorough-going condemnation of passion was explained away to a
certain extent by allowing the sage himself to feel a slight touch
of the feelings which fail to shake his determination, like a scar
remaining after the wound is healed; and by admitting the desirability
of sundry emotions, which, though carefully distinguished from the
passions, seem to have differed from them in degree rather than in
kind.[59]

In like manner, the peremptory alternative between consummate wisdom
and utter folly was softened down by admitting the possibility of a
gradual progress from one to the other, itself subdivided into a number
of more or less advanced grades, recalling Aristotle’s idea of motion
as a link between Privation and Form.[60]

If there be a class of persons who although not perfectly virtuous are
on the road to virtue, it follows that there are moral actions which
they are capable of performing. These the Stoics called intermediate
or imperfect duties; and, in accordance with their intellectual
view of conduct, they defined them as actions for which a probable
reason might be given; apparently in contradistinction to those
which were deduced from a single principle with the extreme rigour
of scientific demonstration. Such intermediate duties would have for
their appropriate object the ends which, without being absolutely good,
were still relatively worth seeking, or the avoidance of what, without
being an absolute evil, was allowed to be relatively objectionable.
They stood midway between virtue and vice, just as the progressive
characters stood between the wise and the foolish, and preferable
objects between what was really good and what was really evil.

The idea of such a provisional code seems to have originated with
Zeno;[61] but the form under which we now know it is the result of
at least two successive revisions. The first and most important is
due to Panaetius, a Stoic philosopher of the second century B.C., on
whose views the study of Plato and Aristotle exercised a considerable
influence. A work of this teacher on the _Duties of Man_ furnished
Cicero with the materials for his celebrated _De Officiis_, under
which form its lessons have passed into the educational literature of
modern Europe. The Latin treatise is written in a somewhat frigid
and uninteresting style, whether through the fault of Cicero or of
his guide we cannot tell. The principles laid down are excellent,
but there is no vital bond of union holding them together. We can
hardly imagine that the author’s son, for whom the work was originally
designed, or anyone else since his time, felt himself much benefited
by its perusal. Taken, however, as a register of the height reached
by ordinary educated sentiment under the influence of speculative
ideas, and of the limits imposed by it in turn on their vagaries, after
four centuries of continual interaction, the _De Officiis_ presents
us with very satisfactory results. The old quadripartite division of
the virtues is reproduced; but each is treated in a large and liberal
spirit, marking an immense advance on Aristotle’s definitions, wherever
the two can be compared. Wisdom is identified with the investigation
of truth; and there is a caution against believing on insufficient
evidence, which advantageously contrasts with what were soon to be the
lessons of theology on the same subject. The other great intellectual
duty inculcated is to refrain from wasting our energies on difficult
and useless enquiries.[62] This injunction has been taken up and very
impressively repeated by some philosophers in our own time; but in the
mouth of Cicero it probably involved much greater restrictions on the
study of science than they would be disposed to admit. And the limits
now prescribed to speculation by Positivism will perhaps seem not less
injudicious, when viewed in the light of future discoveries, than
those fixed by the ancient moralists seem to us who know what would
have been lost had they always been treated with respect.

The obligations of justice come next. They are summed up in two
precepts that leave nothing to be desired: the first is to do no harm
except in self-defence; the second, to bear our share in a perpetual
exchange of good offices. And the foundation of justice is rightly
placed in the faithful fulfilment of contracts—an idea perhaps
suggested by Epicurus.[63] The virtue of fortitude is treated with
similar breadth, and so interpreted as to cover the whole field of
conduct, being identified not only with fearlessness in the face of
danger, but with the energetic performance of every duty. In a word,
it is opposed quite as much to slothfulness and irresolution as to
physical timidity.[64] Temperance preserves its old meaning of a
reasonable restraint exercised over the animal passions and desires;
and furthermore, it receives a very rich significance as the quality by
which we are enabled to discern and act up to the part assigned to us
in life by natural endowment, social position, and individual choice.
But this, as one of the most important ideas contributed by Stoicism
to subsequent thought, must be reserved for separate discussion in the
following section.

In addition to its system of intermediate duties, the Stoic ethics
included a code of casuistry which, to judge by some recorded
specimens, allowed a very startling latitude both to the ideal sage
and to the ordinary citizen. Thus, if Sextus Empiricus is to be
believed, the Stoics saw nothing objectionable about the trade of a
courtesan.[65] Chrysippus, like Socrates and Plato, denied that there
was any harm in falsehoods if they were told with a good intention.
Diogenes of Seleucia thought it permissible to pass bad money,[66]
and to sell defective articles without mentioning their faults;[67]
he was, however, contradicted on both points by another Stoic,
Antipater. Still more discreditable were the opinions of Hecato, a
disciple of Panaetius. He discussed the question whether a good man
need or need not feed his slaves in a time of great scarcity, with
an evident leaning towards the latter alternative; and also made it
a matter of deliberation whether in case part of a ship’s cargo had
to be thrown overboard, a valuable horse or a worthless slave should
be the more readily sacrificed. His answer is not given; but that the
point should ever have been mooted does not say much for the rigour
of his principles or for the benevolence of his disposition.[68] Most
outrageous of all, from the Stoic point of view, is the declaration of
Chrysippus that Heracleitus and Pherecydes would have done well to give
up their wisdom, had they been able by so doing to get rid of their
bodily infirmities at the same time.[69] That overstrained theoretical
severity should be accompanied by a corresponding laxity in practice
is a phenomenon of frequent occurrence; but that this laxity should
be exhibited so undisguisedly in the details of the theory itself,
goes beyond anything quoted against the Jesuits by Pascal, and bears
witness, after a fashion, to the extraordinary sincerity of Greek
thought.[70]

It was not, however, in any of these concessions that the Stoics found
from first to last their most efficient solution for the difficulties
of practical experience, but in the countenance they extended to an
act which, more than any other, might have seemed fatally inconsistent
both in spirit and in letter with their whole system, whether we choose
to call it a defiance of divine law, a reversal of natural instinct,
a selfish abandonment of duty, or a cowardly shrinking from pain. We
allude, of course, to their habitual recommendation of suicide. ‘If
you are not satisfied with life,’ they said, ‘you have only got to
rise and depart; the door is always open.’ Various circumstances were
specified in which the sage would exercise the privilege of ‘taking
himself off,’ as they euphemistically expressed it. Severe pain,
mutilation, incurable disease, advanced old age, the hopelessness
of escaping from tyranny, and in general any hindrance to leading a
‘natural’ life, were held to be a sufficient justification for such a
step.[71] The first founders of the school set an example afterwards
frequently followed. Zeno is said to have hanged himself for no better
reason than that he fell and broke his finger through the weakness of
old age; and Cleanthes, having been ordered to abstain temporarily
from food, resolved, as he expressed it, not to turn back after going
half-way to death.[72] This side of the Stoic doctrine found particular
favour in Rome, and the voluntary death of Cato was always spoken of
as his chief title to fame. Many noble spirits were sustained in their
defiance of the imperial despotism by the thought that there was one
last liberty of which not even Caesar could deprive them. Objections
were silenced by the argument that, life not being an absolute
good, its loss might fairly be preferred to some relatively greater
inconvenience.[73] But why the sage should renounce an existence where
perfect happiness depends entirely on his own will, neither was, nor
could it be, explained.


V.

If now, abandoning all technicalities, we endeavour to estimate the
significance and value of the most general ideas contributed by
Stoicism to ethical speculation, we shall find that they may be most
conveniently considered under the following heads. First of all,
the Stoics made morality completely inward. They declared that the
intention was equivalent to the deed, and that the wish was equivalent
to the intention—a view which has been made familiar to all by the
teaching of the Gospel, but the origin of which in Greek philosophy
has been strangely ignored even by rationalistic writers.[74] From the
inaccessibility of motives and feelings to direct external observation,
it follows that each man must be, in the last resort, his own judge.
Hence the notion of conscience is equally a Stoic creation. That we
have a mystical intuition informing us, prior to experience, of the
difference between right and wrong is, indeed, a theory quite alien
to their empirical derivation of knowledge. But that the educated
wrong-doer carries in his bosom a perpetual witness and avenger of
his guilt, they most distinctly asserted.[75] The difference between
ancient and modern tragedy is alone sufficient to prove the novelty
and power of this idea; for that the Eumenides do not represent even
the germ of a conscience is as certain as anything in mythology can
be.[76] On the other hand, the fallibility of conscience and the
extent to which it may be sophisticated were topics not embraced within
the limits of Stoicism, and perhaps never adequately illustrated by any
writer, even in modern times, except the great English novelist whose
loss we still deplore.

The second Stoic idea to which we would invite attention is that, in
the economy of life, every one has a certain function to fulfil, a
certain part to play, which is marked out for him by circumstances
beyond his control, but in the adequate performance of which his duty
and dignity are peculiarly involved. It is true that this idea finds no
assignable place in the teaching of the earliest Stoics, or rather in
the few fragments of their teaching which alone have been preserved;
but it is touched upon by Cicero under the head of Temperance, in the
adaptation from Panaetius already referred to; it frequently recurs
in the lectures of Epictêtus; and it is enunciated with energetic
concision in the solitary meditations of Marcus Aurelius.[77] The
belief spoken of is, indeed, closely connected with the Stoic
teleology, and only applies to the sphere of free intelligence a
principle like that supposed to regulate the activity of inanimate or
irrational beings. If every mineral, every plant, and every animal has
its special use and office, so also must we, according to the capacity
of our individual and determinate existence. By accomplishing the work
thus imposed on us, we fulfil the purpose of our vocation, we have done
all that the highest morality demands, and may with a clear conscience
leave the rest to fate. To put the same idea into somewhat different
terms: we are born into certain relationships, domestic, social, and
political, by which the lines of our daily duties are prescribed with
little latitude for personal choice. What does depend upon ourselves is
to make the most of these conditions and to perform the tasks arising
out of them in as thorough a manner as possible. ‘It was not only out
of ivory,’ says Seneca, ‘that Pheidias could make statues, but out of
bronze as well; had you offered him marble or some cheaper material
still, he would have carved the best that could be made out of that.
So the sage will exhibit his virtue in wealth, if he be permitted; if
not, in poverty; if possible, in his own country; if not, in exile; if
possible, as a general; if not, as a soldier; if possible, in bodily
vigour; if not, in weakness. Whatever fortune be granted him, he will
make it the means for some memorable achievement.’ Or, to take the more
homely comparisons of Epictêtus: ‘The weaver does not manufacture his
wool, but works up what is given him.’ ‘Remember that you are to act in
whatever drama the manager may choose, a long or short one according
to his pleasure. Should he give you the part of a beggar, take care
to act that becomingly; and the same should it be a lame man, or a
magistrate, or a private citizen. For your business is to act well the
character that is given to you, but to choose it is the business of
another.‘So spoke the humble freedman; but the master of the world had
also to recognise what fateful limits were imposed on his beneficent
activity. ‘Why wait, O man!’ exclaims Marcus Aurelius. ‘Do what Nature
now demands; make haste and look not round to see if any know it; nor
hope for Plato’s Republic, but be content with the smallest progress,
and consider that the result even of this will be no little thing.’[78]
Carlyle was not a Stoic; but in this respect his teaching breathes the
best spirit of Stoicism; and, to the same extent also, through his
whole life he practised what he taught.

The implications of such an ethical standard are, on the whole,
conservative; it is assumed that social institutions are, taking them
altogether, nearly the best possible at any moment; and that our
truest wisdom is to make the most of them, instead of sighing for
some other sphere where our grand aspirations or volcanic passions
might find a readier outlet for their feverish activity. And if the
teaching of the first Stoics did not take the direction here indicated,
it was because they, with the communistic theories inherited from
their Cynic predecessors, began by condemning all existing social
distinctions as irrational. They wished to abolish local religion,
property, the family, and the State, as a substitute for which the
whole human race was to be united under a single government, without
private possessions or slaves, and with a complete community of women
and children.[79] It must, however, have gradually dawned on them that
such a radical subversion of the present system was hardly compatible
with their belief in the providential origin of all things; and that,
besides this, the virtues which they made it so much their object to
recommend, would be, for the most part, superfluous in a communistic
society. At the same time, the old notion of Sôphrosynê as a virtue
which consisted in minding one’s own business, or, stated more
generally, in discerning and doing whatever work one is best fitted
for, would continue to influence ethical teaching, with the effect of
giving more and more individuality to the definition of duty. And the
Stoic idea of a perfect sage, including as it did the possession of
every accomplishment and an exclusive fitness for discharging every
honourable function, would seem much less chimerical if interpreted
to mean that a noble character, while everywhere intrinsically the
same, might be realised under as many divergent forms as there are
opportunities for continuous usefulness in life.[80]

We can understand, then, why the philosophy which, when first
promulgated, had tended to withdraw its adherents from participation
in public life, should, when transplanted to Roman soil, have become
associated with an energetic interest in politics; why it was so
eagerly embraced by those noble statesmen who fought to the death in
defence of their ancient liberties; how it could become the cement
of a senatorial opposition under the worst Caesars; how it could be
the inspiration and support of Rome’s Prime Minister during that
_quinquennium Neronis_ which was the one bright episode in more than
half a century of shame and terror; how, finally, it could mount the
throne with Marcus Aurelius, and prove, through his example, that
the world’s work might be most faithfully performed by one in whose
meditations mere worldly interests occupied the smallest space. Nor
can we agree with Zeller in thinking that it was the nationality, and
not the philosophy, of these disciples which made them such efficient
statesmen.[81] On the contrary, it seems to us that the ‘Romanism’ of
these men was inseparable from their philosophy, and that they were all
the more Roman because they were Stoics as well.

The third great idea of Stoicism was its doctrine of humanity. Men are
all children of one Father, and citizens of one State; the highest
moral law is, Follow Nature, and Nature has made them to be social
and to love one another; the private interest of each is, or should
be, identified with the universal interest; we should live for others
that we may live for ourselves; even to our enemies we should show
love and not anger; the unnaturalness of passion is proved by nothing
more clearly than by its anti-social and destructive tendencies. Here,
also, the three great Stoics of the Roman empire—Seneca, Epictêtus,
and Marcus Aurelius—rather than the founders of the school, must be
our authorities;[82] whether it be because their lessons correspond to
a more developed state of thought, or simply because they have been
more perfectly preserved. The former explanation is, perhaps, the more
generally accepted. There seems, however, good reason for believing
that the idea of universal love—the highest of all philosophical ideas
next to that of the universe itself—dates further back than is commonly
supposed. It can hardly be due to Seneca, who had evidently far more
capacity for popularising and applying the thoughts of others than for
original speculation, and who on this subject expresses himself with
a rhetorical fluency not usually characterising the exposition of new
discoveries. The same remark applies to his illustrious successors,
who, while agreeing with him in tone, do not seem to have drawn on
his writings for their philosophy. It is also clear that the idea in
question springs from two essentially Stoic conceptions: the objective
conception of a unified world, a cosmos to which all men belong; and
the subjective conception of a rational nature common to them all.
These, again, are rooted in early Greek thought, and were already
emerging into distinctness at the time of Socrates. Accordingly we find
that Plato, having to compose a characteristic speech for the Sophist
Hippias, makes him say that like-minded men are by nature kinsmen and
friends to one another.[83] Nature, however, soon came to be viewed
under a different aspect, and it was maintained, just as by some living
philosophers, that her true law is the universal oppression of the weak
by the strong. Then the idea of mind came in as a salutary corrective.
It had supplied a basis for the ethics of Protagoras, and still more
for the ethics of Socrates; it was now combined with its old rival by
the Stoics, and from their union arose the conception of human nature
as something allied with and illustrated by all other forms of animal
life, yet capable, if fully developed, of rising infinitely above them.
Nevertheless, the individual and the universal element were never quite
reconciled in the Stoic ethics. The altruistic quality of justice was
clearly perceived; but no attempt was made to show that all virtue is
essentially social, and has come to be recognised as obligatory on
the individual mainly because it conduces to the safety of the whole
community. The learner was told to conquer his passions for his own
sake rather than for the sake of others; and indulgence in violent
anger, though more energetically denounced, was, in theory, placed on
a par with immoderate delight or uncontrollable distress. So also,
vices of impurity were classed with comparatively harmless forms of
sensuality, and considered in reference, not to the social degradation
of their victims, but to the spiritual defilement of their perpetrators.

Yet, while the Stoics were far from anticipating the methods of
modern Utilitarianism, they were, in a certain sense, strict
Utilitarians—that is to say, they measured the goodness or badness
of actions by their consequences; in other words, by their bearing
on the supposed interest of the individual or of the community. They
did not, it is true, identify interest with pleasure or the absence
of pain; but although, in our time, Hedonism and Utilitarianism are,
for convenience, treated as interchangeable terms, they need not
necessarily be so. If any one choose to regard bodily strength, health,
wealth, beauty, intellect, knowledge, or even simple existence, as the
highest good and the end conduciveness to which determines the morality
of actions, he is a Utilitarian; and, even if it could be shown that a
maximum of happiness would be ensured by the attainment of his end, he
would not on that account become a Hedonist. Now it is certain that the
early Stoics, at least, regarded the preservation of the human race as
an end which rightfully took precedence of every other consideration;
and, like Charles Austin, they sometimes pushed their principles to
paradoxical or offensive extremes, apparently for no other purpose
than that of affronting the common feelings of mankind,[84] without
remembering that such feelings were likely to represent embodied
experiences of utility. Thus—apart from their communistic theories—they
were fond of specifying the circumstances in which incest would become
legitimate; and they are said not only to have sanctioned cannibalism
in cases of extreme necessity, but even to have recommended its
introduction as a substitute for burial or cremation; although this, we
may hope, was rather a grim illustration of what they meant by moral
indifference than a serious practical suggestion.[85]

Besides the encouragement which it gave to kind offices between
friends and neighbours, the Stoic doctrine of humanity and mutual
love was honourably exemplified in Seneca’s emphatic condemnation of
the gladiatorial games and of the horrible abuses connected with
domestic slavery in Rome.[86] But we miss a clear perception that
such abuses are always and everywhere the consequences of slavery;
and the outspoken abolitionism of the naturalists alluded to by
Aristotle does not seem to have been imitated by their successors in
later ages.[87] The most one can say is that the fiction of original
liberty was imported into Roman jurisprudence through the agency of
Stoic lawyers, and helped to familiarise men’s minds with the idea
of universal emancipation before political and economical conditions
permitted it to be made a reality.


VI.

It is probable that the philanthropic tendencies of the Stoics
were, to a great extent, neutralised by the extreme individualism
which formed the reverse side of their philosophical character; and
also by what may be called the subjective idealism of their ethics.
According to their principles, no one can really do good to any one
else, since what does not depend on my will is not a good to me. The
altruistic virtues are valuable, not as sources of beneficent action,
but as manifestations of benevolent sentiment. Thus, to set on foot
comprehensive schemes for the relief of human suffering seemed no part
of the Stoic’s business. And the abolition of slavery, even had it been
practicable, would have seemed rather superfluous to one who held that
true freedom is a mental condition within the reach of all who desire
it,[88] while the richest and most powerful may be, and for the most
part actually are, without it. Moreover, at the time when philosophy
gained its greatest ascendency, the one paramount object of practical
statesmen must have been to save civilisation from the barbarians,
a work to which Marcus Aurelius devoted his life. Hence we learn
without surprise that the legislative efforts of the imperial Stoic
were directed to the strengthening, rather than to the renovation,
of ancient institutions.[89] Certain enactments were, indeed, framed
for the protection of those who took part in the public games. It was
provided, with a humanity from which even our own age might learn
something, that performers on the high rope should be ensured against
the consequences of an accidental fall by having the ground beneath
them covered with feather beds; and the gladiators were only allowed
to fight with blunted weapons.[90] It must, however, be noted that in
speaking of the combats with wild beasts which were still allowed to
continue under his reign, Marcus Aurelius dwells only on the monotonous
character which made them exceedingly wearisome to a cultivated mind;
just as a philosophic sportsman may sometimes be heard to observe
that shooting one grouse is very like shooting another; while elsewhere
he refers with simple contempt to the poor wretches who, when already
half-devoured by the wild beasts, begged to be spared for another
day’s amusement.[91] Whether he knew the whole extent of the judicial
atrocities practised on his Christian subjects may well be doubted;
but it maybe equally doubted whether, had he known it, he would have
interfered to save them. Pain and death were no evils; but it was an
evil that the law should be defied.[92]

Those manifestations of sympathy which are often so much more precious
than material assistance were also repugnant to Stoic principles. On
this subject, Epictêtus expresses himself with singular harshness.
‘Do not,’ he says, ‘let yourself be put out by the sufferings of your
friends. If they are unhappy, it is their own fault. God made them
for happiness, not for misery. They are grieved at parting from you,
are they? Why, then, did they set their affections on things outside
themselves? If they suffer for their folly it serves them right.’[93]

On the other hand, if Stoicism did not make men pitiful, it made them
infinitely forgiving. Various causes conspired to bring about this
result. If all are sinners, and if all sins are equal, no one has
a right, under pretence of superior virtue, to cast a stone at his
fellows. Such is the point of view insisted on with especial emphasis
by Seneca, who, more perhaps than other philosophers, had reason to be
conscious how far his practice fell short of his professions.[94] But,
speaking generally, pride was the very last fault with which the Stoics
could be charged. Both in ancient and modern times, satirists have been
prone to assume that every disciple of the Porch, in describing his
ideal of a wise man, was actually describing himself. No misconception
could be more complete. It is like supposing that, because Christ
commanded his followers to be perfect even as their heavenly Father
is perfect, every Christian for that reason thinks himself equal to
God. The wise man of the Stoics had, by their own acknowledgment, never
been realised at all; he had only been approached by three characters,
Socrates, Antisthenes, and Diogenes.[95] ‘May the sage fall in love?’
asked a young man of Panaetius. ‘What the sage may do,’ replied the
master, ‘is a question to be considered at some future time. Meanwhile,
you and I, who are very far from being sages, had better take care not
to let ourselves become the slaves of a degrading passion.’[96]

In the next place, if it is not in the power of others to injure us,
we have no right to resent anything that they can do to us. So argues
Epictêtus, who began to learn philosophy when still a slave, and
was carefully prepared by his instructor, Musonius, to bear without
repining whatever outrages his master might choose to inflict on him.
Finally, to those who urged that they might justly blame the evil
intentions of their assailants, Marcus Aurelius could reply that even
this was too presumptuous, that all men did what they thought right,
and that the motives of none could be adequately judged except by
himself.[97] And all the Stoics found a common ground for patience
in their optimistic fatalism, in the doctrine that whatever happens
is both necessarily determined, and determined by absolute goodness
combined with infallible wisdom.[98]

Doctrines like these, if consistently carried out, would have utterly
destroyed so much of morality as depends on the social sanction; while,
by inculcating the absolute indifference of external actions, they
might ultimately have paralysed the individual conscience itself. But
the Stoics were not consistent. Unlike some modern moralists, who
are ready to forgive every injury so long as they are not themselves
the victims, our philosophers were unsparing in their denunciations
of wrong-doing; and it is very largely to their indignant protests
that we are indebted for our knowledge of the corruption prevalent
in Roman society under the Empire. It may even be contended that, in
this respect, our judgment has been unfairly biassed. The picture
drawn by the Stoics, or by writers trained under their influence,
seems to have been too heavily charged with shadow; and but for the
archaeological evidence we should not have known how much genuine human
affection lay concealed in those lower social strata whose records can
only be studied on their tombs.[99] It was among these classes that
Christianity found the readiest acceptance, simply because it gave a
supernatural sanction to habits and sentiments already made familiar by
the spontaneous tendencies of an unwarlike régime.


VII.

Before parting with Stoicism we have to say a few words on the
metaphysical foundation of the whole system—the theory of Nature
considered as a moral guide and support. It has been shown that
the ultimate object of this, as of many other ethical theories,
both ancient and modern, was to reconcile the instincts of
individual self-preservation with virtue, which is the instinct of
self-preservation in an entire community. The Stoics identified both
impulses by declaring that virtue is the sole good of the individual
no less than the supreme interest of the whole; thus involving
themselves in an insoluble contradiction. For, from their nominalistic
point of view, the good of the whole can be nothing but an aggregate
of particular goods, or else a means for their attainment; and in
either case the happiness of the individual has to be accounted for
apart from his duty. And an analysis of the special virtues and
vices would equally have forced them back on the assumption, which
they persistently repudiated, that individual existence and pleasure
are intrinsically good, and their opposites intrinsically evil. To
prove their fundamental paradox—the non-existence of individual as
distinguished from social interest—the Stoics employed the analogy of
an organised body where the good of the parts unquestionably subserves
the good of the whole;[100] and the object of their teleology was
to show that the universe and, by implication, the human race, were
properly to be viewed in that light. The acknowledged adaptation of
life to its environment furnished some plausible arguments in support
of their thesis; and the deficiencies were made good by a revival of
the Heracleitean theory in which the unity of Nature was conceived
partly as a necessary interdependence of opposing forces, partly as a
perpetual transformation of every substance into every other. Universal
history also tended to confirm the same principle in its application
to the human race. The Macedonian, and still more the Roman empire,
brought the idea of a world-wide community living under the same laws
ever nearer to its realisation; the decay of the old religion and the
old civic patriotism set free a vast fund of altruism which now took
the form of simple philanthropy; while a rank growth of immorality
offered ever new opportunities for an indignant protest against
senseless luxury and inhuman vice. This last circumstance, however, was
not allowed to prejudice the optimism of the system; for the fertile
physics of Heracleitus suggested a method by which moral evil could
be interpreted as a necessary concomitant of good, a material for the
perpetual exercise and illustration of virtuous deeds.[101]

Yet, if the conception of unity was gaining ground, the conceptions
of purpose and vitality must have been growing weaker as the triumph
of brute force prolonged itself without limit or hope of redress.
Hence Stoicism in its later form shows a tendency to dissociate the
dynamism of Heracleitus from the teleology of Socrates, and to lean on
the former rather than on the latter for support. One symptom of this
changed attitude is a blind worship of power for its own sake. We find
the renunciation of pleasure and the defiance of pain appreciated more
from an aesthetic than from an ethical point of view; they are exalted
almost in the spirit of a Red Indian, not as means to higher ends, but
as manifestations of unconquerable strength; and sometimes the highest
sanction of duty takes the form of a morbid craving for applause, as if
the universe were an amphitheatre and life a gladiatorial game.[102]

The noble spirit of Marcus Aurelius was, indeed, proof against such
temptations: and he had far more to dread than to hope from the
unlightened voice of public opinion; but to him also, ‘standing between
two eternities,’ Nature presented herself chiefly under the aspect of
an overwhelming and absorbing Power. Pleasure is not so much dangerous
as worthless, weak, and evanescent. Selfishness, pride, anger, and
discontent will soon be swept into abysmal gulfs of oblivion by the
roaring cataract of change. Universal history is one long monotonous
procession of phantasms passing over the scene into death and utter
night. In one short life we may see all that ever was, or is, or is
to be; the same pageant has already been and shall be repeated an
infinite number of times. Nothing endures but the process of unending
renovation: we must die that the world may be ever young. Death itself
only reunites us with the absolute All whence we come, in which we
move, and whither we return.[103] But the imperial sage makes no
attempt to explain why we should ever have separated ourselves from it
in thought; or why one life should be better worth living than another
in the universal vanity of things.

The physics of Stoicism was, in truth, the scaffolding rather than
the foundation of its ethical superstructure. The real foundation was
the necessity of social existence, formulated under the influence of
a logical exclusiveness first introduced by Parmenides, and inherited
from his teaching by every system of philosophy in turn. Yet there is
no doubt that Stoic morality was considerably strengthened and steadied
by the support it found in conceptions derived from a different
order of speculations; so much so that at last it grew to conscious
independence of that support.

Marcus Aurelius, a constant student of Lucretius, seems to have had
occasional misgivings with respect to the certainty of his own creed;
but they never extended to his practical beliefs. He was determined
that, whatever might be the origin of this world, his relation to
it should be still the same. ‘Though things be purposeless, act not
thou without a purpose.’ ‘If the universe is an ungoverned chaos, be
content that in that wild torrent thou hast a governing reason within
thyself.’[104]

There seems, then, good reason for believing that the law of duty,
after being divorced from mythology, and seriously compromised by
its association, even among the Stoics themselves, with our egoistic
instincts, gained an entirely new authority when placed, at least in
appearance, under the sanction of a power whose commands did not even
admit of being disobeyed. And the question spontaneously presents
itself whether we, after getting rid of the old errors and confusions,
may profitably employ the same method in defence of the same
convictions, whether the ancient alliance between fact and right can be
reorganised on a basis of scientific proof.

A great reformer of the last generation, finding that the idea of
Nature was constantly put forward to thwart his most cherished
schemes, prepared a mine for its destruction which was only exploded
after his death. Seldom has so powerful a charge of logical dynamite
been collected within so small a space as in Mill’s famous Essay
on Nature. But the immediate effect was less than might have been
anticipated, because the attack was supposed to be directed against
religion, whereas it was only aimed at an abstract metaphysical dogma,
not necessarily connected with any theological beliefs, and held by
many who have discarded all such beliefs. A stronger impression was,
perhaps, produced by the nearly simultaneous declaration of Sir W.
Gull—in reference to the supposed _vis medicatrix naturae_—that, in
cases of disease, ‘what Nature wants is to put the man in his coffin.’
The new school of political economists have also done much to show
that legislative interference with the ‘natural laws’ of wealth need
by no means be so generally mischievous as was once supposed. And the
doctrine of Evolution, besides breaking down the old distinctions
between Nature and Man, has represented the former as essentially
variable, and therefore, to that extent, incapable of affording a fixed
standard for moral action. It is, however, from this school that a new
attempt to rehabilitate the old physical ethics has lately proceeded.
The object of Mr. Herbert Spencer’s _Data of Ethics_ is, among other
points, to prove that a true morality represents the ultimate stage of
evolution, and reproduces in social life that permanent equilibration
towards which every form of evolution constantly tends. And Mr. Spencer
also shows how evolution is bringing about a state of things in
which the self-regarding shall be finally harmonised with the social
impulses. Now, it will be readily admitted that morality is a product
of evolution in this sense that it is a gradual formation, that it
is the product of many converging conditions, and that it progresses
according to a certain method. But that the same method is observed
through all orders of evolution seems less evident. For instance, in
the formation, first of the solar system, and then of the earth’s
crust, there is a continual loss of force, while in the development
of organic life there is as continual a gain; and on arriving at
subjective phenomena, we are met by facts which, in the present state
of our knowledge, cannot advantageously be expressed in terms of
force and matter at all. Even if we do not agree with George Sand in
thinking that self-sacrifice is the only virtue, we must admit that the
possibility, at least, of its being sometimes demanded is inseparable
from the idea of duty. But self-sacrifice cannot be conceived without
consciousness; which is equivalent to saying that it involves other
than mechanical notions. Thus we are confronted by the standing
difficulty of all evolutionary theories, and on a point where that
difficulty is peculiarly sensible. Nor is this an objection to be got
rid of by the argument that it applies to all philosophical systems
alike. To an idealist, the dependence of morality on consciousness is
a practical confirmation of his professed principles. Holding that the
universal forms of experience are the conditions under which an object
is apprehended, rather than modifications imposed by an unknowable
object on an unknowable subject, and that these forms are common to
all intelligent beings, he holds also that the perception of duty is
the widening of our individual selves into that universal self which is
the subjective side of all experience.

Again, whatever harmony evolution may introduce into our conceptions,
whatever hopes it may encourage with regard to the future of our
race, one does not see precisely what sanction it gives to morality
at present—that is to say, how it makes self-sacrifice easier than
before. Because certain forces have been unconsciously working towards
a certain end through ages past, why should I consciously work towards
the same end? If the perfection of humanity is predetermined, my
conduct cannot prevent its consummation; if it in any way depends
on me, the question returns, why should my particular interests be
sacrificed to it? The man who does not already love his contemporaries
whom he has seen is unlikely to love them the more for the sake of
a remote posterity whom he will never see at all. Finally, it must
be remembered that evolution is only half the cosmic process; it is
partially conditioned at every stage by dissolution, to which in the
long run it must entirely give way; and if, as Mr. Spencer observes,
evolution is the more interesting of the two,[105] this preference is
itself due to the lifeward tendency of our thoughts; in other words, to
those moral sentiments which it is sought to base on what, abstractedly
considered, has all along been a creation of their own.

The idea of Nature, or of the universe, or of human history as a
whole—but for its evil associations with fanaticism and superstition,
we should gladly say the belief in God—is one the ethical value of
which can be more easily felt than analysed. We do not agree with the
most brilliant of the English Positivists in restricting its influence
to the aesthetic emotions.[106] The elevating influence of these should
be fully recognised; but the place due to more severely intellectual
pursuits in moral training is greater far. Whatever studies tend
to withdraw us from the petty circle of our personal interests and
pleasures, are indirectly favourable to the preponderance of social
over selfish impulses; and the service thus rendered is amply repaid,
since these very studies necessitate for their continuance a large
expenditure of moral energy. It might even be contended that the
influence of speculation on practice is determined by the previous
influence of practice on speculation. Physical laws act as an armature
to the law of duty, extending and perpetuating its grasp on the
minds of men; but it was through the magnetism of duty that their
confused currents were first drawn into parallelism and harmony with
its attraction. We have just seen how, from this point of view, the
interpretation of evolution by conscience might be substituted for the
interpretation of conscience by evolution. Yet those who base morality
on religion, or give faith precedence over works, have discerned with a
sure though dim instinct the dependence of noble and far-sighted action
on some paramount intellectual initiative and control; in other words,
the highest ethical ideals are conditioned by the highest philosophical
generalisations. Before the Greeks could think of each man as a citizen
of the world, and as bound to all other rational beings by virtue
of a common origin and a common abode, it was first necessary that
they should think of the world itself as an orderly and comprehensive
whole. And what was once a creative, still continues to work as an
educating force. Our aspirations towards agreement with ourselves and
with humanity as a whole are strengthened by the contemplation of that
supreme unity which, even if it be but the glorified reflection of our
individual or generic identity, still remains the idea in and through
which those lesser unities were first completely realised—the idea
which has originated all man’s most fruitful faiths, and will at last
absorb them all. Meanwhile our highest devotion can hardly find more
fitting utterance than in the prayer which once rose to a Stoic’s
lips:—

    But Jove all-bounteous! who, in clouds
      enwrapt, the lightning wieldest;
    May’st Thou from baneful Ignorance
      the race of men deliver!
    This, Father! scatter from the soul,
      and grant that we the wisdom
    May reach, in confidence of which,
      Thou justly guidest all things;
    That we, by Thee in honour set,
      with honour may repay Thee,
    Raising to all thy works a hymn
      perpetual; as beseemeth
    A mortal soul: since neither man
      nor god has higher glory
    Than rightfully to celebrate
      Eternal Law all-ruling.[107]




CHAPTER II.

EPICURUS AND LUCRETIUS.


I.

Among the systems of ancient philosophy, Epicureanism is remarkable
for the completeness with which its doctrines were worked out by their
first author, and for the fidelity with which they were handed down to
the latest generation of his disciples. For a period of more than five
hundred years, nothing was added to, and nothing was taken away from,
the original teaching of Epicurus. In this, as in other respects, it
offers a striking contrast to the system which we last reviewed. In our
sketch of the Stoic philosophy, we had to notice the continual process
of development through which it passed, from its commencement to its
close. There is a marked difference between the earlier and the later
heads of the school at Athens—between these, as a class, and the Stoics
of the Roman empire—and, finally, even between two Stoics who stood so
near to one another as Epictêtus and Marcus Aurelius. This contrast
cannot be due to external circumstances, for the two systems were
exactly coeval, and were exposed, during their whole lifetime, to the
action of precisely the same environment. The cause must be sought for
in the character of the philosophies themselves, and of the minds which
were naturally most amenable to their respective influence. Stoicism
retained enough of the Socratic spirit to foster a love of enquiry for
its own sake, and an indisposition to accept any authority without
a searching examination of its claims to obedience or respect. The
learner was submitted to a thorough training in dialectics; while the
ideal of life set before him was not a state of rest, but of intense
and unremitting toil. Whatever particular conclusions he might carry
away with him from the class-room were insignificant in comparison
with the principle that he must be prepared to demonstrate them for
himself with that self-assurance happily likened by Zeno to the feeling
experienced when the clenched fist is held within the grasp of the
other hand. Epicurus, on the contrary, did not encourage independent
thought among his disciples; nor, with one exception hereafter to be
noticed, did his teaching ever attract any very original or powerful
intellect. From the first a standard of orthodoxy was erected; and,
to facilitate their retention, the leading tenets of the school were
drawn up in a series of articles which its adherents were advised to
learn by heart. Hence, as Mr. Wallace observes,[108] while the other
chief sects among which philosophy was divided—the Academicians, the
Peripatetics, and the Stoics—drew their appellation, not from their
first founder, but from the locality where his lectures had been
delivered, the Epicureans alone continued to bear the name of a master
whom they regarded with religious veneration. Hence, also, we must
add with Zeller,[109] and notwithstanding the doubt expressed by Mr.
Wallace,[110] on the subject, that our acquaintance with the system
so faithfully adhered to may be regarded as exceptionally full and
accurate. The excerpts from Epicurus himself, preserved by Diogenes
Laertius, the poem of Lucretius, the criticisms of Cicero, Plutarch,
and others, and the fragments of Epicurean literature recovered from
the Herculanean papyri, agree so well where they cover the same
ground, that they may be fairly trusted to supplement each other’s
deficiencies; and a further confirmation, if any was needed, is
obtained by consulting the older sources, whence Epicurus borrowed most
of his philosophy.

It may safely be assumed that the prejudices once entertained against
Epicureanism are now extinct. Whatever may have been the speculative
opinions of its founder, he had as good a right to them as the Apostles
had to theirs; nor did he stand further aloof from the popular religion
of any age than Aristotle, who has generally been in high favour with
theologians. His practical teaching was directed towards the constant
inculcation of virtue; nor was it belied by the conduct either of
himself or of his disciples, even judged by the standard of the schools
to which they were most opposed. And some of his physical theories,
once rejected as self-evidently absurd, are now proved to be in harmony
with the sober conclusions of modern science. At any rate, it is not
in this quarter, as our readers will doubtless have already perceived,
that the old prejudices, if they still exist, are likely to find an
echo. Just now, indeed, the danger is not that Epicurus should be
depreciated, but that his merits should obtain far more than their
proper meed of recognition. It seems to be forgotten that what was best
in his physics he borrowed from others, and that what he added was of
less than no value; that he was ignorant or careless of demonstrated
truths; that his avowed principles of belief were inconsistent with
any truth rising above the level of vulgar apprehension; and finally,
that in his system scientific interests were utterly subordinated to
practical interests.

In the face of such facts, to say, as Mr. Froude does, that
Epicureanism was ‘the creed of the men of science’ in the time of
Julius Caesar[111]—an assertion directly contradicted by Lange[112]—is
perhaps only of a piece with Mr. Froude’s usual inaccuracy when writing
about ancient history; but such declarations as that of Mr. Frederic
Pollock, that the Epicurean system ‘was a genuine attempt at a
scientific explanation of the world; and was in its day the solitary
protest against the contempt of physics which prevailed in the other
post-Aristotelian schools;’[113] of Prof. Trezza, that the Epicurean
school ‘summed up in itself the most scientific elements of Greek
antiquity;’[114] of Dr. Woltjer, that ‘with respect to the laws and
principles of science, the Epicureans came nearest of all the ancients
to the science of our own time;’[115] and finally, of M. Ernest Renan,
that Epicureanism was ‘the great scientific school of antiquity,’[116]
are absolutely amazing. The eminent French critic just quoted has
elsewhere observed, with perfect justice, that the scientific spirit
is the negation of the supernatural; and perhaps he argues that the
negation of the supernatural must, reciprocally, be the scientific
spirit. But this is only true when such a negation is arrived at
inductively, after a disinterested survey of the facts. Epicurus
started with the denial of supernatural interference as a practical
postulate, and then hunted about for whatever explanations of natural
phenomena would suit his foregone conclusion. Moreover, an enquirer
really animated by the scientific spirit studies the facts for their
own sake; he studies them as they actually are, not resting content
with alternative explanations; and he studies them to the fullest
extent of which his powers are capable. Epicurus, on the contrary,
declares that physics would not be worth attending to if the mind could
be set free from religious terrors in any other manner;[117] he will
not let himself be tied down to any one theory if there are others
equally inconsistent with divine agency to be had;[118] and when his
demands in this respect are satisfied, that is, when the appearances
vulgarly ascribed to supernatural causation have been provided with
natural causes, he leaves off.

To get rid of superstitious beliefs was, no doubt, a highly meritorious
achievement, but it had been far more effectually performed by the
great pre-Socratic thinkers, Heracleitus, Empedocles, Anaxagoras, and
Democritus. These men or their followers had, besides, got hold of a
most important principle—the vital principle of all science—which was
the reign of law, the universality and indefeasibility of physical
causation. Now, Epicurus expressly refused to accept such a doctrine,
declaring that it was even worse than believing in the gods, since
they could be propitiated, whereas fate could not.[119] Again, Greek
physical philosophy, under the guidance of Plato, had been tending
more and more to seek for its foundation in mathematics. Mathematical
reasoning was seen to be the type of all demonstration; and the best
hopes of progress were staked on the extension of mathematical methods
to every field of enquiry in turn. How much might be done by following
up this clue was quickly seen not only in the triumphs of geometry, but
in the brilliant astronomical discoveries by which the shape of the
earth, the phases of the moon, and the cause of eclipses were finally
cleared up and placed altogether outside the sphere of conjecture.
Nor was a knowledge of these truths confined to specialists: they
were familiar alike to the older Academy, to the Peripatetic, and to
the Stoic schools; so that, with the exception of those who doubted
every proposition, we may assume them to have been then, as now, the
common property of all educated men. Epicurus, on the other hand,
seems to have known nothing of mathematics, or only enough to dispute
their validity, for we are told that his disciple Polyaenus, who had
previously been eminent in that department, was persuaded, on joining
the school, to reject the whole of geometry as untrue;[120] while,
in astronomy, he pronounced the heavenly bodies to be no larger than
they appear to our senses, denied the existence of Antipodes, and put
the crudest guesses of early philosophy on the same footing with the
best-authenticated results of later observation. It is no wonder, then,
that during the whole continuance of his school no man of science ever
accepted its teaching, with the single exception of Asclepiades, who
was perhaps a Democritean rather than a disciple of the Garden, and
who, at any rate, as a physiologist, would not be brought into contact
with its more flagrant absurdities.

In order to understand how so vigorous an intellect could go so wildly
astray, we must glance at his personal history, and at the manner in
which his system seems to have been gradually built up.


II.

Epicurus was born 341 B.C., about the same time as Zeno the Stoic.
Unlike all the other philosophers of his age, he was of Athenian
parentage; that is to say, he belonged to a race of exclusively
practical tendencies, and marked by a singular inaptitude or distaste
for physical enquiries. His father, a poor colonist in Samos, was,
apparently, not able to give him a very regular education. At eighteen
he was sent to Athens, but was shortly afterwards obliged to rejoin
his family, who were driven from Samos in 322, along with the other
Athenian settlers, by a political revolution, and had taken refuge in
Colophon, on the Asiatic coast. In the course of his wanderings, the
future philosopher came across some public lecturers, who seem to have
instructed him in the physics of Democritus, and perhaps also in the
scepticism of Pyrrho; but of such a steady discipline as Plato passed
through during his ten years’ intercourse with Socrates, Aristotle
during his twenty years’ studies under Plato, and Zeno during his
similarly protracted attendance at the various schools of Athens,
there is no trace whatever. Epicurus always described himself as
self-taught, meaning that his knowledge had been acquired by reading
instead of by listening; and we find in him the advantages as well
as the defects common to self-taught men in all ages—considerable
freshness and freedom from scholastic prejudices, along with a certain
narrowness of sympathies, incompleteness of information, inaptitude
for abstract reasoning, and last, but not least, an enormous opinion
of his own abilities, joined to an overweening contempt for those
with whose opinions he did not agree. After teaching for some time
in Mitylênê, Epicurus established himself as the head of a school in
Athens, where he bought a house and garden. In the latter he lectured
and gathered round him a band of devoted friends, among whom women
were included, and who were wont to assemble for purposes of social
recreation not less than of philosophic discipline. Just before his
death, which occurred in the year 270, he declared in a letter to
his friend and destined successor Hermarchus, that the recollection
of his philosophical achievements had been such a source of pleasure
as to overcome the agonies of disease, and to make the last day the
happiest of his life.[121] For the rest, Epicurus secluded himself, on
principle, from the world, and few echoes of his teaching seem to have
passed beyond the circle of his immediate adherents. Thus, whatever
opportunities might otherwise have offered themselves of profiting by
adverse criticism were completely lost.[122]

Epicureanism was essentially a practical philosophy. The physical,
theological, and logical portions of the system were reasoned out
with exclusive reference to its ethical end, and their absolute
subordination to it was never allowed to be forgotten. It is therefore
with the moral theory of Epicurus that we must begin.

From the time of Socrates on, the majority of Greeks, had they been
asked what was the ultimate object of endeavour, or what made life
worth living, would have answered, pleasure. But among professional
philosophers such a definition of the supreme good met with little
favour. Seeing very clearly that the standard of conduct must be
social, and convinced that it must at the same time include the
highest good of the individual, they found it impossible to believe
that the two could be reconciled by encouraging each citizen in the
unrestricted pursuit of his own private gratifications. Nor had such
an idea as the greatest happiness of the greatest number ever risen
above their horizon; although, from the necessities of life itself,
they unconsciously assumed it in all their political discussions. The
desire for pleasure was, however, too powerful a motive to be safely
disregarded. Accordingly we find Socrates frequently appealing to it
when no other argument was likely to be equally efficacious, Plato
striving to make the private satisfaction of his citizens coincide
with the demands of public duty, and Aristotle maintaining that this
coincidence must spontaneously result from the consolidation of moral
habits; the true test of a virtuous disposition being, in his opinion,
the pleasure which accompanies its exercise. One of the companions of
Socrates, Aristippus the Cyrenaean, a man who had cut himself loose
from every political and domestic obligation, and who was remarkable
for the versatility with which he adapted himself to the most varying
circumstances, went still further. He boldly declared that pleasure
was the sole end worth seeking, and on the strength of this doctrine
came forward as the founder of a new philosophical school. According to
his system, the _summum bonum_ was not the total amount of enjoyment
secured in a lifetime, but the greatest single enjoyment that could
be secured at any moment; and this principle was associated with an
idealistic theory of perception, apparently suggested by Protagoras,
but carrying his views much further. Our knowledge, said Aristippus,
is strictly limited to phenomena; we are conscious of nothing beyond
our own feelings; and we have no right to assume the existence of any
objects by which they are caused. The study of natural science is
therefore waste of time; our whole energies should be devoted to the
interests of practical life.[123] Thus Greek humanism seemed to have
found its appropriate sequel in hedonism, which, as an ethical theory,
might quote in its favour both the dictates of immediate feeling and
the sanction of public opinion.

The Cyrenaic school ended, curiously enough, in pessimism. The doctrine
that pleasure is the only good, and the doctrine that life yields a
preponderance of painful over pleasurable feelings, are severally
compatible with a preference of existence to non-existence; when
united, as they were by Hêgêsias, a Cyrenaic professor, they logically
lead to suicide; and we are told that the public authorities of
Alexandria were obliged to order the discontinuance of his lectures, so
great was their effect in promoting self-destruction.[124]

Meanwhile, hedonism had been temporarily taken up by Plato, and
developed into the earliest known form of utilitarianism. In his
_Protagoras_, he endeavours to show that every virtue has for its
object either to secure a greater pleasure by the sacrifice of a lesser
pleasure, or to avoid a greater pain by the endurance of a lesser pain;
nothing being taken into account but the interests of the individual
agent concerned. Plato afterwards discarded the theory sketched in
the _Protagoras_ for a higher and more generous, if less distinctly
formulated morality; but while ceasing to be a hedonist he remained a
utilitarian; that is to say, he insisted on judging actions by their
tendency to promote the general welfare, not by the sentiments which
they excite in the mind of a conventional spectator.

The idea of virtue as a hedonistic calculus, abandoned by its first
originator, and apparently neglected by his immediate successors,
was taken up by Epicurus; for that the latter borrowed it from Plato
seems to be proved by the exact resemblance of their language;[125]
and M. Guyau is quite mistaken when he represents his hero as the
founder of utilitarian morality.[126] It was not enough, however, to
appropriate the cast-off ideas of Plato; it was necessary to meet the
arguments by which Plato had been led to think that pleasure was not
the supreme good, and to doubt whether it was, as such, a good at all.
The most natural course would have been to begin by exhibiting the
hedonistic ideal in a more favourable light. Sensual gratifications,
from their remarkable intensity, had long been the accepted types of
pleasurable feeling, and from their animal character, as well as from
other obvious reasons, had frequently been used to excite a prejudice
against it. On the other hand, Plato himself, and Aristotle still more,
had brought into prominence the superiority, simply as pleasures,
of those intellectual activities which they considered to be, even
apart from all pleasure, the highest good. But Epicurus refused to
avail himself of this opportunity for effecting a compromise with
the opposite school, boldly declaring that he for his part could not
conceive any pleasures apart from those received through the five
senses, among which he, characteristically enough, included aesthetic
enjoyments. The obvious significance of his words has been explained
away, and they have been asserted to contain only the very harmless
proposition that our animal nature is the basis, the condition, of
our spiritual nature.[127] But, if this were the true explanation, it
would be possible to point out what other pleasures were recognised by
Epicurus. These, if they existed at all, must have belonged to the mind
as such. Now, we have it on Cicero’s authority that, while admitting
the existence of mental feelings, both pleasurable and painful, he
reduced them to an extension and reflection of bodily feelings,
mental happiness properly consisting in the assurance of prolonged
and painless sensual gratification. This is something very different
from saying that the highest spiritual enjoyments are conditioned by
the healthy activity of the bodily organs, or that they cannot be
appreciated if the animal appetites are starved. It amounts to saying
that there are no specific and positive pleasures apart from the five
senses as exercised either in reality or in imagination.[128] And even
without the evidence of Cicero, we can see that some such conclusion
necessarily followed from the principles elsewhere laid down by
Epicurus. To a Greek, the mental pleasures, _par excellence_, were
those derived from friendship and from intellectual activity. But our
philosopher, while warmly panegyrising friendship, recommends it not
for the direct pleasure which it affords, but for the pain and danger
which it prevents;[129] while his restriction of scientific studies
to the office of dispelling superstitious fears seems meant for a
direct protest against Aristotle’s opinion, that the highest pleasure
is derived from those studies. Equally significant is his outspoken
contempt for literary culture.[130] In this respect, he offers a marked
contrast to Aristippus, who, when asked by some one what good his son
would get by education, answered, ‘This much, at least, that when he
is at the play he will not sit like a stone upon a stone,’[131] the
customary attitude, it would seem, of an ordinary Athenian auditor.

It appears, then, that the popular identification of an Epicurean with
a sensualist has something to say in its favour. Nevertheless, we have
no reason to think that Epicurus was anything but perfectly sincere
when he repudiated the charge of being a mere sensualist.[132] But
the impulse which lifted him above sensualism was not derived from
his own original philosophy. It was due to the inspiration of Plato;
and nothing testifies more to Plato’s moral greatness than that the
doctrine most opposed to his own idealism should have been raised from
the dust by the example of its flight. We proceed to show how the
peculiar form assumed by Epicureanism was determined by the pressure
brought to bear on its original germ two generations before.

It had been urged against hedonism that pleasure is a process, a
movement; whereas the supreme good must be a completed product—an end
in which we can rest. Against sensual enjoyments in particular, it
had been urged that they are caused by the satisfaction of appetite,
and, as such, must result in a mere negative condition, marking the
zero point of pleasurable sentiency. Finally, much stress had been
laid on the anti-social and suicidal consequences of that selfish
grasping at power to which habits of unlimited self-indulgence must
infallibly lead. The form given to hedonism by Epicurus is a reaction
against these criticisms, a modification imposed on it for the purpose
of evading their force. He seems to admit that bodily satisfaction
is rather the removal of a want, and consequently of a pain, than a
source of positive pleasure. But the resulting condition of liberation
from uneasiness is, according to him, all that we can desire; and by
extending the same principle to every other good, he indirectly brings
back the mental felicity which at first sight his system threatened
either to exclude or to reduce to a mere shadow of sensual enjoyment.
For, in calculating the elements of unhappiness, we have to deal, not
only with present discomfort, but also, and to a far greater extent,
with the apprehension of future evil. We dread the loss of worldly
goods, of friends, of reputation, of life itself. We are continually
exposed to pain, both from violence and from disease. We are haunted
by visions of divine vengeance, both here and hereafter. To get rid of
all such terrors, to possess our souls in peace, is the highest good—a
permanent, as distinguished from a transient state of consciousness—and
the proper business of philosophy is to show us how that consummation
may be attained. Thus we are brought back to that blissful
self-contemplation of mind which Aristotle had already declared to be
the goal of all endeavour and the sole happiness of God.

But Epicurus could only borrow the leading principle of his opponents
at the expense of an enormous inconsistency. It was long ago pointed
out by the Academicians—and the objection has never been answered—that
pleasure and mere painlessness cannot both be the highest good,
although the one may be an indispensable condition of the other. To
confound the means with the end was, indeed, a common fault of Greek
philosophy; and the Stoics also were guilty of it when they defined
self-preservation to be the natural object of every creature, and yet
attached a higher value to the instruments than to the aims of that
activity. In Epicureanism, however, the change of front was more open,
and was attempted under the eyes of acute and vigilant enemies. If the
total absence of pain involves a pleasurable state of consciousness,
we have a right to ask for a definition or description of it, and
this, so far as can be made out, our philosopher never pretended
to supply. Of course, a modern psychologist can point out that the
functions of respiration, circulation, secretion, and absorption are
constantly going on, and that, in their normal activity, they give
rise to a vast sum of pleasurable consciousness, which far more than
makes up in volume for what it wants in acuteness. But, whatever his
recent interpreters may say,[133] Epicurus nowhere alludes to this
diffused feeling of vitality; had he recognised it, his enumeration of
the positive sensations, apart from which the good is inconceivable,
would have seemed as incomplete to him as it does to us. If, on the
other hand, the complete removal of pain introduces us to a state of
consciousness, which, without being positively pleasurable, has a
positive value of some kind, we ought to be told wherein it differs
from the ideals of the spiritualist school; while, if it has no
positive value at all, we ought equally to be told wherein it differs
from the unconsciousness of sleep or of death.


III.

We have now to see how, granting Epicurus his conception of
painlessness as the supreme good, he proceeds to evolve from it a
whole ethical, theological, and physical system. For reasons already
mentioned, the ethical development must be studied first. We shall
therefore begin with an analysis of the particular virtues. Temperance,
as the great self-regarding duty, obviously takes precedence of the
others. In dealing with this branch of his subject, there was nothing
to prevent Epicurus from profiting by the labours of his predecessors,
and more especially of the naturalistic school from Prodicus down.
So far as moderation is concerned, there need be little difference
between a theory of conduct based exclusively on the interests of
the individual, and a theory which regards him chiefly as a portion
of some larger whole. Accordingly, we find that our philosopher, in
his praises of frugality, closely approximated to the Cynic and Stoic
standards—so much so, indeed, that his expressions on the subject are
repeatedly quoted by Seneca as the best that could be found. Perhaps
the Roman moralist valued them less for their own sake than as being,
to some extent, the admissions of an opponent. But, in truth, he was
only reclaiming what the principles of his own sect had originally
inspired. To be content with the barest necessaries was a part of that
Nature-worship against which Greek humanism, with its hedonistic and
idealistic offshoots, had begun by vigorously protesting. Hence many
passages in Lucretius express exactly the same sentiments as those
which are most characteristic of Latin literature at a time when it is
completely dominated by Stoic influences.

It is another Cynic trait in Epicurus that he should address himself
to a much wider audience than the Sophists, or even than Socrates
and his spiritualistic successors. This circumstance suggested a new
argument in favour of temperance. His philosophy being intended for the
use of all mankind without exception, was bound to show that happiness
is within the reach of the poor as well as of the rich; and this could
not be did it depend, to any appreciable extent, on indulgences which
wealth alone can purchase. And even the rich will not enjoy complete
tranquillity unless they are taught that the loss of fortune is not to
be feared, since their appetites can be easily satisfied without it.
Thus the pains arising from excess, though doubtless not forgotten,
seem to have been the least important motive to restraint in his
teaching. The precepts of Epicurus are only too faithfully followed
in the southern countries for whose benefit they were first framed.
It is a matter of common observation, that the extreme frugality of
the Italians, by leaving them satisfied with the barest sufficiency,
deprives them of a most valuable spur to exertion, and allows a vast
fund of possible energy to moulder away in listless apathy, or to
consume itself more rapidly in sordid vice. Moreover, as economists
have long since pointed out, where the standard of comfort is high,
there will be a large available margin to fall back upon in periods
of distress; while where it is low, the limit of subsistence will be
always dangerously near.

The enemies of hedonism had taken a malicious satisfaction in
identifying it with voluptuous indulgence, and had scornfully asked if
that could be the supreme good and proper object of virtuous endeavour,
the enjoyment of which was habitually associated with secresy and
shame. It was, perhaps, to screen his system from such reproaches that
Epicurus went a long way towards the extreme limit of asceticism, and
hinted at the advisability of complete abstinence from that which,
although natural, is not necessary to self-preservation, and involves
a serious drain on the vital energies.[134] In this respect, he was
not followed by Lucretius, who has no objection to the satisfaction
of animal instinct, so long as it is not accompanied by personal
passion.[135] Neither the Greek moralist nor the Roman poet could
foresee what a great part in the history of civilisation chivalrous
devotion to a beloved object was destined to play, although the uses of
idealised desire had already revealed themselves to Plato’s penetrating
gaze.

With regard to those more refined aspects of temperance, in which it
appears as a restraint exercised by reason over anger, pity, and grief,
Epicurus and his followers refused to go all lengths with the Stoics in
their effort to extirpate emotion altogether. But here they seem not
to have proceeded on any fixed principle, except that of contradicting
the opposite school. That the sage will feel pity, and sometimes shed
tears,[136] is a sentiment from which few are now likely to dissent;
yet the absolute impassivity at which Stoicism aimed seems still more
consistent with a philosophy whose ideal was complete exemption from
pain; while in practice it would be rather easier to attain than the
power of feeling quite happy on the rack, which the accomplished
Epicurean was expected to possess.[137]

Next to Temperance comes Fortitude; and with it the difficulties of
reconciling Epicureanism with the ordinary morality are considerably
increased. The old conception of this virtue was willingness to
face pain and death on behalf of a noble cause,[138] which would be
generally understood to mean the salvation of family, friends, and
fatherland; and the ultimate sanction of such self-devotion was found
in the pressure of public opinion. Idealistic philosophy, taking still
higher ground, not only refused to balance the fear of pain and death
against the fear of infamy or the hope of applause, but added public
opinion to the considerations which a good man in the discharge of his
duty would, if necessary, despise. Epicurus also inculcated disregard
for reputation, except when it might lead to inconveniences of a
tangible description;[139] but he had nothing beyond the calculations
of self-interest to put in its place. A modern utilitarian is bound
to undergo loss and suffering in his own person for the prevention
of greater loss and suffering elsewhere; an egoistic hedonist cannot
consistently be brave, except for the sake of his own future security.
The method by which Epicurus reconciled interest with courage was
to minimise the importance of whatever injuries could be inflicted
by external circumstances; just as in his theory of Temperance he
had minimised the importance of bodily pleasures. How he disposed of
death will best be seen in connexion with his physical philosophy.
Pain he encountered by emphasising, or rather immensely exaggerating,
the mind’s power of annulling external sensation by concentrating its
whole attention on remembered or anticipated pleasures, or else on the
certainty that present suffering must come to an end, and to a more
speedy end in proportion to its greater severity. We are to hold a
fire in our hand, partly by thinking of the frosty Caucasus, partly by
the comforting reflection that the pain of a burn, being intense, will
not be of long duration; while, at worst, like the Stoics, we have the
resource of suicide as a last refuge from intolerable suffering.[140]

With the Epicurean theory of Justice, the distortion, already
sufficiently obvious, is carried still further; although we must
frankly admit that it includes some _aperçus_ strikingly in advance of
all that had hitherto been written on the subject. Justice, according
to our philosopher, is neither an internal balance of the soul’s
faculties, nor a rule imposed by the will of the stronger, but a
mutual agreement to abstain from aggressions, varying from time to
time with the varying interests of society, and always determined by
considerations of general utility.[141] This is excellent: we miss,
indeed, the Stoic idea of a common humanity, embracing, underlying, and
transcending all particular contracts; but we have, in exchange, the
idea of a general interest equivalent to the sum of private interests,
together with the means necessary for their joint preservation; and
we have also the form under which the notion of justice originates,
though not the measure of its ultimate expansion, which is regard for
the general interest, even when we are not bound by any contract to
observe it. But when we go on to ask why contracts should be adhered
to, Epicurus has no reason to offer beyond dread of punishment. His
words, as translated by Mr. Wallace, are:—‘Injustice is not in itself
a bad thing, but only in the fear arising from anxiety on the part of
the wrong-doer that he will not always escape punishment.’[142] This
was evidently meant for a direct contradiction of Plato’s assertion,
that, apart from its penal consequences, injustice is a disease of the
soul, involving more mischief to the perpetrator than to the victim.
Mr. Wallace, however, takes a different view of his author’s meaning.
According to him,

 If we interpret this doctrine, after the example of some of the
 ancients, to mean that any wrong-doing would be innocent and good,
 supposing it escaped detection, we shall probably be misconstruing
 Epicurus. What he seems to allude to is rather the case of strictly
 legal enactments, where, previously to law, the action need not
 have been particularly moral or immoral; where, in fact, the common
 agreement has established a rule which is not completely in harmony
 with the ‘justice of nature.’ In short, Epicurus is protesting against
 the conception of injustice, which makes it consist in disobedience
 to political and social rules, imposed and enforced by public and
 authoritative sanctions. He is protesting, in other words, against the
 claims of the State upon the citizens for their complete obedience;
 against the old ideas of the divine sanctity and majesty of law as
 law; against theories like that maintained by contemporaries of
 Socrates, that there could be no such thing as an unjust law.[143]

Epicurus was assuredly not a master of language, but had he meant all
that is here put into his mouth, he would hardly have been at a loss
for words to say it. Remembering that the Κύριαι δόξαι constituted a
sort of creed drawn up by the master himself for his disciples to learn
by heart,[144] and that the incriminated passage is one of the articles
in that creed, we need only look at the context to make certain that
it has been entirely misread by his apologist.[145] In the three
preceding articles, we are told that justice is by nature a contract
for the prevention of aggressions, that it does not exist among animals
which are unable, nor among tribes of men which are either unable
or unwilling to enter into such an agreement, and—with reiterated
emphasis—that, apart from contracts, it has no original existence (oὐκ
ἦν τὶ καθ’ ἑαυτὸ δικαιοσύνη). There is nothing at all about a true
as distinguished from a false justice; there is no allusion whatever
to the theories of any ‘contemporaries of Socrates;’ the polemic
reference, if any, is to Plato, and to Plato alone. Then comes the
declaration quoted above, to the effect that injustice is not an evil
in itself, but only an evil through the dread of punishment which it
produces. Now, by injustice, Epicurus must simply mean the opposite
of what he defined justice to be in the preceding paragraph—that
is, a breach of the agreement not to hurt one another (μὴ βλάπτειν
ἀλλήλους). The authority of the State is evidently conceived, not as
superseding, but as enforcing agreements. The succeeding article still
further confirms the view rejected by Mr. Wallace. Epicurus tells us
that no man who stealthily evades the contract to abstain from mutual
aggressions can be sure of escaping detection. This is evidently added
to show that, apart from any mystical sanctions, fear of punishment
is quite enough to deter a prudent man from committing crimes. And we
can see that no other deterrent was recognised by Lucretius, when,
in evident reference to his master’s words, he mentions the fears of
those who offend—not against mere conventional rules, but against human
rights in general—as the great safeguard of justice.[146]

We may, indeed, fairly ask what guarantee against wrong-doing of any
kind could be supplied by a system which made the supreme good of each
individual consist in his immunity from pain and fear, except that very
pain or fear which he was above all things to avoid? The wise man might
reasonably give his assent to enactments intended for the common good
of all men, including himself among the number; but when his concrete
interest as a private citizen came into collision with his abstract
interests as a social unit, one does not see how the quarrel was to be
decided on Epicurean principles, except by striking a balance between
the pains respectively resulting from justice and injustice. Here,
Epicurus, in his anxiety to show that hedonism, rightly understood, led
to the same results as the accepted systems of morality, over-estimated
the policy of honesty. There are cases in which the wrong-doer
may count on immunity from danger with more confidence than when
entering on such ordinary enterprises as a sea-voyage or a commercial
speculation; there are even cases where a single crime might free him
from what else would be a lifelong dread. And, at worst, he can fall
back on the Epicurean arguments proving that neither physical pain nor
death is to be feared, while the threats of divine vengeance are a
baseless dream.[147]

The radical selfishness of Epicureanism comes out still more
distinctly in its attitude towards political activity. Not only does
it systematically discourage mere personal ambition—the desire of
possessing political power for the furtherance of one’s own ends—but
it passes a like condemnation on disinterested efforts to improve the
condition of the people by legislation; while the general rule laid
down for the wise man in his capacity of citizen is passive obedience
to the established authorities, to be departed from only when the
exigencies of self-defence require it. On this Mr. Wallace observes
that ‘political life, which in all ages has been impossible for those
who had not wealth, and who were unwilling to mix themselves with
vile and impure associates, was not to the mind of Epicurus.’[148]
No authority is quoted to prove that the abstention recommended by
Epicurus was dictated by purist sentiments of any kind; nor can we
readily admit that it is impossible to record a vote, to canvass at an
election, or even to address a public meeting, without fulfilling one
or other of the conditions specified by Mr. Wallace; and we know by the
example of Littré that it is possible for a poor man to take a rather
prominent part in public life, without the slightest sacrifice of
personal dignity.[149] It must also be remembered that Epicurus was not
speaking for himself alone; he was giving practical advice to all whom
it might concern—advice of which he thought, _aeque pauperibus prodest,
locupletibus aeque_; so that when Mr. Wallace adds that, ‘above all, it
is not the business of a philosopher to become a political partisan,
and spend his life in an atmosphere of avaricious and malignant
passions,’[150] we must observe that Epicureanism was not designed to
make philosophers, but perfect men. The real question is whether it
would serve the public interest were all who endeavour to shape their
lives by the precepts of philosophy to withdraw themselves entirely
from participation in the affairs of their country. And, having regard
to the general character of the system now under consideration, we
may not uncharitably surmise that the motive for abstention which it
supplied was selfish love of ease far more than unwillingness to be
mixed up with the dirty work of politics.

Epicureanism allotted a far larger place to friendship than to all
the other social virtues put together; and the disciple was taught to
look to it not only for the satisfaction of his altruistic impulses,
but for the crowning happiness of his life. The egoistic basis of the
system was, indeed, made sufficiently prominent even here; utility
and pleasure, which Aristotle had excluded from the notion of true
friendship, being declared its proper ends. All the conditions of a
disinterested attachment were, however, brought back by a circuitous
process. It was argued that the full value of friendship could not
be reaped except by those whose affection for each other went to
the extent of complete self-devotion; but the Epicureans were less
successful in showing how this happy condition could be realised
consistently with the study of his own interest by each individual.
As a matter of fact, it was realised; and the members of this school
became remarkable, above all others, for the tenderness and fidelity
of their personal attachments. But we may suspect that formal precepts
had little to do with the result. Estrangement from the popular creed,
when still uncommon, has always a tendency to draw the dissidents
together;[151] and where other ties, whether religious, domestic,
or patriotic, are neglected, the ordinary instincts of human nature
are likely to show themselves with all the more energy in the only
remaining form of union. Moreover, the cheerful, contented, abstemious,
unambitious characters who would be the most readily attracted to the
Epicurean brotherhood supplied the very materials that most readily
unite in placid and enduring attachments. A tolerably strict standard
of orthodoxy provided against theoretical dissensions: nor were the
new converts likely to possess either daring or originality enough to
excite controversies where they did not already exist.


IV.

After eliminating all the sources of misery due to folly and vice,
Epicurus had still to deal with what, in his opinion, were the most
formidable obstacles to human happiness, dread of the divine anger
and dread of death, either in itself, or as the entrance on another
life. To meet these, he compiled, for we can hardly say constructed,
an elaborate system of physical philosophy, having for its object to
show that Nature is entirely governed by mechanical causes, and that
the soul perishes with the body. We have already mentioned that for
science as such and apart from its ethical applications he neither
cared nor pretended to care in the least. It seems, therefore, rather
surprising that he could not manage, like the Sceptics before him,
to get rid of supernaturalism by a somewhat more expeditious method.
The explanation seems to be that to give some account of natural
phenomena had become, in his time, a necessity for every one aspiring
to found a philosophical system. A brilliant example had been set
by Plato and Aristotle, of whom the former, too, had apparently
yielded to the popular demand rather than followed the bent of his
own genius, in turning aside from ethics to physics; and Zeno had
similarly included the whole of knowledge in his teaching. The old
Greek curiosity respecting the causes of things was still alive; and a
similar curiosity was doubtless awakening among those populations to
whom Greek civilisation had been carried by colonisation, commerce,
and conquest. Now, those scientific speculations are always the most
popular which can be shown to have some bearing on religious belief,
either in the way of confirmation or of opposition, according as
faith or doubt happens to be most in the ascendent. Fifty years ago,
among ourselves, no work on natural philosophy could hope for a large
circulation unless it was filled with teleological applications. At
present, liberal opinions are gaining ground; and those treatises are
most eagerly studied which tend to prove that everything in Nature
can be best explained through the agency of mechanical causation. At
neither period is it the facts themselves which have excited most
attention, but their possible bearing on our own interests. Among the
contemporaries of Epicurus, the two currents of thought that in more
recent times have enjoyed an alternate triumph, seem to have co-existed
as forces of about equal strength. The old superstitions were rejected
by all thinking men; and the only question was by what new faith they
should be replaced. Poets and philosophers had alike laboured to bring
about a religious reformation by exhibiting the popular mythology in
its grotesque deformity, and by constructing systems in which pure
monotheism was more or less distinctly proclaimed. But it suited the
purpose, perhaps it gratified the vanity of Epicurus to talk as if the
work of deliverance still remained to be done, as if men were still
groaning under the incubus of superstitions which he alone could teach
them to shake off. He seems, indeed, to have confounded the old and
the new faiths under a common opprobrium, and to have assumed that the
popular religion was mainly supported by Stoic arguments, or that the
Stoic optimism was not less productive of superstitious terrors than
the gloomy polytheism which it was designed to supersede.[152]

Again, while attacking the belief in human immortality, Epicurus
seems to direct his blows against the metaphysical reasonings of
Plato,[153] as well as against the indistinct forebodings of primitive
imagination. The consequences of this two-edged polemic are very
remarkable. In reading Lucretius, we are surprised at the total absence
of criticisms like those brought to bear on Greek mythology with such
formidable effect, first by Plato and, long afterwards, by Lucian.
There is a much more modern tone about his invectives, and they seem
aimed at an enemy familiar to ourselves. One would suppose that the
advent of Catholicism had been revealed in a prophetic vision to
the poet, and that this, rather than the religion of his own times,
was the object of his wrath and dread; or else that some child of
the Renaissance was seeking for a freer utterance of his own revolt
against all theology, under the disguise of a dead language and of
a warfare with long-discredited gods. For this reason, Christians
have always regarded him, with perfect justice, as a dangerous enemy;
while rationalists of the fiercer type have accepted his splendid
denunciations as the appropriate expression of their own most cherished
feelings.

The explanation of this anomaly is, we believe, to be found in the
fact that Catholicism did, to a great extent, actually spring from
a continuation of those widely different tendencies which Epicurus
confounded in a common assault. It had an intellectual basis in the
Platonic and Stoic philosophies, and a popular basis in the revival
of those manifold superstitions which, underlying the brilliant
civilisations of Greece and Rome, were always ready to break out with
renewed violence when their restraining pressure was removed. The
revival of which we speak was powerfully aided from without. The same
movement that was carrying Hellenic culture into Asia was bringing
Oriental delusions by a sort of back current into the Western world.
Nor was this all. The relaxation of all political bonds, together with
the indifference of the educated classes, besides allowing a rank
undergrowth of popular beliefs to spring up unchecked, surrendered the
regulation of those beliefs into the hands of a profession which it
had hitherto been the policy of every ancient republic to keep under
rigid restraint—the accredited or informal ministers of religion.[154]
Now, the chief characteristic of a priestly order has always and
everywhere been insatiable avarice. When forbidden to acquire
wealth in their individual capacity, they grasp at it all the more
eagerly in their corporate capacity. And, as the Epicureans probably
perceived, there is no engine which they can use so effectually for
the gratification of this passion as the belief in a future life. What
they have to tell about this is often described by themselves and their
supporters as a message of joy to the weary and afflicted. But under
their treatment it is very far from being a consolatory belief. Dark
shades and lurid lights predominate considerably in their pictures of
the world beyond the grave; and here, as we shall presently show, they
are aided by an irresistible instinct of human nature. On this subject,
also, they can speak with unlimited confidence; for, while their other
statements about the supernatural are liable to be contradicted by
experience, the abode of souls is a bourne from which no traveller
returns to disprove the accuracy of their statements.

That such a tendency was at work some time before the age of Epicurus
is shown by the following passage from Plato’s _Republic_:—

 Mendicant prophets go to rich men’s doors and persuade them that they
 have a power committed to them of making atonement for their sins or
 those of their fathers by sacrifices or charms.... And they produce a
 host of books ... according to which they perform their ritual, and
 persuade not only individuals but whole cities, that expiations and
 atonements for sin may be made by sacrifices and amusements which fill
 a vacant hour,[155] and are equally at the service of the living and
 the dead; the latter sort they call mysteries, and they redeem us from
 the pains of hell, but if we neglect them no one knows what awaits
 us.[156]

Let us now pass over fourteen centuries and see to what results the
doctrine taught by Plato himself led when it had entered into an
alliance with the superstitions which he denounced. Our illustration
shall be taken from a sainted hero of the Catholic Church. In a sermon
preached before Pope Nicholas II. at Arezzo, the famous Hildebrand,
afterwards Gregory VII., relates the following story:—

 In one of the provinces of Germany there died, about ten years
 ago, a certain count, who had been rich and powerful, and, what is
 astonishing for one of that class, he was, according to the judgment
 of man, pure in faith and innocent in his life. Some time after his
 death, a holy man descended in spirit to hell, and beheld the count
 standing on the topmost rung of a ladder. He tells us that this ladder
 stood unconsumed amid the crackling flames around; and that it had
 been placed there to receive the family of the aforesaid count. There
 was, moreover, the black and frightful abyss out of which rose the
 fatal ladder. It was so ordered that the last comer took his stand at
 the top of the ladder, and when the rest of the family arrived he went
 down one step, and all below him did likewise.

 As the last of the same family who died came and took his place,
 age after age, on this ladder, it followed inevitably that they all
 successively reached the depth of hell. The holy man who beheld this
 thing, asked the reason of this terrible damnation, and especially how
 it was that the seigneur whom he had known and who had lived a life of
 justice and well-doing should be thus punished. And he heard a voice
 saying, ‘It is because of certain lands belonging to the church of
 Metz, which were taken from the blessed Stephen by one of this man’s
 ancestors, from whom he was the tenth in descent, and for this cause
 all these men have sinned by the same avarice and are subjected to the
 same punishment in eternal fire.’[157]

In view of such facts as these, we cannot blame the Epicureans if
they regarded the doctrine of future retribution as anything but a
consolatory or ennobling belief, and if they deemed that to extirpate
it was to cut out a mischievous delusion by the roots:—

    Et merito: nam si certain finem esse viderent
    Aerumnarum homines aliqua ratione valerent
    Relligionibus, atque minis obsistere vatum:
    Nunc ratio nulla ‘st restandi, nulla facultas,
    Aeternas quoniam poenas in morte timendum.’[158]

And it is no wonder that the words of their great poet should read like
a prophetic exposure of the terrors with which the religious revival,
based on a coalition of philosophy and superstition, was shortly to
overspread the whole horizon of human life.

So strong, however, was the theological reaction against Greek
rationalism that Epicurus himself came under its influence. Instead of
denying the existence of the gods altogether, or leaving it uncertain
like Protagoras, he asserted it in the most emphatic manner. Their
interference with Nature was all that he cared to dispute. The egoistic
character of his whole system comes out once more in his conception
of them as beings too much absorbed in their own placid enjoyments to
be troubled with the work of creation and providence. He was, indeed,
only repeating aloud what had long been whispered in the free-thinking
circles of Athenian society. That the gods were indifferent to human
interests was a heresy indignantly denounced by Aeschylus,[159]
maintained by Aristodêmus, the friend of Socrates, and singled out
as a fit subject for punishment by Plato. Nor was the theology of
Aristotle’s _Metaphysics_ practically distinguishable from such a
doctrine. Although essential to the continued existence of the cosmos,
considered as a system of movements, the Prime Mover communicates the
required impulse by the mere fact of his existence, and apparently
without any consciousness of the effect he is producing. Active
beneficence had, in truth, even less to do with the ideal of Aristotle
than with the ideal of Epicurus, and each philosopher constructed a god
after his own image; the one absorbed in perpetual thought, the other,
or more properly the others, in perpetual enjoyment; for the Epicurean
deities were necessarily conceived as a plurality, that they might not
be without the pleasure of friendly conversation. Nevertheless, the
part assigned by Aristotle to his god permitted him to offer a much
stronger proof of the divine existence and attributes than was possible
to Epicurus, who had nothing better to adduce than the universal belief
of mankind,—an argument obviously proving too much, since it told,
if anything, more powerfully for the interference than for the bare
reality of supernatural agents.

Our philosopher appears to more advantage as a critic than as a
religious dogmatist. He meets the Stoic belief in Providence by
pointing out the undeniable prevalence of evils which omnipotent
benevolence could not be supposed to tolerate; the Stoic optimism, with
its doctrine, still a popular one, that all things were created for
the good of man, by a reference to the glaring defects which, on that
hypothesis, would vitiate the arrangements of Nature; the Stoic appeal
to omens and prophecies by showing the purely accidental character
of their fulfilment.[160] But he trusts most of all to a radically
different explanation of the world, an explanation which everywhere
substitutes mechanical causation for design. Only one among the older
systems—the atomism of Democritus—had consistently carried out such a
conception of Nature, and this, accordingly, Epicurus adopts in its
main outlines.


V.

It is generally assumed by the German critics that the atomic theory
was peculiarly fitted to serve as a basis for the individualistic
ethics of Epicureanism. To this we can hardly agree. The insignificance
and powerlessness of the atoms, except when aggregated together in
enormous numbers, would seem to be naturally more favourable to a
system where the community went for everything and the individual
for nothing; nor does the general acceptance of atomism by modern
science seem to be accompanied by any relaxation of the social
sentiment in its professors. Had the Stoics followed Democritus and
Epicurus Heracleitus—at least a conceivable hypothesis—some equally
cogent reason would doubtless have been forthcoming to indicate the
appropriateness of their choice.[161] As it is, we have no evidence
that Epicurus saw anything more in the atomic theory than a convenient
explanation of the world on purely mechanical principles.

The division of matter into minute and indestructible particles served
admirably to account for the gradual formation and disappearance of
bodies without necessitating the help of a creator. But the infinities
assumed as a condition of atomism were of even greater importance.
Where time and space are unlimited, the quantity of matter must be
equally unlimited, otherwise, being composed of loose particles, it
would long since have been dissipated and lost in the surrounding
void. Now, given infinite time and space, and infinite atoms
capable of combining with one another in various ways, all possible
combinations must already have been tried, not once or twice, but
infinitely often. Of such combinations, that which best fulfils the
conditions of mechanical stability will last the longest, and, without
being designed, will present all the characters of design. And this,
according to Epicurus, is how the actual frame of things comes to be
what it is. Nor was it only the world as a whole that he explained by
the theory of a single happy accident occurring after a multitude of
fortuitous experiments. The same process repeats itself on a smaller
scale in the production of particular compounds. All sorts of living
bodies were originally throw up from the earth’s bosom, but many
of them instantly perished, not being provided with the means of
nutrition, propagation, or self-defence. In like manner we are enabled
to recall a particular thought at pleasure, because innumerable images
are continually passing through the mind, none of which comes into the
foreground of consciousness until attention is fixed on it; though how
we come to distinguish it from the rest is not explained. So also, only
those societies survived and became civilised where contracts were
faithfully observed. All kinds of wild beasts have at different times
been employed in war, just as horses and elephants are now, but on
trial were found unmanageable and given up.[162]

It will be seen that what has been singled out as an anticipation of
the Darwinian theory was only one application of a very comprehensive
method for eliminating design from the universe. But of what is most
original and essential in Darwinism, that is, the modifiability of
specific forms by the summing up of spontaneous variations in a given
direction, the Epicureans had not the slightest suspicion. And wherever
they or their master have, in other respects, made some approach to
the truths of modern science, it may fairly be explained on their own
principle as a single lucky guess out of many false guesses.

The modern doctrine of evolution, while relying largely on the
fertility of multiplied chances, is not obliged to assume such
an enormous number of simultaneous coincidences as Epicurus. The
ascription of certain definite attractions and repulsions to the
ultimate particles of matter would alone restrict their possible modes
of aggregation within comparatively narrow limits. Then, again, the
world seems to have been built up by successive stages, at each of
which some new force or combination of forces came into play, a firm
basis having been already secured for whatever variations they were
capable of producing. Thus the solar system is a state of equilibrium
resulting from the action of two very simple forces, gravitation and
heat. On the surface of the earth, cohesion and chemical affinity have
been superadded. When a fresh equilibrium had resulted from their
joint energy, the more complex conditions of life found free scope for
their exercise. The transformations of living species were similarly
effected by variation on variation. And, finally, in one species, the
satisfaction of its animal wants set free those more refined impulses
by which, after many experiments, civilisation has been built up.
Obviously the total sum of adaptations necessary to constitute our
actual world will have the probabilities of its occurrence enormously
increased if we suppose the more general conditions to be established
prior to, and in complete independence of, the less general, instead of
limiting ourselves, like the ancient atomists, to one vast simultaneous
shuffle of all the material and dynamical elements involved.

Returning to Epicurus, we have next to consider how he obtained the
various motions required to bring his atoms into those infinite
combinations of which our world is only the most recent. The
conception of matter naturally endowed with capacities for moving in
all directions indifferently was unknown to ancient physics, as was
also that of mutual attraction and repulsion. Democritus supposed
that the atoms all gravitated downward through infinite space, but
with different velocities, so that the lighter were perpetually
overtaken and driven upwards by the heavier, the result of these
collisions and pressures being a vortex whence the world as we see
it has proceeded.[163] While the atomism of Democritus was, as a
theory of matter, the greatest contribution ever made to physical
science by pure speculation, as a theory of motion it was open to
at least three insuperable objections. Passing over the difficulty
of a perpetual movement through space in one direction only, there
remained the self-contradictory assumption that an infinite number
of atoms all moving together in that one direction could find any
unoccupied space to fall into.[164] Secondly, astronomical discoveries,
establishing as they did the sphericity of the earth, had for ever
disproved the crude theory that unsupported bodies fall downward
in parallel straight lines. Even granting that the astronomers, in
the absence of complete empirical verification, could not prove
their whole contention, they could at any rate prove enough of it to
destroy the notion of parallel descent; for the varying elevation of
the pole-star demonstrated the curvature of the earth’s surface so
far as it was accessible to observation, thus showing that, within
the limits of experience, gravitation acted along convergent lines.
Finally, Aristotle had pointed out that the observed differences in
the velocity of falling bodies were due to the atmospheric resistance,
and that, consequently, they would all move at the same rate in such
an absolute vacuum as atomism assumed.[165] Of these objections
Epicurus ignored the first two, except, apparently, to the extent
of refusing to believe in the antipodes. The third he acknowledged,
and set himself to evade it by a hypothesis striking at the root of
all scientific reasoning. The atoms, he tells us, suffer a slight
deflection from the line of perpendicular descent, sufficient to bring
them into collision with one another; and from this collision proceeds
the variety of movement necessary to throw them into all sorts of
accidental combinations. Our own free will, says Lucretius, furnishes
an example of such a deflection whenever we swerve aside from the
direction in which an original impulse is carrying us.[166] That the
irregularity thus introduced into Nature interfered with the law of
universal causation was an additional recommendation of it in the eyes
of Epicurus, who, as we have already mentioned, hated the physical
necessity of the philosophers even more than he hated the watchful
interfering providence of the theologians. But, apparently, neither he
nor his disciples saw that in discarding the invariable sequence of
phenomena, they annulled, to the same extent, the possibility of human
foresight and adaptation of means to ends. There was no reason why the
deflection, having once occurred, should not be repeated infinitely
often, each time producing effects of incalculable extent. And a
further inconsequence of the system is that it afterwards accounts for
human choice by a mechanism which has nothing to do with free-will.[167]

The Epicurean cosmology need not delay us long. It is completely
independent of the atomic theory, which had only been introduced to
explain the indestructibility of matter, and, later on, the mechanism
of sensation. In describing how the world was first formed, Epicurus
falls back on the old Ionian meteorology. He assumes the existence of
matter in different states of diffusion, and segregates fluid from
solid, light from heavy, hot from cold, by the familiar device of a
rapid vortical movement.[168] For the rest, as we have already noticed,
Epicurus gives an impartial welcome to the most conflicting theories
of his predecessors, provided only that they dispense with the aid of
supernatural intervention; as will be seen by the following summary,
which we quote from Zeller:—

 Possibly the world may move, and possibly it may be at rest. Possibly
 it may be round, or else it may be triangular, or have any other
 shape. Possibly the sun and the stars may be extinguished at setting,
 and be lighted afresh at their rising: it is, however, equally
 possible that they may only disappear under the earth and reappear
 again, or that their rising and setting is due to yet other causes.
 Possibly the waxing and waning of the moon may be caused by the moon’s
 revolving; or it may be due to the atmospheric change, or to an actual
 increase or decrease in the moon’s size, or to some other cause.
 Possibly the moon may shine with borrowed light, or it may shine with
 its own, experience supplying us with instances of bodies which give
 their own light, and of others which have their light borrowed. From
 these and such like statements it appears that questions of natural
 science in themselves have no value for Epicurus. Whilst granting that
 only one natural explanation of phenomena is generally possible, yet
 in any particular case it is perfectly indifferent which explanation
 is adopted.[169]

This was the creed professed by ‘the great scientific school of
antiquity,’ and this was its way of protesting ‘against the contempt of
physics which prevailed’ among the Stoics!

So far as he can be said to have studied science at all, the motive of
Epicurus was hatred for religion far more than love for natural law.
He seems, indeed, to have preserved that aversion for Nature which is
so characteristic of the earlier Greek Humanists. He seems to have
imagined that by refusing to tie himself down to any one explanation
of external phenomena, he could diminish their hold over the mind
of man. For when he departs from his usual attitude of suspense and
reserve, it is to declare dogmatically that the heavenly bodies are
no larger than they appear to our senses, and perhaps smaller than
they sometimes appear.[170] The only arguments adduced on behalf of
this outrageous assertion were that if their superficial extension
was altered by transmission, their colour would be altered to a still
greater degree; and the alleged fact that flames look the same size at
all distances.[171] It is evident that neither Epicurus nor Lucretius,
who, as usual, transcribes him with perfect good faith, could ever
have looked at one lamp-flame through another, or they would have seen
that the laws of linear perspective are not suspended in the case of
self-luminous bodies—a fact which does not tell much for that accurate
observation supposed to have been fostered by their philosophy.[172]
The truth is, that Epicurus disliked the oppressive notion of a sun
several times larger than the earth, and was determined not to tolerate
it, be the consequences to fact and logic what they might.


VI.

The Epicurean philosophy of external Nature was used as an instrument
for destroying the uncomfortable belief in Divine Providence. The
Epicurean philosophy of mind was used to destroy the still more
uncomfortable belief in man’s immortality. As opinions then stood, the
task was a comparatively easy one. In our discussion of Stoicism, we
observed that the spiritualism of Plato and Aristotle was far before
their age, and was not accepted or even understood by their countrymen
for a long time to come. Moreover, Aristotle did not agree with his
master in thinking that the personal eternity of the soul followed
from its immateriality. The belief of the Stoics in a prolongation of
individual existence until the destruction of all created things by
fire, was, even in that very limited form, inconsistent with their
avowed materialism, and had absolutely no influence on their practical
convictions. Thus Plato’s arguments were alone worth considering. For
Epicurus, the whole question was virtually settled by the principle,
which he held in common with the Stoics, that nothing exists but
matter, its attributes, and its relations. He accepted, it is true,
the duality of soul and body, agreeing, in this respect also, with the
Stoics and the earlier physicists; and the familiar antithesis of flesh
and spirit is a survival of his favourite phraseology;[173] but this
very term ‘flesh’ was employed to cover the assumption that the body
to which he applied it differed not in substance but in composition
from its animating principle. The latter, a rather complex aggregate,
consists proximately of four distinct elements, imagined, apparently,
for the purpose of explaining its various functions, and, in the last
analysis, of very fine and mobile atoms.[174] When so much had been
granted, it naturally followed that the soul was only held together by
the body, and was immediately dissolved on being separated from it—a
conclusion still further strengthened by the manifest dependence of
psychic on corporeal activities throughout the period of their joint
existence. Thus all terrors arising from the apprehension of future
torments were summarily dispelled.

The simple dread of death, considered as a final annihilation of
our existence, remained to be dealt with. There was no part of his
philosophy on which Epicurus laid so much stress; he regarded it as
setting the seal on those convictions, a firm grasp of which was
essential to the security of human happiness. Nothing else seemed
difficult, if once the worst enemy of our tranquillity had been
overcome. His argument is summed up in the concise formula: when we
are, death is not; when death is, we are not; therefore death is
nothing to us.[175] The pleasures of life will be no loss, for we shall
not feel the want of them. The sorrow of our dearest friends will be
indifferent to us in the absence of all consciousness whatever. To the
consideration that, however calmly we may face our own annihilation,
the loss of those whom we love remains as terrible as ever, Lucretius
replies that we need not mourn for them, since they do not feel any
pain at their own extinction.[176]

There must, one would suppose, be some force in the Epicurean
philosophy of death, for it has been endorsed by no less a thinker
and observer than Shakspeare. To make the great dramatist responsible
for every opinion uttered by one or other of his characters would, of
course, be absurd; but when we find personages so different in other
respects as Claudio, Hamlet, and Macbeth, agreeing in the sentiment
that, apart from the prospect of a future judgment, there is nothing to
appal us in the thought of death, we cannot avoid the inference that he
is here making them the mouthpiece of his own convictions, even, as in
Hamlet’s famous soliloquy, at the expense of every dramatic propriety.
Nevertheless, the answer of humanity to such sophisms will always
be that of Homer’s Achilles, ‘μὴ δή μοι θάνατόν γε παραύδα’—‘Talk
me not fair of death!’ A very simple process of reasoning will make
this clear. The love of life necessarily involves a constant use
of precautions against its loss. The certainty of death means the
certainty that these precautions shall one day prove unavailing; the
consciousness of its near approach means the consciousness that they
have actually failed. In both cases the result must be a sense of
baffled or arrested effort, more or less feeble when it is imagined,
more or less acute when it it is realised. But this diversion of the
conscious energies from their accustomed channel, this turning back of
the feelings on themselves, constitutes the essence of all emotion;
and where the object of the arrested energies was to avert a danger,
it constitutes the emotion of fear. Thus, by an inevitable law, the
love of life has for its reverse side the dread of death. Now the love
of life is guaranteed by the survival of the fittest; it must last
as long as the human race, for without it the race could not last
at all. If, as Epicurus urged, the supreme desirability of pleasure
is proved by its being the universal object of pursuit among all
species of animals,[177] the supreme hatefulness of death is proved by
an analogous experience; and we may be sure that, even if pessimism
became the accepted faith, the darkened prospect would lead to no
relaxation of our grasp on life. A similar mode of reasoning applies to
the sorrow and anguish, _mortis comites et funeris atri_, from which
the benevolent Roman poet would fain relieve us. For, among a social
species, the instinct for preserving others is second only to the
instinct of self-preservation, and frequently rises superior to it.
Accordingly, the loss of those whom we love causes, and must always
cause us, a double distress. There is, first, the simple pain due to
the eternal loss of their society, a pain of which Lucretius takes no
account. And, secondly, there is the arrest of all helpful activity on
their behalf, the continual impulse to do something for them, coupled
with the chilling consciousness that it is too late, that nothing more
can be done. So strong, indeed, is this latter feeling that it often
causes the loss of those whose existence was a burden to themselves
and others, to be keenly felt, if only the survivors were accustomed,
as a matter of duty, to care for them and to struggle against the
disease from which they suffered. Philosophy may help to fill up the
blanks thus created, by directing our thoughts to objects of perennial
interest, and she may legitimately discourage the affectation or the
fostering of affliction; but the blanks themselves she cannot explain
away, without forfeiting all claim on our allegiance as the ultimate
and incorruptible arbitress of truth.

We are now in a position to understand how far Epicurus was justified
in regarding the expectation of immortality as a source of dread
rather than of consolation. In this respect also, the survival of
the fittest has determined that human nature shall not look forward
with satisfaction to the termination of its earthly existence. Were
any race of men once persuaded that death is the passage to a happier
world, it would speedily be replaced by competitors holding a belief
better adapted to the conditions of terrestrial duration. Hence,
practically speaking, the effect of religious dogmas has been to make
death rather more dreaded than it would have been without their aid;
and, as already observed, their natural tendency has been powerfully
stimulated by the cupidity of their professional expositors. The hope
of heaven, to exist at all, must be checked by a considerably stronger
apprehension of hell. There is a saying in America that the immortality
of the soul is too good to be true. We suspect that the immortality in
which most religious Americans still believe hardly deserves such a
compliment; but it accurately expresses the incredulity with which a
genuine message of salvation would be received by most men; and this
explains why Universalism, with the few who have accepted it, is but
the transition stage to a total rejection of any life beyond the grave.
No doubt, in the first flush of fanaticism, the assurance of an easy
admission to paradise may do much to win acceptance for the religion
which offers it; but when such a religion ceases to make new conquests,
its followers must either modify their convictions, or die out under
the competition of others by whom mortal life is not held so cheap.

We must add, that while Epicurus was right in regarding the beliefs
entertained about a future life as a source of painful anxiety,
he was only justified in this opinion by the deeper truth, which
he ignored, that they are simply the natural dread of death under
another form.[178] The most appalling pictures of damnation would,
taken by themselves, probably add but little to human misery. The
alarming effect even of earthly punishments is found to depend on
their certainty much more than on their severity; and the certainty
of suffering what nobody has ever experienced must be small indeed.
Besides, the class most interested in enlarging on the dark side
of immortality are also interested in showing that its dangers may
be bought off at a comparatively trifling cost. What Epicurus said
about the inexorable fate of the physicists might here be turned
against himself. He removed terrors which there was a possibility of
exorcising, and substituted a prospect of annihilation whence there was
no escape.[179]

It is, after all, very questionable whether human happiness would
be increased by suppressing the thought of death as something to be
feared. George Eliot, in her _Legend of Jubal_, certainly expresses
the contrary opinion.[180] The finest edge of enjoyment would be taken
off if we forgot its essentially transitory character. The free man
may, in Spinoza’s words, think of nothing less than of death; but he
cannot prevent the sunken shadow from throwing all his thoughts of life
into higher and more luminous relief. The ideal enjoyment afforded by
literature would lose much of its zest were we to discard all sympathy
with the fears and sorrows on which our mortal condition has enabled it
so largely to draw—the _lacrimae rerum_, which Lucretius himself has
turned to such admirable account. And the whole treasure of happiness
due to mutual affection must gain by our remembrance that the time
granted for its exercise is always limited, and may at any moment be
brought to an end—or rather, such an effect might be looked for were
this remembrance more constantly present to our minds.

Lucretius dwells much on the dread of death as a source of vice and
crime. He tells us that men plunge into all sorts of mad distractions
or unscrupulous schemes of avarice and ambition in their anxiety to
escape either from its haunting presence, or from the poverty and
disrepute which they have learned to associate with it.[181] Critics
are disposed to think that the poet, in his anxiety to make a point,
is putting a wrong interpretation on the facts. Yet it should be
remembered that Lucretius was a profound observer, and that his
teaching, in this respect, may be heard repeated from London pulpits
at the present day. The truth seems to be, not that he went too far,
but that he did not go far enough. What he decries as a spur to
vicious energy is, in reality, a spur to all energy. Every passion,
good or bad, is compressed and intensified by the contracting limits
of mortality; and the thought of death impels men either to wring the
last drop of enjoyment from their lives, or to take refuge from their
perishing individualities in the relative endurance of collective
enterprises and impersonal aims.

Let none suppose that the foregoing remarks are meant either to express
any sympathy with a cowardly shrinking from death, or to intimate
that the doctrine of evolution tends to reverse the noblest lessons
of ancient wisdom. In holding that death is rightly regarded as an
evil, and that it must always continue to be so regarded, we do not
imply that it is necessarily the greatest of all evils for any given
individual. It is not, as Spinoza has shown, by arguing away our
emotions, but by confronting them with still stronger emotions, that
they are, if necessary, to be overcome.[182] The social feelings may
be trusted to conquer the instinct of self-preservation, and, by a
self-acting adjustment, to work with more intensity in proportion to
the strength of its resistance. The dearer our lives are to us, the
greater will be the glory of renouncing them, that others may be better
secured in the enjoyment of theirs. Aristotle is much truer, as well as
more human, than Epicurus, when he observes that ‘the more completely
virtuous and happy a man is, the more will he be grieved to die; for to
such a one life is worth most, and he will consciously be renouncing
the greatest goods, and that is grievous. Nevertheless, he remains
brave, nay, even the braver for that very reason, because he prefers
the glory of a warrior to every other good.’[183] Nor need we fear that
a race of cowards will be the fittest to survive, when we remember what
an advantage that state has in the struggle for existence, the lives of
whose citizens are most unrestrictedly held at its disposal. But their
devotion would be without merit and without meaning, were not the loss
of existence felt to be an evil, and its prolongation cherished as a
gain.


VII.

Next to its bearing on the question of immortality, the Epicurean
psychology is most interesting as a contribution to the theory of
cognition. Epicurus holds that all our knowledge is derived from
experience, and all our experience, directly or indirectly, from the
presentations of sense. So far he says no more than would be admitted
by the Stoics, by Aristotle, and indeed by every Greek philosopher
except Plato. There is, therefore, no necessary connexion between
his views in this respect and his theory of ethics, since others had
combined the same views with a very different standard of action. It
is in discussing the vexed question of what constitutes the ultimate
criterion of truth that he shows to most disadvantage in comparison
with the more intellectual schools. He seems to have considered that
sensation supplies not only the matter but the form of knowledge; or
rather, he seems to have missed the distinction between matter and
form altogether. What the senses tell us, he says, is always true,
although we may draw erroneous inferences from their statements.[184]
But this only amounts to the identical proposition that we feel what
we feel; for it cannot be pretended that the order of our sensations
invariably corresponds to the actual order of things in themselves.
Even confining ourselves to individual sensations, or single groups of
sensations, there are some that do not always correspond to the same
objective reality, and others that do not correspond to any reality
at all; while, conversely, the same object produces a multitude of
different sensations according to the subjective conditions under which
it affects us. To escape from this difficulty, Epicurus has recourse
to a singularly crude theory of perception, borrowed from Empedocles
and the older atomists. What we are conscious of is, in each instance,
not the object itself, but an image composed of fine atoms thrown off
from the surfaces of bodies and brought into contact with the organs of
sense. Our perception corresponds accurately to an external image, but
the image itself is often very unlike the object whence it originally
proceeded. Sometimes it suffers a considerable change in travelling
through the atmosphere. For instance, when a square tower, seen at a
great distance, produces the impression of roundness, this is because
the sharp angles of its image have been rubbed off on the way to our
eyes. Sometimes the image continues to wander about after its original
has ceased to exist, and that is why the dead seem to revisit us in
our dreams. And sometimes the images of different objects coalesce as
they are floating about, thus producing the appearance of impossible
monsters, such as centaurs and chimaeras.[185]

It was with the help of this theory that Epicurus explained and
defended the current belief in the existence of gods. The divine
inhabitants of the _intermundia_, or empty spaces separating world
from world, are, like all other beings, composed of atoms, and are
continually throwing off fine images, some of which make their
way unaltered to our earth and reveal themselves to the senses,
particularly during sleep, when we are most alive to the subtlest
impressions on our perceptive organs. With the usual irrationality of
a theologian, Epicurus remained blind to the fact that gods who were
constantly throwing off even the very thinnest films could not possibly
survive through all eternity. Neither did he explain how images larger
than the pupil of the eye could pass through its aperture while
preserving their original proportions unaltered.

We have seen how Epicurus erected the senses into ultimate arbiters
of truth. By so doing, however, he only pushed the old difficulty a
step further back. Granting that our perceptions faithfully correspond
to certain external images, how can we be sure that these images are
themselves copies of a solid and permanent reality? And how are we
to determine the validity of general notions representing not some
single object but entire classes of objects? The second question may
be most conveniently answered first. Epicurus holds that perception is
only a finer sort of sensation. General notions are material images
of a very delicate texture formed, apparently, on the principle of
composition-photographs by the coalescence of many individual images
thrown off from objects possessing a greater or less degree of
resemblance to one another.[186] Thought is produced by the contact of
such images with the soul, itself, it will be remembered, a material
substance.

The rules for distinguishing between truth and falsehood are given
in the famous Epicurean Canon. On receiving an image into the mind,
we associate it with similar images formerly impressed on us by some
real object. If the association or anticipation (πρόληψις) is confirmed
or not contradicted by subsequent experience, it is true; false, if
contradicted or not confirmed.[187] The stress laid on absence of
contradictory evidence illustrates the great part played by such
notions as possibility, negation, and freedom in the Epicurean system.
In ethics this class of conceptions is represented by painlessness,
conceived first as the condition, and finally as the essence of
happiness; in physics by the infinite void, the _inane profundum_ of
which Lucretius speaks with almost religious unction; and in logic by
the absence of contradiction considered as a proof of reality. Here,
perhaps, we may detect the Parmenidean absolute under a new form; only,
by a curious reversal, what Parmenides himself strove altogether to
expel from thought has become its supreme object and content.[188]

The Epicurean philosophy of life and mind is completed by a sketch
of human progress from its earliest beginnings to the complete
establishment of civilisation. Here our principal authority is
Lucretius; and no part of his great poem has attracted so much
attention and admiration in recent times as that in which he so vividly
places before us the condition of primitive men with all its miseries,
and the slow steps whereby family life, civil society, religion,
industry, and science arose out of the original chaos and war of all
against each. But it seems likely that here, as elsewhere, Lucretius
did no more than copy and colour the outlines already traced by his
master’s hand.[189] How far Epicurus himself is to be credited with
this brilliant forecast of modern researches into the history of
civilisation, is a more difficult question. When we consider that
the most important parts of his philosophy were compiled from older
systems, and that the additions made by himself do not indicate any
great capacity for original research, we are forced to conclude that,
here also, he is indebted to some authority whose name has not been
preserved. The development of civilisation out of barbarism seems,
indeed, to have been a standing doctrine of Greek Humanism, just as the
opposite doctrine of degeneracy was characteristic of the naturalistic
school. It is implied in the discourse of Protagoras reported by Plato,
and also, although less fully, in the introduction to the History of
Thucydides. Plato and Aristotle trace back the intellectual and social
progress of mankind to very rude beginnings; while both writers assume
that it was effected without any supernatural aid—a point marked to
the exclusive credit of Epicurus by M. Guyau.[190] The old notion of
a golden age, accepted as it was by so powerful a school as Stoicism,
must have been the chief obstacle to a belief in progress; but the
_Prometheus_ of Aeschylus, with its vivid picture of the miseries
suffered by primitive men through their ignorance of the useful
arts, shows that a truer conception had already gained ground quite
independently of philosophic theories. That the primitive state was one
of lawless violence was declared by another dramatic poet, Critias, who
has also much to say about the civilising function of religion;[191]
and shortly before the time of Epicurus the same view was put forward
by Euphorion, in a passage of which, as it will probably be new to many
of our readers, we subjoin a translation:—

    There was a time when mortals lived like brutes
    In caves and unsunned hollows of the earth,
    For neither house nor city flanked with towers
    Had then been reared: no ploughshare cut the clod
    To make it yield a bounteous harvest, nor
    Were the vines ranked and trimmed with pruning-knives,
    But fruitless births the sterile earth did bear.
    Men on each other fed with mutual slaughter,
    For Law was feeble, Violence enthroned,
    And to the strong the weaker fell a prey.
    But soon as Time that bears and nurtures all
    Wrought out another change in human life,—
    Whether some rapt Promethean utterance,
    Or strong Necessity, or Nature’s teaching
    Through long experience, their deliverance brought,—
    Holy Dêmêter’s fruit it gave them; the sweet spring
    Of Bacchus they discovered, and the earth,
    Unsown before, was ploughed with oxen; cities then
    They girt with towers and sheltering houses raised,
    And turned their savage life to civil ways;
    And after that Law bade entomb the dead
    And measure out to each his share of dust,
    Nor leave unburied and exposed to sight
    Ghastly reminders of their former feasts.[192]

The merit of having worked up these loose materials into a connected
sketch was, no doubt, considerable; but, according to Zeller, there is
reason for attributing it to Theophrastus or even to Democritus rather
than to Epicurus.[193] On the other hand, the purely mechanical manner
in which Lucretius supposes every invention to have been suggested by
some accidental occurrence or natural phenomenon, is quite in the style
of Epicurus, and reminds us of the method by which he is known to have
explained every operation of the human mind.[194]


VIII.

We have already repeatedly alluded to the only man of genius whom
Epicureanism ever counted among its disciples. It is time that we
should determine with more precision the actual relation in which
he stood to the master whom, with a touching survival of religious
sentiment, he revered as a saviour and a god.

Lucretius has been called Rome’s only great speculative genius.
This is, of course, absurd. A talent for lucid exposition does not
constitute speculative genius, especially when it is unaccompanied by
any ability to criticise the opinions expounded. The author of the _De
Rerum Naturâ_ probably had a lawyer’s education. He certainly exhibits
great forensic skill in speaking from his brief. But Cicero and Seneca
showed the same skill on a much more extensive scale; and the former
in particular was immensely superior to Lucretius in knowledge and
argumentative power. Besides, the poet, who was certainly not disposed
to hide his light under a bushel, and who exalts his own artistic
excellences in no measured terms, never professes to be anything but a
humble interpreter of truths first revealed to his Greek instructor’s
vivid intellect. It has, indeed, been claimed for Lucretius that
he teaches a higher wisdom than his acknowledged guide.[195] This
assertion is, however, not borne out by a careful comparison between
the two.[196] In both there is the same theory of the universe, of man,
and of the relations connecting them with one another. The idea of
Nature in Lucretius shows no advance over the same idea in Epicurus.
To each it expresses, not, as with the Stoics, a unifying power, a
design by which all things work together for the best, but simply the
conditions of a permanent mechanical aggregation. When Lucretius speaks
of _foedera Naturai_, he means, not what we understand by laws of
nature, that is, uniformities of causation underlying all phenomenal
differences, to understand which is an exaltation of human dignity
through the added power of prevision and control which it bestows,
but rather the limiting possibilities of existence, the barriers
against which human hopes and aspirations dash themselves in vain—an
objective logic which guards us against fallacies instead of enabling
us to arrive at positive conclusions. We have here the pervadingly
negative character of Epicureanism, though probably presented with
something of Roman solemnity and sternness. The idea of individuality,
with which Lucretius has also been credited, occupies but a small
place in his exposition, and seems to have interested him only as a
particular aspect of the atomic theory. The ultimate particles of
matter must be divided into unlike groups of units, for otherwise we
could not explain the unlikenesses exhibited by sensible objects. This
is neither the original Greek idea, that every man has his own life to
lead, irrespective of public opinion or arbitrary convention; nor is
it the modern delight in Nature’s inexhaustible variety as opposed to
the poverty of human invention, or to the restrictions of fashionable
taste. Nor can we admit that Lucretius developed Epicurean philosophy
in the direction of increased attention to the external world. The poet
was, no doubt, a consummate observer, and he used his observations
with wonderful felicity for the elucidation and enforcement of his
philosophical reasoning; but in this respect he has been equalled
or surpassed by other poets who either knew nothing of systematic
philosophy, or, like Dante, were educated in a system as unlike as
possible to that of Epicurus. There is, therefore, every reason for
assuming that he saw and described phenomena not by virtue of his
scientific training, but by virtue of his artistic endowment. And the
same may be said of the other points in which he is credited with
improvements on his master’s doctrine. There is, no doubt, a strong
consciousness of unity, of individuality, and of law running through
his poem. But it is under the form of intuitions or contemplations, not
under the form of speculative ideas that they are to be found. And,
as will be presently shown, it is not as attributes of Nature but as
attributes of life that they present themselves to his imagination.

In ethics, the dependence of Lucretius on his master is not less
close than in physics. There is the same inconsistent presentation
of pleasure conceived under its intensest aspect, and then of mere
relief from pain, as the highest good;[197] the same dissuasion from
sensuality, not as in itself degrading, but as involving disagreeable
consequences;[198] the same inculcation of frugal and simple living as
a source of happiness; the same association of justice with the dread
of detection and punishment;[199] the same preference—particularly
surprising in a Roman—of quiet obedience to political power;[200]
finally, the same rejection, for the same reason, of divine providence
and of human immortality, along with the same attempt to prove that
death is a matter of indifference to us, enforced with greater passion
and wealth of illustration, but with no real addition to the philosophy
of the subject.[201]

Nevertheless, after all has been said, we are conscious of a great
change in passing from the Greek moralist to the Roman poet. We seem
to be breathing a new atmosphere, to find the old ideas informed with
an unwonted life, to feel ourselves in the presence of one who has a
power of stamping his convictions on us not ordinarily possessed by
the mere imitative disciple. The explanation of this difference, we
think, lies in the fact that Lucretius has so manipulated the Epicurean
doctrines as to convert them from a system into a picture; and that he
has saturated this picture with an emotional tone entirely wanting to
the spirit of Epicureanism as it was originally designed. It is with
the latter element that we may most conveniently begin.

Attention has already been called to the fact that Epicurus, although
himself indifferent to physical science, was obliged, by the demands of
the age, to give it a place, and a very large place, in his philosophy.
Now it was to this very side of Epicureanism that the fresh intellect
of Rome most eagerly attached itself. It is a great mistake to suppose
that the Romans, or rather the ancient Italians, were indifferent to
speculations about the nature of things. No one has given more eloquent
expression to the enthusiasm excited by such enquiries than Virgil.
Seneca devoted a volume to physical questions, and regretted that
worldly distractions should prevent them from being studied with the
assiduity they deserved. The elder Pliny lost his life in observing
the eruption of Vesuvius. It was probably the imperial despotism,
with its repeated persecutions of the ‘Mathematicians,’ which alone
prevented Italy from entering on the great scientific career for which
she was predestined in after ages. At any rate, a spirit of active
curiosity was displaying itself during the last days of the republic,
and we are told that nearly all the Roman Epicureans applied themselves
particularly to the physical side of their master’s doctrine.[202] Most
of all was Lucretius distinguished by a veritable passion for science,
which haunted him even in his dreams.[203] Hence, while Epicurus
regarded the knowledge of Nature simply as a means for overthrowing
religion, with his disciple the speculative interest seems to precede
every other consideration, and religion is only introduced afterwards
as an obstacle to be removed from the enquirer’s path. How far his
natural genius might have carried the poet in this direction, had he
fallen into better hands, we cannot tell. As it was, the gift of what
seemed a complete and infallible interpretation of physical phenomena
relieved him from the necessity of independent investigation, and
induced him to accept the most preposterous conclusions as demonstrated
truths. But we can see how he is drawn by an elective affinity to that
early Greek thought whence Epicurus derived whatever was of any real
value in his philosophy.

It has been doubted, we think with insufficient reason, that Lucretius
was acquainted at first hand with Empedocles.[204] But, by whatever
channel it reached him, the enthusiasm of Empedocles and the Eleates
lives in his verse no less truly than the inspiration of Aeolian music
in the song of his younger contemporary, Catullus. The atomic theory,
with its wonderful revelations of invisible activity and unbroken
continuity underlying the abrupt revolutions of phenomenal existence,
had been the direct product of those earliest struggles towards a
deeper vision into the mysteries of cosmic life; and so Lucretius was
enabled through his grasp of the theory itself to recover the very
spirit and passion from which it sprang.[205]

But the enthusiasm for science, however noble in itself, would not
alone have sufficed to mould the Epicurean philosophy into a true work
of art. The _De Rerum Naturâ_ is the greatest of all didactic poems,
because it is something more than didactic. Far more truly than any
of its Latin successors, it may claim comparison with the epic and
dramatic masterpieces of Greece and Christian Europe; and that too not
by virtue of any detached passages, however splendid, but by virtue
of its composition as a whole. The explanation of this extraordinary
success is to be sought in the circumstance that the central interest
whence Lucretius works out in all directions is vital rather than
merely scientific. The true heroine of his epic is not Nature but
universal life—human life in the first instance, then the life of all
the lower animals, and even of plants as well. Not only does he bring
before us every stage of man’s existence from its first to its last
hour with a comprehensiveness, a fidelity, and a daring unparalleled
in literature; but he exhibits with equal power of portrayal the
towered elephants carrying confusion into the ranks of war, or girdling
their own native India with a rampart of ivory tusks; the horse with an
eagerness for the race that outruns even the impulse of his own swift
limbs, or fiercely neighing with distended nostrils on the battlefield;
the dog snuffing an imaginary scent, or barking at strange faces in
his dreams; the cow sorrowing after her lost heifer; the placid and
laborious ox; the flock of pasturing sheep seen far off, like a white
spot on some green hill; the tremulous kids and sportive lambs; the
new-fledged birds filling all the grove with their fresh songs; the
dove with her neck-feathers shifting from ruby-red to sky-blue and
emerald-green; the rookery clamouring for wind or rain; the sea birds
screaming over the salt waves in search of prey; the snake sloughing
its skin; the scaly fishes cleaving their way through the yielding
stream; the bee winging its flight from flower to flower; the gnat
whose light touch on our faces passes unperceived; the grass refreshed
with dew; the trees bursting into sudden life from the young earth, or
growing, flourishing, and covering themselves with fruit, dependent,
like animals, on heat and moisture for their increase, and glad
like them:—all these helping to illustrate with unequalled variety,
movement, and picturesqueness the central idea which Lucretius carries
always in his mind.

The keynote of the whole poem is struck in its opening lines. When
Venus is addressed as Nature’s sole guide and ruler, this, from the
poet’s own point of view, is not true of Nature as a whole, but it is
eminently true of life, whether we identify Venus with the passion
through which living things are continually regenerated, or with the
pleasure which is their perpetual motive and their only good. And it
is equally appropriate, equally characteristic of a consummate artist,
that the interest of the work should culminate in a description of
this same passion, no longer as the source of life, but as its last
outcome and full flower, yet also, when pushed to excess, the illusion
by which it is most utterly disappointed and undone; and that the whole
should conclude with a description of death, not as exemplified in any
individual tragedy, but in such havoc as was wrought by the famous
plague at Athens on man and beast alike. Again, it is by the orderly
sequence of vital phenomena that Lucretius proves his first great
principle, the everlasting duration and changelessness of matter. If
something can come out of nothing, he asks us, why is the production of
all living things attached to certain conditions of place and season
and parentage, according to their several kinds? Or if a decrease in
the total sum of existence be possible, whence comes the inexhaustible
supply of materials needed for the continual regeneration, growth, and
nourishment of animal life? It is because our senses cannot detect
the particles of matter by whose withdrawal visible objects gradually
waste away that the existence of extremely minute atoms is assumed;
and, so far, there is also a reference to inorganic bodies; but the
porosity of matter is proved by the interstitial absorption of food
and the searching penetration of cold; while the necessity of a vacuum
is established by the ability of fish to move through the opposing
stream. The generic differences supposed to exist among the atoms are
inferred from the distinctions separating not only one animal species
from another, but each individual from all others of the same species.
The deflection of the atoms from the line of perpendicular descent is
established by the existence of human free-will. So also, the analysis
which distinguishes three determinate elements in the composition
of the soul finds its justification in the diverse characters of
animals—the fierceness of the lion, the placidity of the ox, and the
timorousness of the deer—qualities arising from the preponderance of a
fiery, an aërial, and a windy ingredient in the animating principle of
each respectively. Finally, by another organic illustration, the atoms
in general are spoken of as _semina rerum_—seeds of things.

At the same time Lucretius is resolved that no false analogy shall
obscure the distinction between life and the conditions of life. It is
for attempting, as he supposes, to efface this distinction that he so
sharply criticises the earlier Greek thinkers. He scoffs at Heracleitus
for imagining that all forms of existence can be deduced from the
single element of fire. The idea of evolution and transformation seems,
under some of its aspects, utterly alien to our poet. His intimacy with
the world of living forms had accustomed him to view Nature as a vast
assemblage of fixed types which might be broken up and reconstructed,
but which by no possibility could pass into one another. Yet this rigid
retention of characteristic differences in form permits a certain play
and variety of movement, an individual spontaneity for which no law can
be prescribed. The _foedera Naturai_, as Prof. Sellar aptly observes,
are opposed to the _foedera fati_.[206] And this is just what might
be expected from a philosophy based on the contemplation of life. For,
while there is no capriciousness at all about the structure of animals,
there is apparently a great deal of capriciousness about their actions.
On the other hand, the Stoics, who derived their physics in great part
from Heracleitus, came nearer than Lucretius to the standpoint of
modern science. With them, as with the most advanced thinkers now, it
is the _foedera Naturai_—the uniformities of co-existence—which are
liable to exception and modification, while the _foedera fati_—the laws
of causation—are necessary and absolute.

In like manner, Lucretius rejects the theory that living bodies
are made up of the four elements, much as he admires its author,
Empedocles. It seemed to him a blind confusion of the inorganic with
the organic, the complex harmonies of life needing a much more subtle
explanation than was afforded by such a crude intermixture of warring
principles. If the theory of Anaxagoras fares no better in his hands,
it is for the converse reason. He looks on it as an attempt to carry
back purely vital phenomena into the inorganic world, to read into the
ultimate molecules of matter what no analysis can make them yield—that
is, something with properties like those of the tissues out of which
animal bodies are composed.

Thus, while the atomic theory enables Lucretius to account for the
dependent and perishable nature of life, the same theory enables him to
bring out by contrast its positive and distinguishing characteristics.
The bulk, the flexibility, the complexity, and the sensibility of
animal bodies are opposed to the extreme minuteness, the absolute
hardness, the simplicity, and the unconsciousness of the primordial
substances which build them up.

On passing from the ultimate elements of matter to those immense
aggregates which surpass man in size and complexity as much as the
atoms fall below him, but on whose energies his dependence is no less
helpless and complete—the infinite worlds typified for us by this one
system wherein we dwell, with its solid earthly nucleus surrounded by
rolling orbs of light—Lucretius still carries with him the analogies
of life; but in proportion to the magnitude and remoteness of the
objects examined, his grasp seems to grow less firm and his touch
less sure. In marked contrast to Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics, he
argues passionately against the ascription of a beneficent purpose to
the constitution of the world; but his reasonings are based solely on
its imperfect adaptation to the necessities of human existence. With
equal vigour he maintains, apparently against Aristotle, that the
present system has had a beginning; against both Aristotle and Plato
that, in common with all systems, it will have an end—a perfectly
true conclusion, but evidently based on nothing stronger than the
analogies of vital phenomena. And everywhere the subjective standpoint,
making man the universal measure, is equally marked. Because our
knowledge of history does not go far back, we cannot be far removed
from its absolute beginning; and the history of the human race must
measure the duration of the visible world. The earth is conceived as
a mother bringing forth every species of living creature from her
teeming bosom; and not only that, but a nursing mother feeding her
young offspring with abundant streams of milk—an unexpected adaptation
from the myth of a golden age. If we no longer witness such wonderful
displays of fertility, the same elastic method is invoked to explain
their cessation. The world, like other animals, is growing old and
effete. The exhaustion of Italian agriculture is adduced as a sign of
the world’s decrepitude with no less confidence than the freshness
of Italian poetry as a sign of its youth. The vast process of cosmic
change, with its infinite cycles of aggregation and dissolution, does
but repeat on an overwhelming scale the familiar sequences of birth and
death in animal species. Even the rising and setting of the heavenly
bodies and the phases of the moon may, it is argued, result from a
similar succession of perishing individuals, although we take them for
different appearances of a single unalterable sphere.[207]

A similar vein of thought runs through the moral and religious
philosophy of Lucretius. If we look on him as a reformer, we shall
say that his object was to free life from the delusions with which it
had been disfigured by ignorance and passion. If we look on him as an
artist, we shall say that he instinctively sought to represent life in
the pure and perfect beauty of its naked form. If we look on him as a
poet, we shall say that he exhibits all the objects of false belief no
longer in the independence of their fancied reality, but in their place
among other vital phenomena, and in due subordination to the human
consciousness whose power, even when it is bound by them, they reveal.
But while the first alternative leaves him in the position of a mere
imitator or expositor who brings home no lessons that Epicurus had not
already enforced with far greater success, the other two, and above
all the last, restore him to the position of an original genius, who,
instead of deriving his intuitions from the Epicurean system, adopts
just so much of that system as is necessary to give them coherence
and shape. It may, no doubt, be urged, that were life reduced to the
simple expression, the state of almost vegetative repose, demanded
by Lucretius, denuded of love, of ambition, of artistic luxury, of
that aspiration towards belief in and union with some central soul of
things, which all religions, more or less distinctly embody, its value
for imaginative purposes would be destroyed; and that the deepest
lesson taught by his poem would not be how to enjoy existence with the
greatest intensity, but how to abandon it with the least regret. Now
it is just here that the wonderful power of poetry comes in, and does
for once, under the form of a general exposition, what it has to do
again and again under the easier conditions of individual presentation.
For poetry is essentially tragic, and almost always excites the
activity of our imagination, not by giving it the assured possession
of realities, but by the strain resulting from their actual or their
expected eclipse. If Homer and the Attic tragedians show us what is
life, and what are the goods of life, it is not through experience
of the things themselves, but through the form of the void and the
outline of the shadow which their removal or obscuration has produced.
So also in the universal tragedy of the Roman poet, where the actors
are not persons, but ideas. Every belief is felt with more poignant
intensity at the moment of its overthrow, and the world of illusion is
compensated for intellectual extinction by imaginative persistence as
a conscious creation, a memory, or a dream. There is no mythological
picture so splendidly painted as those in which Lucretius has shown
us Mavors pillowed on the lap of Venus, or led before us the Idaean
mother in her triumphal car. No redeemer, credited with supernatural
powers, has ever enjoyed such an apotheosis as that bestowed by his
worshipper on the apostle of unbelief. Nowhere have the terrible and
mysterious suggestions of mortality been marshalled with such effect as
in the argument showing that death no more admits of experience than
of escape. What love-inspired poet has ever followed the storm and
stress of passion with such tenderness of sympathy or such audacity of
disclosure, as he to whom its objects were disrobed of their divinity,
for whom its fancied satisfaction was but the kindling to insaner
effort of a fatally unquenchable desire? Instead of being ‘compelled to
teach a truth he would not learn,’ Lucretius was enabled by the spirit
of his own incomparable art to seize and fix for ever, in bold reversal
of light and shade, those visions on which the killing light of truth
had long before him already dawned.

The _De Rerum Naturâ_ is the greatest of Roman poems, because it
is just the one work where the abstract genius of Rome met with a
subject combining an abstract form with the interest and inspiration
of concrete reality; where negation works with a greater power
than assertion; where the satire is directed against follies more
wide-spread and enduring than any others; where the teaching in some
most essential points can never be superseded; and where dependence
on a Greek model left the poet free to contribute from his own
imagination those elements to which the poetic value of his work is
entirely due. By a curious coincidence, the great poet of mediaeval
Italy attained success by the employment of a somewhat similar method.
Dante represented, it is true, in their victorious combination,
three influences against which Lucretius waged an unrelenting
warfare—religion, the idealising love of woman, and the spiritualistic
philosophy of Greece. Nevertheless, they resemble each other in this
important particular, that both have taken an abstract theory of the
world as the mould into which the burning metal of their imaginative
conceptions is poured. Dante, however, had a power of individual
presentation which Lucretius either lacked or had no opportunity
of exercising; and therefore he approaches nearer to that supreme
creativeness which only two races, the Greek and the English, have
hitherto displayed on a very extended scale.


IX.

Returning once more to Epicurus, we have now to sum up the
characteristic excellences and defects of his philosophy. The revival
of the atomic theory showed unquestionable courage and insight. Outside
the school of Democritus, it was, so far as we know, accepted by no
other thinker. Plato never mentions it. Aristotle examined and rejected
it. The opponents of Epicurus himself treated it as a self-evident
absurdity.[208] Only Marcus Aurelius seems to have contemplated the
possibility of its truth.[209]. But while to have maintained the right
theory in the face of such universal opposition was a proof of no
common discernment, we must remember that appropriating the discoveries
of others, even when those discoveries are in danger of being lost
through neglect, is a very different thing from making discoveries for
one’s self. No portion of the glory due to Leucippus and Democritus
should be diverted to their arrogant successor. And it must also be
remembered that the Athenian philosopher, by his theory of deflection,
not only spoiled the original hypothesis, but even made it a little
ridiculous.

The second service of Epicurus was entirely to banish the idea of
supernatural interference from the study of natural phenomena. This
also was a difficult enterprise in the face of that overwhelming
theological reaction begun by Socrates, continued by Plato, and carried
to grotesque consequences by the Stoics; but, here again, there can
be no question of attributing any originality to the philosopher of
the Garden. That there either were no gods at all, or that if there
were they never meddled with the world, was a common enough opinion in
Plato’s time; and even Aristotle’s doctrine of a Prime Mover excludes
the notion of creation, providence, and miracles altogether. On the
other hand, the Epicurean theory of idle gods was irrational in itself,
and kept the door open for a return of superstitious beliefs.

The next and perhaps the most important point in favour of Epicureanism
is its theory of pleasure as the end of action. Plato had left his idea
of the good undefined; Aristotle had defined his in such a manner as
to shut out the vast majority of mankind from its pursuit; the Stoics
had revolted every instinct by altogether discarding pleasure as an
end, and putting a purely formal and hollow perfection in its place.
It must further be admitted that Epicurus, in tracing back justice to
the two ideas of interest and contract, had hold of a true and fertile
principle. Nevertheless, although ethics is his strongest ground, his
usual ill-luck pursues him even here. It is where he is most original
that he goes most astray. By reducing pleasure, as an end of action,
to the mere removal of pain, he alters earlier systems of hedonism for
the worse; and plays the game of pessimism by making it appear that, on
the whole, death must be preferable to life, since it is what life can
never be—a state of absolute repose. And by making self-interest, in
the sense of seeking nothing but one’s own pleasure or the means to it,
the only rule of action, he endangers the very foundations of society.
At best, the selfish system, as Coleridge has beautifully observed,
‘stands in a similar relation to the law of conscience or universal
selfless reason, as the dial to the sun which indicates its path by
intercepting its radiance.’[210] Nor is the indication so certain as
Coleridge admitted. A time may come when self-sacrifice shall be
unnecessary for the public welfare, but we are not within a measurable
distance of it as yet.

No word of commendation can be pronounced on the Epicurean psychology
and logic. They are both bad in themselves, and inconsistent
with the rest of the system. Were all knowledge derived from
sense-impressions—especially if those impressions were what Epicurus
imagined them to be—the atomic theory could never have been discovered
or even conceived, nor could an ideal of happiness have been thought
out. In its theory of human progress, Epicureanism once more shows to
advantage; although in denying all inventiveness to man, and making him
the passive recipient of external impressions, it differs widely from
the modern school which it is commonly supposed to have anticipated.
And we may reasonably suspect that, here as elsewhere, earlier systems
embodied sounder views on the same subject.

The qualities which enabled Epicurus to compete successfully with much
greater thinkers than himself as the founder of a lasting sect, were
practical rather than theoretical. Others before him had taught that
happiness was the end of life; none, like him, had cultivated the
art of happiness, and pointed out the fittest methods for attaining
it. The idea of such an art was a real and important addition to the
resources of civilisation. No mistake is greater than to suppose that
pleasure is lost by being made an object of pursuit. To single out the
most agreeable course among many alternatives, and, when once found,
steadily to pursue it, is an aptitude like any other, and is capable of
being brought to a high degree of perfection by assiduous attention and
self-discipline.[211] No doubt the capacity for enjoyment is impaired
by excessive self-consciousness, but the same is true of every other
accomplishment during the earlier stages of its acquisition. It is only
the beginner who is troubled by taking too much thought about his own
proficiency; when practice has become a second nature, the professor
of hedonism reaps his harvest of delight without wasting a thought on
his own efforts, or allowing the phantom of pleasure in the abstract
to allure him away from its particular and present realisation. And,
granting that happiness as such can be made an object of cultivation,
Epicurus was perfectly right in teaching that the removal of pain is
its most essential condition, faulty as was (from a speculative point
of view) his confusion of the condition with the thing itself. If
the professed pleasure-seekers of modern society often fail in the
business of their lives, it is from neglecting this salutary principle,
especially where it takes the form of attention to the requirements of
health. In assigning a high importance to friendship, he was equally
well inspired. Congenial society is not only the most satisfying of
enjoyments in itself, but also that which can be most easily combined
with every other enjoyment. It is also true, although a truth felt
rather than perceived by our philosopher, that speculative agreement,
especially when speculation takes the form of dissent from received
opinions, greatly increases the affection of friends for one another.
And as theology is the subject on which unforced agreement seems most
difficult, to eliminate its influence altogether was a valuable though
purely negative contribution to unanimity of thought and feeling in the
hedonistic sect.

An attempt has recently been made by M. Guyau to trace the influence
of Epicurus on modern philosophy. We cannot but think the method of
this able and lucid writer a thoroughly mistaken one. Assuming the
recognition of self-interest as the sole or paramount instinct in
human nature, to be the essence of what Epicurus taught, M. Guyau,
without more ado, sets down every modern thinker who agrees with him
on this one point as his disciple, and then adds to the number all
who hold that pleasure is the end of action; thus making out a pretty
long list of famous names among the more recent continuators of his
tradition. A more extended study of ancient philosophy would have
shown the French critic that moralists who, in other respects, were
most opposed to Epicurus, agreed with him in holding that every man
naturally and necessarily makes his own interest the supreme test
of right conduct; and that only with the definition of welfare did
their divergence begin. On the other hand, the selfish systems of
modern times differ entirely from Epicureanism in their conception
of happiness. With Hobbes, for instance, whom M. Guyau classes as an
Epicurean, the ideal is not painlessness but power; the desires are,
according to his view, naturally infinite, and are held in check, not
by philosophical precepts but by mutual restraint; while, in deducing
the special virtues, his standard is not the good of each individual,
but the good of the whole—in other words, he is, to that extent, a
Stoic rather than an Epicurean. La Rochefoucauld, who is offered as
another example of the same tendency, was not a moralist at all; and as
a psychologist he differs essentially from Epicurus in regarding vanity
as always and everywhere the great motive to virtue. Had the Athenian
sage believed this he would have despaired of making men happy; for
disregard of public opinion, within the limits of personal safety, was,
with him, one of the first conditions of a tranquil existence. Nor
would he have been less averse from the system of Helvétius, another
of his supposed disciples. The principal originality of Helvétius
was to insist that the passions, instead of being discouraged—as all
previous moralists, Epicurus among the number, had advised—should be
deliberately stimulated by the promise of unlimited indulgence to
those who distinguished themselves by important public services. Of
Spinoza we need say nothing, for M. Guyau admits that he was quite as
much inspired by Stoic as by Epicurean ideas. At the same time, the
combination of these two ethical systems would have been much better
illustrated by modern English utilitarianism, which M. Guyau regards
as a development of Epicureanism alone. The greatest happiness of
the greatest number is not an individual or self-interested, but a
universal end, having, as Mill has shown, for its ultimate sanction the
love of humanity as a whole, which is an essentially Stoic sentiment.
It may be added that utilitarianism has no sympathy with the particular
theory of pleasure, whether sensual or negative, adopted by Epicurus.
In giving a high, or even the highest place to intellectual enjoyments,
it agrees with the estimate of Plato and Aristotle, to which he was so
steadily opposed. And in duly appreciating the positive side of all
enjoyments, it returns to the earlier hedonism from which he stood so
far apart.

The distinctive features of Epicureanism have, in truth, never been
copied, nor are they ever likely to be copied, by any modern system.
It arose, as we have seen, from a combination of circumstances which
will hardly be repeated in the future history of thought. As the heat
and pressure of molten granite turn sandstone into slate, so also the
mighty systems of Plato and Aristotle, coming into contact with the
irreligious, sensual, empirical, and sceptical side of Attic thought,
forced it to assume that sort of laminated texture which characterises
the theoretical philosophy of Epicurus. And, at the very same moment,
the disappearance of all patriotism and public spirit from Athenian
life allowed the older elements of Athenian character, its amiable
egoism, its love of frugal gratifications, its aversion from purely
speculative interests, to create a new and looser bond of social union
among those who were indifferent to the vulgar objects of ambition, but
whom the austerer doctrines of Stoicism had failed to attract.




CHAPTER III.

THE SCEPTICS AND ECLECTICS: GREEK PHILOSOPHY IN ROME.


I.

The year 155 B.C. was signalised by an important event, if not in the
history of ideas, at least in the history of their diffusion. This
was the despatch of an embassy from the Athenian people to the Roman
Senate, consisting of three philosophers, the heads of their respective
schools—Carneades the Academician, Critolaus the Peripatetic,
and Diogenes the Stoic. Philosophic teaching, once proscribed at
Athens, had, at the time of which we are speaking, become her chief
distinction, and the most honourable profession pursued within her
precincts. It was, then, as natural that an important mission should be
confided to the most eminent representatives of the calling in question
as that high ecclesiastics should be similarly employed by Rome in
later ages, or that German university towns should send professors to
represent their interests in the imperial Diet. But the same fate that
befalls an established religion had befallen an established philosophy.
An attempt to impose restrictions on the liberty of teaching had,
indeed, been successfully resisted, and the experiment was never
repeated.[212] Nevertheless, the teachers themselves lost as much in
true dignity as they gained in affluence and popular estimation. In all
probability, the threat of death would not have induced Socrates to
undertake the task which was, apparently, accepted without compulsion
and as an honourable duty by his successors. The Athenians had made an
unprovoked raid on the town of Oropus; the affair had been referred to
arbitration; and the aggressors had been sentenced to pay a fine of 500
talents. It was to obtain a remission of this sentence that the three
Scholarchs were sent on an embassy to the Roman Senate.

If the nature of their errand was not precisely calculated to win
respect for the profession of the Athenian envoys, the subsequent
proceedings of one among their number proved still less likely to raise
it in the estimation of those whose favour they sought to win. Hellenic
culture was, at that time, rapidly gaining ground among the Roman
aristocracy; Carneades, who already enjoyed an immense reputation for
eloquence and ingenuity among his own countrymen, used the opportunity
offered by his temporary residence in the imperial city to deliver
public lectures on morality; and such was the eagerness to listen that
for a time the young nobles could think and talk of nothing else. The
subject chosen was justice. The first lecture recapitulated whatever
had been said in praise of that virtue by Plato and Aristotle. But
it was a principle of the sect to which Carneades belonged that
every affirmative proposition, however strongly supported, might be
denied with equal plausibility. Accordingly, his second discourse
was entirely devoted to upsetting the conclusions advocated in the
first. Transporting the whole question, as would seem, from a private
to a public point of view, he attempted to show, from the different
standards prevailing in different countries, that there was no such
thing as an immutable rule of right; and also that the greatest and
most successful States had profited most by unscrupulous aggressions
on their weaker neighbours—his most telling illustrations being drawn
from the history of the Romans themselves. Then, descending once more
to private life, the sceptical lecturer expatiated on the frequency
of those cases in which justice is opposed to self-interest, and the
folly of sacrificing one’s own advantage to that of another. ‘Suppose
a good man has a runaway slave or an unhealthy house to sell, will
he inform the buyer of their deficiencies, or will he conceal them?
In the one case he will be a fool, in the other case he will be
unjust. Again, justice forbids us to take away the life or property
of another. But in a shipwreck, will not the just man try to save his
life at another’s expense by seizing the plank of which some weaker
person than himself has got hold—especially if they are alone on the
sea together? If he is wise he will do so, for to act otherwise would
be to sacrifice his life. So also, in flying before the enemy, will
he not dispossess a wounded comrade of his horse, in order to mount
and escape on it himself? Here, again, justice is incompatible with
self-preservation—that is to say, with wisdom!‘[213]

At the time when Carneades delivered his lectures, the morality of
Rome resembled that of Sparta during her great conflict with Athens,
as characterised by one of the speakers in the Melian Dialogue.
Scrupulously honourable in their dealings with one another, in their
dealings with foreign nations her citizens notoriously identified
justice with what was agreeable or advantageous to themselves. The
arguments of the Academic philosopher must, therefore, have been
doubly annoying to the leaders of the State, as a satire on its public
policy and as a source of danger to the integrity of its private
life. In this respect, old Cato was a type of the whole race. In all
transactions with his fellow-citizens, and in every office undertaken
on behalf of the community, his honesty was such that it became
proverbial. But his absolute disregard of international justice has
become equally proverbial through the famous advice, reiterated on
every possible occasion, that an unoffending and unwarlike city should
be destroyed, lest its existence should at some future time become a
source of uneasiness to the mistress of the world. Perhaps it was a
secret consciousness of his own inconsistency which prevented him from
directly proposing that Carneades should not be allowed to continue
his lectures. At any rate, the ex-Censor contented himself with moving
that the business on which the Athenian envoys had come should be at
once concluded, that they might return to their classes at Athens,
leaving the youth of Rome to seek instruction as before from the wise
conversation and example of her public men.[214] We are not told
whether his speech on this occasion wound up with the usual formula,
_caeterum, Patres Conscripti, sententia mea est Carthaginem esse
delendam_; but as it is stated that from the year 175 to the end of
his life, he never made a motion in the Senate that was not terminated
by those words, we are entitled to assume that he did not omit them
in the present instance. If so, the effect must have been singularly
grotesque; although, perhaps, less so than if attention had been
drawn to the customary phrase by its unexpected absence. At any rate,
Carneades had an opportunity of carrying back one more illustration of
ethical inconsistency wherewith to enliven his lectures on the ‘vanity
of dogmatising’ and the absolute equilibrium of contradictory opinions.

It has been mentioned that Carneades was the head of the Academic
school. In that capacity, he was the lineal inheritor of Plato’s
teaching. Yet a public apology for injustice, even when balanced by a
previous panegyric on its opposite, might seem to be of all lessons the
most alien from Platonism; and in a State governed by Plato’s own laws,
it would certainly have been punishable with death. To explain this
anomaly is to relate the history of Greek scepticism, which is what we
shall now attempt to do.


II.

In modern parlance, the word scepticism is often used to denote
absolute unbelief. This, however, is a misapplication; and, properly
speaking, it should be reserved, as it was by the Greeks, for those
cases in which belief is simply withheld, or in which, as its etymology
implies, the mental state connoted is a desire to consider of the
matter before coming to a decision. But, of course, there are occasions
when, either from prudence or politeness, absolute rejection of a
proposition is veiled under the appearance of simple indecision or
of a demand for further evidence; and at a time when to believe in
certain theological dogmas was either dangerous or discreditable,
the name sceptic may have been accepted on all hands as a convenient
euphemism in speaking about persons who did not doubt, but denied
them altogether. Again, taken in its original sense, the name sceptic
is applicable to two entirely different, or rather diametrically
opposite classes. The true philosopher is more slow to believe than
other men, because he is better acquainted than they are with the
rules of evidence, and with the apparently strong claims on our belief
often possessed by propositions known to be false. To that extent,
all philosophers are sceptics, and are rightly regarded as such by
the vulgar; although their acceptance of many conclusions which the
unlearned reject without examination, has the contrary effect of giving
them a reputation for extraordinary credulity or even insanity. And
this leads us to another aspect of scepticism—an aspect under which,
so far from being an element of philosophy, it is one of the most
dangerous enemies that philosophy has to face. Instead of regarding
the difficulties which beset the path of enquiry as a warning against
premature conclusions, and a stimulus to more careful research, it is
possible to make them a pretext for abandoning enquiry altogether. And
it is also possible to regard the divergent answers given by different
thinkers to the same problem, not as materials for comparison,
selection or combination, nor even as indications of the various
directions in which a solution is not to be sought, but as a proof
that the problem altogether passes the power of human reason to solve.

Were this intellectual despondency to issue in a permanent suspense of
judgment, it would be bad enough; but practically its consequences are
of a much more mischievous character. The human mind is so constituted
that it must either go forward or fall back; in no case can it stand
still. Accordingly, the lazy sceptic almost always ends by conforming
to the established creeds and customs of his age or of the society
in which he lives; thus strengthening the hands of authority in its
conflict with the more energetic or courageous enquirers, whose object
is to discover, by the unaided efforts of reason, some new and positive
principle either of action or of belief. And the guardians of orthodoxy
are so well aware of the profit to be reaped from this alliance that,
when debarred from putting down their opponents by law or by public
opinion, they anxiously foster false scepticism where it is already
rampant, and endeavour to create it where it does not exist. Sometimes
disinterested morality is the object of their attack, and at other
times the foundations of inductive science. Their favourite formula
is that whatever objections may be urged against their own doctrines,
others equally strong may be urged against the results of free thought;
whereas the truth is that such objections, being applicable to all
systems alike, exactly balance one another, leaving the special
arguments against irrationalism to tell with as much force as before.
And they also lay great stress on the internal dissensions of their
assailants—dissensions which only bring out into more vivid relief the
one point on which all are agreed, that, whatever else may be true, the
traditional opinions are demonstrably false.

As might be expected from the immense exuberance of their intellectual
life, we find every kind of scepticism represented among the
Greeks; and, as with their other philosophical tendencies, there is
evidence of its existence previous to or independent of scientific
speculation. Their very religion, though burdened with an enormous mass
of fictitious legends, shows a certain unwillingness to transgress
the more obvious laws of nature, not noticeable in the traditions
of kindred or neighbouring races. Its tendency is rather to imagine
supernatural causes for natural events, or to read a divine meaning
into accidental occurrences, than to introduce impossibilities into the
ordinary course of history. And some of its most marvellous stories
are told in such a manner that the incredulous satire with which they
were originally received is, by a beautiful play of irony, worked into
the very texture of the narrative itself. For example, the Greeks
were especially disinclined to believe that one of the lower animals
could speak with a human voice, or that a dead man could be brought
back to life—contradicted as both suppositions were by the facts of
universal experience. So when the horse Xanthus replies to his master’s
reproaches, Homer adds that his voice was arrested by the Erinyes—that
is to say, by the laws of nature; and we may suspect that nothing more
is intended by his speech than the interpretation which Achilles would
spontaneously put on the mute and pathetic gaze of the faithful steed.
And when, to illustrate the wondrous medical skill of Asclêpius, it is
related that at last he succeeded in restoring a dead man to life, the
story adds that for this impious deed both the healer and his patient
were immediately transfixed by a thunderbolt from heaven.[215] Another
impossibility is to predict with any certainty the future fate of
individuals, and here also—as has been already observed in a different
connexion[216]—the Greeks showed their extreme scepticism with regard
to any alleged contravention of a natural law, under the transparent
disguise of stories about persons whom ambiguous predictions had lured
to their fall.

It is even doubtful how far the Greek poets believed in the personality
of their gods, or, what comes to the same thing, in their detachment
from the natural objects in which a divine power was supposed to be
embodied. Such a detachment is most completely realised when they are
assembled in an Olympian council; but, as Hegel has somewhere observed,
Homer never brings his gods together in this manner without presenting
them in a ridiculous light—that is to say, without hinting that their
existence must not be taken quite in earnest. And the existence of
disembodied spirits seems to be similarly conceived by the great epic
master. The life of the souls in Hades is not a continuance but a
memory and a reflection of their life on earth. The scornful reply
of Achilles to the congratulations of Odysseus implies, as it were,
the consciousness of his own nonentity. By no other device could the
irony of the whole situation, the worthlessness of a merely subjective
immortality, be made so poignantly apparent.[217]

The characters in Homer are marked by this incredulous disposition in
direct proportion to their general wisdom. When Agamemnon relates his
dream to the assembled chiefs, Nestor dryly observes that if anyone of
less authority had told them such a story they would have immediately
rejected it as untrue. Hector’s outspoken contempt for augury is well
known; and his indifference to the dying words of Patroclus is equally
characteristic. In the _Odyssey_, Alcinous pointedly distinguishes his
guest from the common run of travellers, whose words deserve no credit.
That Telemachus should tell who is his father, with the uncomplimentary
reservation that he has only his mother’s word for it, is evidently
meant as a proof of the young man’s precocious shrewdness; and it is
with the utmost difficulty that Penelope herself is persuaded of her
husband’s identity. So in the _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus, nothing less
than the report of an eye-witness will convince the Chorus of old men
that Troy has really fallen.[218] Finally, to complete the list of
examples afforded independently of philosophical reflection, Herodotus
repeatedly expresses disbelief in the stories told him, or, what is
more remarkable, holds his judgment in suspense with regard to their
veracity.

Scepticism, as a philosophical principle, is alien from early Greek
thought; but it is pervaded by a negative tendency exhibited in four
different directions, all converging towards the later attitude of
suspensive doubt. There are sharp criticisms on the popular mythology;
there are protests against the ascription of reality to sensible
appearances; there are contemptuous references on the part of some
philosophers to the opinions held by others; and there are occasional
lamentations over the difficulty of getting at any truth at all. The
importance, however, of these last utterances has been considerably
exaggerated both in ancient and modern times. For, in some instances,
they are attributable solely to the distrust of sense-perception, and
in others they seem to express nothing more than a passing mood against
which we must set the dogmatic conclusions elsewhere enunciated with
perfect confidence by the same thinkers.[219] At the same time, we
have to note, as an illustration of the standing connexion between
theological belief and that kind of scepticism which is shown by
distrust in man’s power of discovering the truth for himself, that the
strongest expressions of such a distrust are to be found in the two
most religious of the pre-Socratic thinkers, Xenophanes and Empedocles.


III.

A new period begins with the Greek Humanists. We use this term in
preference to that of Sophists, because, as has been shown, in
specially dealing with the subject, half the teachers known under the
latter denomination made it their business to popularise physical
science and to apply it to morality, while the other half struck out
an entirely different line, and founded their educational system on
the express rejection of such investigations; their method being,
in this respect, foreshadowed by the greatest poet of the age, who
concentrates all his attention on the workings of the human mind, and
followed by its greatest historian, with whom a similar study takes
the place occupied by geography and natural history in the work of
Herodotus. This absorption in human interests was unfavourable alike
to the objects and to the methods of previous enquiry: to the former,
as a diversion from the new studies; to the latter, as inconsistent
with the flexibility and many-sidedness of conscious mind. Hence the
true father of philosophical scepticism was Protagoras. With him, for
the first time, we find full expression given to the proper sceptical
attitude, which is one of suspense and indifference as opposed to
absolute denial. He does not undertake to say whether the gods exist or
not. He regards the real essence of Nature as unknowable, on account
of the relativity which characterises all sensible impressions. And
wherever opinions are divided, he undertakes to provide equally strong
arguments for both sides of the question. He also anticipates the two
principal tendencies exhibited by all future scepticism in its relation
to practice. One is its devotion to humanity, under the double form
of exclusive attention to human interests, and great mildness in the
treatment of human beings. The other is a disposition to take custom
and public opinion, rather than any physical or metaphysical law, for
the standard and sanction of morality. Such scepticism might for the
moment be hostile to religion; but a reconciliation was likely to be
soon effected between them.

The famous theses of Gorgias were quoted in a former chapter as
an illustration of the tactics pursued by Greek Humanism in its
controversy with physical science. They must be noticed again in the
present connexion, on account of their bearing on the development of
scepticism, and as having inaugurated a method of reasoning often
employed in subsequent attacks, directed, not against the whole of
knowledge, but against particular parts of it. The scepticism of
Protagoras rested on the assumption that there is an external reality
from the reaction of which with mind all our perceptions proceed.
Neither of these two factors can be known apart from the other,
and as both are in a constant flux, our knowledge of the resulting
compound at one time does not show what it has been or will be at
another time. But Gorgias altogether denied the existence of any
objective reality; and he attempted to disprove it by an analytical
instead of a synthetic argument, laying down a series of disjunctive
propositions, and upsetting the different alternatives in succession.
Existence must be either something or nothing, or both together; and if
something, it must be either finite or infinite, or both, and either
one or many, or both. His argument against an infinite existence is
altogether futile; but it serves to illustrate the undeveloped state
of reflection at that period. The eternity of the world is confounded
with its unlimited extension in space: and this hypothesis, again, is
met by the transparent quibble that the world, not being in any one
place, must be nowhere or not at all. And the alternative that the
world has not always existed is refuted by the unproved assumption,
which, apparently, no Greek philosopher ever thought of disputing,
that nothing can begin without being caused by something else. Still,
however contemptible such reasonings may seem, it is obvious that
in them we have the first crude form of the famous antinomies by
which Kant long afterwards sought to prove the impossibility of a
world existing in space and time apart from a percipient subject, and
which have since been used to establish in a more general way the
unknowability of existence as such. It will also be observed that the
sceptical arguments respectively derived from the relativity of thought
and from the contradictions inherent in its ultimate products are run
together by modern agnostics. But no reason that we can remember has
ever been given to show that an idea is necessarily subjective because
it is self-contradictory.

The second thesis of Gorgias was that, even granting the world
to exist, it could not possibly be known. Here the reasoning is
unexpectedly weak. Because all thoughts do not represent facts,—as,
for example, our ideas of impossible combinations, like chariots
running over the sea,—it is assumed that none do. But the problem how
to distinguish between true and false ideas was raised, and it was
round this that the fiercest battle between dogmatists and sceptics
subsequently raged. And in the complete convertibility of consciousness
and reality postulated by Gorgias, we may find the suggestion of a
point sometimes overlooked in the automatist controversy—namely,
that the impossibility, if any, of our acting on the material world
reciprocally involves the impossibility of its acting on us, in so
far as we are conscious beings. If thought cannot be translated into
movement, neither can movement be translated into thought.

The third thesis maintains that, granting the world to exist and to
be knowable, one man cannot communicate his knowledge to another;
for, the different classes of sensations being heterogeneous, a
visual or tactual impression on our consciousness cannot be conveyed
by an auditory impression on the consciousness of someone else. This
difficulty has been completely overcome by the subsequent progress of
thought. We cannot, it is true, directly communicate more than a few
sensations to one another; but by producing one we may call up others
with which it has become associated through previous experience. And
the great bulk of our knowledge has been analysed into relations of
co-existence, succession, and resemblance, which are quite independent
of the particular symbols employed to transmit them from one mind to
another.[220]

The scepticism of Aristippus and the Cyrenaics mediated between the
views of Protagoras and those of Gorgias, while marking an advance
on both. According to this school, we know nothing beyond our own
feelings, and it must be left undecided whether they are caused by
an external reality or not. Nor can the feelings of one individual
justify us in reasoning to the existence of similar feelings in
the mind of another individual.[221] It might be objected that the
arguments advanced in support of the latter assertion are suicidal,
for they are derived from the abnormal states of consciousness
accompanying particular diseases, or else from the divergences of
taste exhibited by different individuals even when in good health,—an
apparent admission that we are sufficiently well acquainted with the
phenomena in question to institute a comparison between them, which,
by hypothesis, is impossible. And this is, in fact, the method by
which Mr. Herbert Spencer has endeavoured to upset the whole theory
of subjective idealism, as involving at every step an assumption of
the very realities that it professes to deny. But the Cyrenaic and
the modern idealist have a perfect right to show that the assumptions
of their adversaries are self-contradictory; and the readiest way
of so doing is to reason from them as if they were true. The real
answer to that extreme form of idealism which denies the possibility
of making known our feelings to each other is that, our bodies being
similarly constructed and responding to similar impressions by similar
manifestations, I have the same sort of warrant for assuming that your
states of consciousness are like mine that I have for assuming you to
exist at all. The inference must, of course, be surrounded by proper
precautions, such as are seldom used by unscientific reasoners. We must
make sure that the structure is the same and that the excitement is the
same, or that their differences, if any, are insignificant, before we
can attribute the same value to the same manifestations of feeling on
the part of different persons; but that this can be done, at least in
the case of the elementary sensations, is shown by the easy detection
of such anomalies as colour-blindness where they exist.

With Socrates and Plato, scepticism exhibits itself under two new
aspects: as an accompaniment of religious belief, and as an element
of constructive thought. Thus they represent both the good and the
bad side of this tendency: the aspect under which it is a help, and
the aspect under which it is a hindrance to scientific investigation.
With both philosophers, however, the restriction or negation of human
knowledge was a consequence rather than a cause of their theological
convictions; nor do they seem to have appreciated its value as a weapon
in the controversy with religious unbelief. When Socrates represented
the irreconcilable divergence in the explanations of Nature offered
by previous thinkers as a sufficient condemnation of their several
pretensions, he did not set this fact against the arguments by which
a Xenophanes had similarly endeavoured to overthrow the popular
mythology; but he looked on it as a fatal consequence of their insane
presumption in meddling with the secrets of the gods. On one occasion
only, when explaining to Euthydêmus that the invisibility of the gods
is no reason for doubting their existence, he argues, somewhat in
Butler’s style, that our own minds, whose existence we cannot doubt,
are equally invisible.[222] And the Platonic Socrates makes it his
business to demonstrate the universality of human ignorance, not as a
caution against dogmatic unbelief, but as a glorification of the divine
knowledge; though how we come to know that there is any such knowledge
he leaves utterly unexplained.

In Plato’s _Parmenides_ we have to note the germ of a new dialectic.
There it is suggested that we may overcome the difficulties attending a
particular theory—in this instance the theory of self-existing ideas—by
considering how much greater are the difficulties which would ensue
on its rejection. The arguments advanced by Zeno the Eleatic against
the reality of motion are mentioned as a case in point; and Plato
proceeds to illustrate his proposed method by showing what consequences
respectively follow if we first assume the existence, and then the
non-existence of the One; but the whole analysis seems valueless for
its immediate purpose, since the resulting impossibilities on either
side are left exactly balanced; and Plato does not, like some modern
metaphysicians, call in our affections to decide the controversy.

The method by which Plato eventually found his way out of the sceptical
difficulty, was to transform it from a subjective law of thought
into an objective law of things. Adopting the Heracleitean physics
as a sufficient explanation of the material world, he conceived,
at a comparatively early period of his mental evolution, that the
fallaciousness of sense-impressions is due, not to the senses
themselves, but to the instability of the phenomena with which they
deal; and afterwards, on discovering that the interpretation of ideal
relations was subject to similar perplexities, he assumed that, in
their case also, the contradiction arises from a combination of Being
with not-Being determining whatever differences prevail among the
ultimate elements of things. And, finally, like Empedocles, he solved
the problem of cognition by establishing a parallel between the human
soul and the universe as a whole; the circles of the Same and the
Other being united in the celestial orbits and also in the mechanism
of the brain.[223]

It was by an analogous, though, of course, far more complicated and
ingenious adjustment, that Hegel sought to overcome the agnosticism
which Kant professed to have founded on a basis of irrefragable
proof. With both philosophers, however, the sceptical principle was
celebrating its supreme triumph at the moment of its fancied overthrow.
The dogmatism of doubt could go no further than to resolve the whole
chain of existence into a succession of mutually contradictory ideas.

If the synthesis of affirmation and negation cannot profitably be
used to explain the origin of things in themselves, it has a real and
very important function when limited to the subjective sphere, to the
philosophy of practice and of belief. It was so employed by Socrates,
and, on a much greater scale, by Plato himself. To consider every
proposition from opposite points of view, and to challenge the claim of
every existing custom on our respect, was a proceeding first instituted
by the master, and carried out by the disciple in a manner which has
made his investigations a model for every future enquirer. Something
of their spirit was inherited by Aristotle; but, except in his
logical treatises, it was overborne by the demands of a pre-eminently
dogmatic and systematising genius. In criticising the theories of his
predecessors, he has abundantly illustrated the power of dialectic,
and he has enumerated its resources with conscientious completeness;
but he has not verified his own conclusions by subjecting them to this
formidable testing apparatus.

Meanwhile the scepticism of Protagoras had not been entirely absorbed
into the systems of his rivals, but continued to exist as an
independent tradition, or in association with a simpler philosophy.
The famous school of Megara, about which, unfortunately, we have
received very little direct information, was nominally a development
of the Socratic teaching on its logical side, as the Cynic and
Cyrenaic schools were on its ethical side, but like them also, it
seems to have a more real connexion with the great impulse previously
given to speculation by the Sophists. At any rate, we chiefly hear
of the Megarians as having denied the possibility of definition, to
which Socrates attached so much importance, and as framing questions
not susceptible of a categorical answer,—an evident satire on the
Socratic method of eliciting the truth by cross-examination.[224]
What they really derived from Socrates seems to have been his mental
concentration and independence of external circumstances. Here they
closely resembled the Cynics, as also in their contempt for formal
logic; but while Antisthenes found a sanction for his indifference
and impassivity in the order of nature, their chief representative,
Stilpo, achieved the same result by pushing the sceptical principle
to consequences from which even the Cyrenaics would have shrunk.
Denying the possibility of attaching a predicate to a subject, he
seems, in like manner, to have isolated the mind from what are called
its affections, or, at least, to have made this isolation his ideal
of the good. Even the Stoics did not go to such a length; and Seneca
distinguishes himself from the followers of Stilpo by saying, ‘Our sage
feels trouble while he overcomes it, whereas theirs does not feel it at
all.’[225]


IV.

So far, the sceptical theory had been put forward after a somewhat
fragmentary fashion, and in strict dependence on the previous
development of dogmatic philosophy. With the Humanists it had taken
the form of an attack on physical science; with the Megarians, of a
criticism on the Socratic dialectic; with both, it had been pushed
to the length of an absolute negation, logically not more defensible
than the affirmations to which it was opposed. What remained was that,
after being consistently formulated, its results should be exhibited
in their systematic bearing on the practical interests of mankind. The
twofold task was accomplished by Pyrrho, whose name has accordingly
continued to be associated, even in modern times, with the profession
of universal doubt. This remarkable man was a native of Elis, where a
branch of the Megarian school had at one time established itself; and
it seems likely that the determining impulse of his life was, directly
or indirectly, derived from Stilpo’s teaching. A contemporary of
Alexander the Great, he accompanied the Macedonian army on its march to
India, subsequently returning to his native city, where he died at an
advanced age, about 275 B.C. The absurd stories about his indifference
to material obstacles when out walking have been already mentioned in a
former chapter, and are sufficiently refuted by the circumstances just
related. The citizens of Elis are said to have shown their respect for
the philosopher by exempting him from taxation, appointing him their
chief priest—no inappropriate office for a sceptic of the true type—and
honouring his memory with a statue, which was still pointed out to
sightseers in the time of Pausanias.[226]

Pyrrho, who probably no more believed in books than in anything else,
never committed his opinions to writing; and what we know of them is
derived from the reports of his disciples, which, again, are only
preserved in a very incomplete form by the compilers of the empire.
According to these, Pyrrho began by declaring that the philosophic
problem might be summed up in the three following questions: ‘What
is the nature of things? What should be our relation to them? What is
the practical consequence of this determination?’ Of its kind, this
statement is probably the best ever framed, and might be accepted
with equal readiness by every school of thought. But the scepticism
of Pyrrho at once reveals itself in his answer to the first question.
We know nothing about things in themselves. Every assertion made
respecting them is liable to be contradicted, and neither of the two
opposing propositions deserves more credence than the other. The
considerations by which Pyrrho attempts to establish this proposition
were probably suggested by the systems of Plato and Aristotle. The
only possible avenues of communication with the external world are,
he tells us, sense and reason. Of these the former was so universally
discredited that he seems to have regarded any elaborate refutation
of its claims as superfluous. What we perceive by our senses is the
appearance, not the reality of things. This is exactly what the
Cyrenaics had already maintained. The inadequacy of reason is proved
by a more original method. Had men any settled principles of judgment,
they would agree on questions of conduct, for it is with regard to
these that they are best informed, whereas the great variety of laws
and customs shows that the exact opposite is true. They are more
hopelessly divided on points of morality than on any other.[227] It
will be remembered that Pyrrho’s fellow-townsman, Hippias, had, about
a hundred years earlier, founded his theory of Natural Law on the
arbitrary and variable character of custom. The result of combining
his principles with those professed by Protagoras and Gorgias was to
establish complete moral scepticism; but it would be a mistake to
suppose that moral distinctions had no value for him personally, or
that they were neglected in his public teaching.

Timon, a celebrated disciple of Pyrrho, added another and, from the
speculative point of view, a much more powerful argument, which,
however, may equally have been borrowed from the master’s lectures.
Readers of the _Posterior Analytics_ will remember how strongly
Aristotle dwells on the necessity of starting with first principles
which are self-evidently true. The chain of demonstration must have
something to hang on, it cannot be carried back _ad infinitum_. Now,
Timon would not admit of such a thing as first principles. Every
assumption, he says, must rest on some previous assumption, and as this
process cannot be continued for ever, there can be no demonstration
at all. This became a very favourite weapon with the later Sceptics,
and, still at the suggestion of Aristotle, they added the further
‘trope’ of compelling their adversaries to choose between going back
_ad infinitum_ and reasoning in a circle—in other words, proving the
premises by means of the conclusion. Modern science would not feel much
appalled by the sceptical dilemma. Its actual first principles are
only provisionally assumed as ultimate, and it is impossible for us
to tell how much farther their analysis may be pursued; while, again,
their validity is guaranteed by the circular process of showing that
the consequences deduced from them agree with the facts of experience.
But as against those modern philosophers who, in adherence to the
Aristotelian tradition, still seek to base their systems on first
principles independent of any individual experience, the sceptical
argument is unanswerable, and has even been strengthened by the
progress of knowledge. To this day, thinkers of different schools
cannot agree about the foundations of belief, and what to one seems
self-evidently true, is to another either conceivably or actually
false. To Mr. Herbert Spencer the persistence of force is a necessary
truth; to Prof. Stanley Jevons its creation is a perfectly possible
contingency; while to others, again, the whole conception of force, as
understood by Mr. Spencer, is so absolutely unmeaning that they would
decline to entertain any proposition about the invariability of the
objective reality which it is supposed to represent. And when the _à
priori_ dogmatist affects to treat the negations of his opponents as
something that they do not think, but only think they think, they may,
with perfect fairness, attribute his rejection of their beliefs—as,
for example, free-will—to a similar subjective illusion. Moreover, the
pure experimentalists can point to a circumstance not foreseen by the
ancient sceptics, which is that propositions once generally regarded
as incontrovertible by thinking men, are now as generally abandoned by
them.

Having proved, to his satisfaction, that the nature of things is
unknowable, Pyrrho proceeds to deal with the two remaining heads of the
philosophic problem. To the question what should be our relation to a
universe which we cannot reach, the answer is, naturally, one of total
indifference. And the advantage to be derived from this attitude is, he
tells us, that we shall secure the complete imperturbability wherein
true happiness consists. The sceptical philosophy does not agree with
Stilpo in denying the reality of actual and immediate annoyances, for
it denies nothing; but it professes to dispel that very large amount
of unhappiness which arises from the pursuit of fancied goods and the
expectation of future calamities. In respect to the latter, what Pyrrho
sought was to arrive by the exercise of reasoning at the tranquillity
which unreasoning animals naturally enjoy. Thus, we are told that,
when out at sea in a storm, he called the attention of the terrified
passengers to a little pig which was quietly feeding in spite of the
danger, and taught them that the wise man should attain to a similar
kind of composure.

Various other anecdotes of more or less doubtful authenticity are
related, showing that the philosopher could generally, though not
always, act up to his own ideal of indifference. He lived with his
sister, who was a midwife by profession, and patiently submitted to the
household drudgery which she unsparingly imposed on him. Once, however,
she succeeded in goading him into a passion; and on being rather
inopportunely reminded of his professed principles by a bystander,
the sceptic tartly replied that a wretched woman like that was no
fit subject for a display of philosophical indifference. On another
occasion, when taunted for losing his self-possession at the attack of
a furious dog, he observed, with truth, that, after all, philosophers
are human beings.[228]

Thus we find Pyrrho competing with the dogmatists as a practical
moralist, and offering to secure the inward tranquillity at which
they too aimed by an easier method than theirs. The last eminent
representative of the sceptical school, Sextus Empiricus, illustrates
its pretensions in this respect by the well-known story of Apelles,
who, after vainly endeavouring to paint the foam on a horse’s mouth,
took the sponge which he used to wipe his easel, and threw it at
the picture in vexation. The mixture of colours thus accidentally
applied produced the exact effect which he desired, but at which no
calculation could arrive. In like manner, says Sextus, the confusion
of universal doubt accidentally resulted in the imperturbability which
accompanies suspense of judgment as surely as a body is followed by
its shadow.[229] There was, however, no accident about the matter at
all. The abandonment of those studies which related to the external
world was a consequence of the ever-increasing attention paid to
human interests, and that these could be best consulted by complete
detachment from outward circumstances, was a conclusion inevitably
suggested by the negative or antithetical moment of Greek thought.
Hence, while the individualistic and apathetic tendencies of the age
were shared by every philosophical school, they had a closer logical
connexion with the idealistic than with the naturalistic method;
and so it is among the successors of Protagoras that we find them
developed with the greatest distinctness; while their incorporation
with Stoicism imposed a self-contradictory strain on that system
which it never succeeded in shaking off. Epicureanism occupied a
position midway between the two extremes; and from this point of view,
we shall be better able to understand both its inherent weakness as
compared with the other ancient philosophies, and the admiration which
it has attracted from opposite quarters in recent years. To some
it is most interesting as a revelation of law in Nature, to others
as a message of deliverance to man—not merely a deliverance from
ignorance and passion, such as its rivals had promised, but from all
established systems, whether religious, political, or scientific. And
unquestionably Epicurus did endeavour to combine both points of view
in his theory of life. In seeking to base morality on a knowledge of
natural law he resembles the Stoics. In his attacks on fatalism, in
his refusal to be bound down by a rigorously scientific explanation of
phenomena, in his failure to recognise the unity and power of Nature,
and in his preference of sense to reason, he partially reproduces the
negative side of Scepticism; in his identification of happiness with
the tranquil and imperturbable self-possession of mind, in his mild
humanism, and in his compliance with the established religion of the
land, he entirely reproduces its positive ethical teaching. On the
other hand, the two sides of his philosophy, so far from completing,
interfere with and mar one another. Emancipation from the outward world
would have been far more effectually obtained by a total rejection of
physical science than by the construction of a theory whose details
were, on any scientific principles, demonstrably untrue. The appeal
to natural instinct as an argument for hedonism would, consistently
followed out, have led to one of two conclusions, either of which is
incompatible with the principle that imperturbability is the highest
good. If natural instinct, as manifested by brutes, by children, and
by savages, be the one sure guide of action, then Callicles was right,
and the habitual indulgence of passion is wiser than its systematic
restraint. But if Nature is to be studied on a more specific and
discriminating plan, if there are human as distinguished from merely
animal impulses, and if the higher development of these should be our
rule of life, then Plato and Aristotle and the Stoics were right, and
the rational faculties should be cultivated for their own sake, not
because of the immunity from superstitious terrors which they secure.
And we may add that the attendance on public worship practised by
Epicurus agreed much better with the sceptical suspense of judgment
touching divine providence than with its absolute negation, whether
accompanied or not by a belief in gods who are indifferent to sacrifice
and prayer.

It was, no doubt, for these and similar reasons that all the most
vigorous intellects of Hellas ranged themselves either on the Stoic or
on the Sceptic side, leaving the halfhearted compromise of Epicurus
to those who could not think out any one theory consistently, or who,
like the Romans at first, were not acquainted with any system but his.
Henceforth, during a period of some centuries, the whole philosophic
movement is determined by the interaction of these two fundamental
forces. The first effect of their conflict was to impose on Scepticism
an important modification, illustrating its essentially parasitic
character. We have seen it, as a general tendency of the Greek mind,
clinging to the very texture of mythology, accompanying the earliest
systematic compilation of facts, aiding the humanistic attacks on
physical science, associated with the first great religious reaction,
operating as the dialectic of dialectic itself, and finally assuming
the form of a shadowy morality, in rivalry with and imitation of
ethical systems based on a positive and substantial doctrine. We have
now to trace its metamorphosis into a critical system extending its
ramifications in parallelism with the immense dogmatic structure of
Stoicism, and simultaneously endeavouring to reach the same practical
results by a more elastic adaptation to the infirmities of human
reason and the uncertainties of sensible experience. As such, we
shall also have to study its influence over the most plastic of Roman
intellects, the great orator in whose writings Greek philosophy was
reclothed with something of its ancient charm, so that many who were
debarred from admission to the groves and porticoes of Athens have
caught an echo of the high debates which once stirred their recesses,
as they trod the shady slopes of Tusculum under his visionary guidance,
or followed his searching eyes over the blue waters to Pompeii, while
he reasoned on mind and its object, on sense and knowledge, on doubt
and certainty, with Lucullus and Hortensius, on the sunlight Baian
shore. It is the history of the New Academy that we shall now proceed
to trace.


V.

When we last had occasion to speak of the Platonic school, it was
represented by Polemo, one of the teachers from whose lessons Zeno the
Stoic seems to have compiled his system. Under his superintendence,
Platonism had completely abandoned the metaphysical traditions of
its founder. Physics and dialectics had already been absorbed by
Aristotelianism. Mathematics had passed into the hands of experts.
Nothing remained but the theory of ethics; and, as an ethical teacher,
Polemo was only distinguished from the Cynics by the elegance and
moderation of his tone. Even this narrow standing-ground became
untenable when exposed to the formidable competition of Stoicism. The
precept, Follow Nature, borrowed by the new philosophy from Polemo,
acquired a far deeper significance than he could give it, when viewed
in the light of an elaborate physical system showing what Nature was,
and whither her guidance led. But stone after stone had been removed
from the Platonic superstructure and built into the walls of other
edifices, only to bring its original foundation the more prominently
into sight. This was the initial doubt of Socrates, widened into the
confession of universal ignorance attributed to him by Plato in the
_Apologia_. Only by returning to the exclusively critical attitude
with which its founder had begun could the Academy hope to exercise
any influence on the subsequent course of Greek speculation. And it
was also necessary that the agnostic standpoint should be taken much
more in earnest by its new representatives than by Socrates or Plato.
With them it had been merely the preparation for a dogmatism even more
self-confident than that of the masters against whom they fought; but
if in their time such a change of front might seem compatible with
the retention of their old strongholds, matters now stood on a widely
different footing. Experience had shown that the purely critical
position could not be abandoned without falling back on some one or
other of the old philosophies, or advancing pretensions inconsistent
with the dialectic which had been illustrated by their overthrow. The
course marked out for Plato’s successors by the necessities of thought
might have been less evident had not Pyrrhonism suddenly revealed
to them where their opportunities lay, and at the same time, by its
extinction as an independent school, allowed them to step into the
vacant place.

It was at this juncture that the voluntary withdrawal of an older
fellow-pupil placed Arcesilaus at the head of the Academy. The date of
his accession is not given, but we are told that he died 241 or 240
B.C. in the seventy-fifth year of his age. He must, therefore, have
flourished a generation later than Zeno and Epicurus. Accomplished,
witty, and generous, his life is described by some as considerably less
austere than that of the excellent nonentities whom he succeeded. Yet
its general goodness was testified to by no less an authority than his
contemporary, the noble Stoic, Cleanthes. ‘Do not blame Arcesilaus,’
exclaimed the latter to an unfriendly critic; ‘if he denies duty
in his words, he affirms it in his deeds.’ ‘You don’t flatter me,‘
observed Arcesilaus. ‘It is flattering you,’ rejoined Cleanthes, ‘to
say that your actions belie your words.’[230] It might be inferred from
this anecdote that the scepticism of the new teacher, like that of
Carneades after him, was occasionally exercised on moral distinctions,
which, as then defined and deduced, were assuredly open to very serious
criticism. Even so, in following the conventional standard of the age,
he would have been acting in perfect consistency with the principles
of his school. But, as a matter of fact, his attacks seem to have been
exclusively aimed at the Stoic criterion of certainty. We have touched
on this difficult subject in a former chapter, but the present seems a
more favourable opportunity for setting it forth in proper detail.

The Stoics held, as Mr. Herbert Spencer, who resembles them in so
many respects, now holds, that all knowledge is ultimately produced
by the action of the object on the subject. Being convinced, however,
that each single perception, as such, is fallible, they sought for
the criterion of certainty in the repetition and combination of
individual impressions; and, again like Mr. Spencer, but also in
complete accordance with their dynamic theory of Nature, they estimated
the validity of a belief by the degree of tenacity with which it is
held. The various stages of assurance were carefully distinguished
and arranged in an ascending series. First came simple perception,
then simple assent, thirdly, comprehension, and finally demonstrative
science. These mental acts were respectively typified by extending the
forefinger, by bending it as in the gesture of beckoning, by clenching
the fist, and by placing it, thus clenched, in the grasp of the other
hand. From another point of view, they defined a true conviction as
that which can only be produced by the action of a corresponding real
object on the mind. This theory was complicated still further by the
Stoic interpretation of judgment as a voluntary act; by the ethical
significance which it consequently received; and by the concentration
of all wisdom in the person of an ideal sage. The unreserved bestowal
of belief is a practical postulate dictated by the necessities of life;
but only he who knows what those necessities are, in other words only
the wise man, knows when the postulate is to be enforced. In short, the
criterion of your being right is your conviction that you are right,
and this conviction, if you really possess it, is a sufficient witness
to its own veracity. Or again, it is the nature of man to act rightly,
and he cannot do so unless he has right beliefs, confirmed and clinched
by the consciousness that they are right.

Arcesilaus left no writings, and his criticisms on the Stoic theory, as
reported by Cicero and Sextus Empiricus, have a somewhat unsatisfactory
appearance. By what we can make out, he seems to have insisted on the
infallibility of the wise man to a much greater extent than the Stoics
themselves, not allowing that there was any class of judgments in which
he was liable to be mistaken. But just as the Stoics were obliged to
accept suicide as an indispensable safeguard for the inviolability
of their personal dignity and happiness, so also Arcesilaus had
recourse to a kind of intellectual suicide for the purpose of securing
immunity from error. The only way, according to him, in which the sage
can make sure of never being mistaken is never to be certain about
anything. For, granting that every mental representation is produced
by a corresponding object in the external world, still different
objects are connected by such a number of insensible gradations that
the impressions produced by them are virtually indistinguishable
from one another; while a fertile source of illusions also exists
in the diversity of impressions produced by the same object acting
on different senses and at different times. Moreover, the Stoics
themselves admitted that the sage might form a mistaken opinion; it
was only for his convictions that they claimed unerring accuracy, each
of the two—opinion and conviction—being the product of a distinct
intellectual energy. Here again, Arcesilaus employed his method of
infinitesimal transitions, refusing to admit that the various cognitive
faculties could be separated by any hard and fast line; especially
as, according to the theory then held by all parties, and by none
more strongly than the Stoics, intellectual conceptions are derived
exclusively from the data of sense and imagination. We can see that the
logic of Scepticism is, equally with that of the other Greek systems,
determined by the three fundamental moments of Greek thought. There
is first the careful circumscription of certainty; then there is the
mediating process by which it is insensibly connected with error;
and, lastly, as a result of this process, there is the antithetical
opposition of a negative to an affirmative proposition on every
possible subject of mental representation.[231]

To the objection that his suspensive attitude would render action
impossible, Arcesilaus replied that any mental representation was
sufficient to set the will in motion; and that, in choosing between
different courses, probability was the most rational means of
determination. But the task of reducing probable evidence to a system
was reserved for a still abler dialectician, who did not appear on the
scene until a century after his time. Arcesilaus is commonly called the
founder of the Middle, Carneades the founder of the New Academy. The
distinction is, however, purely nominal. Carneades founded nothing.
His principles were identical with those of his predecessor; and his
claim to be considered the greatest of the Greek sceptics is due to his
having given those principles a wider application and a more systematic
development. The Stoics regarded it as a special dispensation of
providence that Chrysippus, the organising genius of their school,
should have come between its two most formidable opponents, being
thus placed in a position to answer the objections of the one and to
refute by anticipation those of the other.[232] It might seem to less
prejudiced observers that the thinker whose cause benefited most by
this arrangement was Carneades. Parodying a well-known iambic, he used
to say:

  ‘Without Chrysippus I should not have been.’[233]

And, in fact, it was by a close study of that writer’s voluminous
treatises that he was able to cover the immense extent of ground
which Scepticism thenceforward disputed with the dogmatic schools.
Nor were his attacks directed against Stoicism only, but against all
other positive systems past and present as well. What he says about
the supposed foundation of knowledge is even now an unanswerable
objection to the transcendental realism of Mr Herbert Spencer. States
of consciousness speak for themselves alone, they do not include the
consciousness of an external cause.[234] But the grounds on which he
rests his negation of all certainty are still superficial enough,
being merely those sensible illusions which the modern science of
observation has been able either to eliminate altogether or to restrict
within narrow and definable limits. That phenomena, so far from being
necessarily referred to a cause which is not phenomenal, cannot be
thought of at all except in relation to one another, and that knowledge
means nothing more than a consciousness of this relation, was hardly
perceived before the time of Hume.

Turning from sense to reason, Carneades attacks the syllogistic process
on grounds already specified in connexion with the earlier Sceptics;
and also on the plea that to prove the possibility of syllogism is
itself to syllogise, and thus involves either a _petitio principii_
or a regress _ad infinitum_.[235] Such a method is, of course,
suicidal, for it disproves the possibility of the alleged disproof,
a consideration which the Stoics did not fail to urge, and which the
later Sceptics could only meet by extending the rule of suspense to
their own arguments against argument.[236] Nevertheless the sceptical
analysis detected some difficulties in the ordinary theory of logic,
which have been revived in modern times, and have not yet received
any satisfactory solution. Sextus Empiricus, probably copying an
earlier authority, it may be Carneades himself, observes that, as
the major premise of every syllogism virtually contains the minor,
it is either superfluous, or assumes the proposition to be proved.
Thus we argue that Socrates is an animal because he is a man, and all
men are animals. But if we do not know this latter proposition to be
true in the case of Socrates, we cannot be sure that it is true in
any case; while if we know it to be true in his case, we do not need
to begin by stating it in general terms. And he also attempts to show
the impossibility of a valid induction by the consideration, since so
often urged, that to generalise from a limited number of instances
to a whole class is unsafe, for some of the unknown instances may be
contradictory, while the infinite, or at least indefinite multiplicity
of individuals precludes the possibility of their exhaustive
enumeration.[237]

When the Academicians pass from the form to the matter of dogmatic
philosophy, their criticisms acquire greater interest and greater
weight. On this ground, their assaults are principally directed
against the theology of their Stoic and Epicurean rivals. It is here
in particular that Carneades reveals himself to us as the Hume of
antiquity. Never has the case for agnosticism been more powerfully
made out than by him or by the disciples whom he inspired. To the
argument for the existence of supernatural beings derived from
universal consent, he replies, first, that the opinion of the vulgar
is worthless, and secondly, that men’s beliefs about the gods are
hopelessly at variance with one another, even the same divinity being
made the subject of numberless discordant legends.[238] He reduces
the polytheistic deification of natural objects to an absurdity
by forcing it back through a series of insensible gradations into
absolute fetichism.[239] The personification of mental qualities
is similarly treated, until an hypothesis is provided for every
passing mood.[240] Then, turning to the more philosophical deism of
the Stoics, he assails their theory of the divine benevolence with
instance after instance of the apparent malevolence and iniquity to
be found in Nature; vividly reminding one of the facts adduced by Mr.
Herbert Spencer in confutation of the similar views held by modern
English theologians.[241] As against the whole theory of final causes,
Carneades argues after a method which, though logically sound, could
not then present itself with the authority which advancing science
has more recently shown it to possess. ‘What you Stoics,’ he says,
‘explain as the result of conscious purpose, other philosophers, like
Strato for instance, explain with equal plausibility as the result of
natural causation. And such is our ignorance of the forces at work in
Nature that even where no mechanical cause can be assigned, it would
be presumptuous to maintain that none can exist.[242] The reign of law
does not necessarily prove the presence of intelligence; it is merely
the evidence of a uniform movement quite consistent with all that we
know about the working of unconscious forces.[243] To contend, with
Socrates, that the human mind must be derived from a Universal Mind
pervading all Nature would logically involve the transfer of every
human attribute to its original source.[244] And to say that the
Supreme Being, because it surpasses man, must possess an intelligence
like his, is no more rational than to make the same assumption with
regard to a great city because it is superior to an ant.’[245]

The materialism of his dogmatic contemporaries placed them at a
terrible disadvantage when the sceptical successor of Plato went
on to show that eternal duration is incompatible with whatever we
know about the constitution of corporeal substance; and this part
of his argument applied as much to the Epicurean as to the Stoic
religion.[246] But even a spiritualistic monotheism is not safe from
his dissolving criticism. According to Carneades, a god without senses
has no experience of whatever pleasurable or painful feelings accompany
sensation, and is therefore, to that extent, more ignorant than a man;
while to suppose that he experiences painful sensations is the same
as making him obnoxious to the diminished vitality and eventual death
with which they are naturally associated. And, generally speaking,
all sensation involves a modification of the sentient subject by an
external object, a condition necessarily implying the destructibility
of the former by the latter.[247] So also, moral goodness is an
essentially relative quality, inconceivable without the possibility
of succumbing to temptation, which we cannot attribute to a perfect
Being.[248] In a word, whatever belongs to conscious life being
relative and conditioned, personality is excluded from the absolute by
its very definition.

As to the proofs of divine agency derived from divination, they are
both irrational and weak. If all things are predetermined by God’s
providence, knowledge of the future is useless, and, therefore, cannot
have been given to us. Moreover, no confidence can be placed in the
alleged fulfilments of prophecy; probably most of them are fictitious
and the remainder accidental. For the rest, good luck is distributed
without regard to merit; and the general corruption of mankind shows
that, from the Stoic point of view, human nature is a complete
failure.[249]

Well may M. Havet say of the Academicians: ‘ce sont eux et non les
partisans d’Epicure qui sont les libres penseurs de l’antiquité ou
qui l’auraient voulu être; mais ils ne le pouvaient pas.’[250] They
could not, for their principles were as inconsistent with an absolute
negation as with an absolute affirmation; while in practice their rule
was, as we have said, conformity to the custom of the country; the
consequence of which was that Sceptics and Epicureans were equally
assiduous in their attendance at public worship. It is, therefore,
with perfect dramatic appropriateness that Cicero puts the arguments
of Carneades into the mouth of Cotta, the Pontifex Maximus; and,
although himself an augur, takes the negative side in a discussion on
divination with his brother Quintus. And our other great authority on
the sceptical side, Sextus Empiricus, is not less emphatic than Cotta
in protesting his devotion to the traditional religion of the land.[251]

We have seen with what freedom Carneades discussed the foundations of
morality. It is now evident that in so doing he did not exceed the
legitimate functions of criticism. No one at the present day looks
on Prof. Bain and Mr. Henry Sidgwick as dangerous teachers because
they have made it clear that to pursue the greatest happiness of the
greatest number is not always the way to secure a maximum of happiness
for oneself. The really dangerous method, as we now see, is to foster
illusions in early life which subsequent experience must dispel.

With the introduction of practical questions, we pass to the great
positive achievement of Carneades, his theory of probable evidence.
Intended as an account of the process by which belief is adjusted
to safe action rather than of the process by which it is brought
into agreement with reality, his logic is a systematisation of the
principles by which prudent men are unconsciously guided in common
life. Carneades distinguishes three degrees of probability. The lowest
is attached to simple perception. This arises when we receive the
impression of an object without taking the attendant circumstances
into account. The next step is reached when our first impression is
confirmed by the similar impressions received from its attendant
circumstances; and when each of these, again, bears the test of a
similar examination our assurance is complete. The first belief is
simply probable; the second is probable and uncontradicted; the third
probable, uncontradicted, and methodically established. The example
given by Sextus is that of a person who on seeing a coil of rope in a
dark passage thinks that it may be a snake, and jumps over it, but on
turning round and observing that it remains motionless feels inclined
to form a different opinion. Remembering, however, that snakes are
sometimes congealed by cold in winter, he touches the coil with his
stick, and finally satisfies himself by means of this test that the
image present to his mind does not really represent a snake. The
circumstances to be examined before arriving at a definite judgment
include such considerations as whether our senses are in a healthy
condition, whether we are wide awake, whether the air is clear, whether
the object is steady, and whether we have taken time enough to be
sure that the conditions here specified are fulfilled. Each degree of
probability is, again, divisible into several gradations according
to the strength of the impressions received and the greater or less
consilience of all the circumstances involved.[252]

The Academic theory of probability bears some resemblance to the
Canonic of Epicurus, and may have been partially suggested by it. Both
are distinguished from the Aristotelian and Stoic logic by the care
with which they provide for the absence of contradictory evidence.
In this point, however, the superiority of Carneades to Epicurus
is very marked. It is not enough for him that a present impression
should suggest a belief not inconsistent with past experience; in the
true inductive spirit, he expressly searches for negative instances,
and recommends the employment of experiment for this purpose. Still
more philosophical is the careful and repeated analysis of attendant
circumstances, a precaution not paralleled by anything in the slovenly
method of his predecessor. Here the great value of scepticism as an
element in mental training becomes at once apparent. The extreme
fallibility of the _intellectus sibi permissus_ had to be established
before precautions could be adopted for its restraint. But the
evidence accepted in proof of this fallibility has been very different
at different times, and has itself given rise to more than one
fallacious interpretation. With us it is, for the most part, furnished
by experience. The circumstance that many demonstrable errors were
formerly received as truths is quite sufficient to put us on our guard
against untested opinions. With Bacon, it was not the erroneousness
of previous systems, but their barrenness and immobility, which led
him to question the soundness of their logic; and his doubts were
confirmed by an analysis of the disturbing influences under which men’s
judgments are formed. The ancient Sceptics were governed entirely by
_à priori_ considerations. Finding themselves confronted by an immense
mass of contradictory opinions, they argued that some of these must be
false as all could not possibly be true. And an analysis of the human
faculties led them, equally on _à priori_ grounds, to the conclusion
that these irreconcilable divergences were but the result and the
reproduction of an interminable conflict carried on within the mind
itself. They could not foresee how much time would do towards reducing
the disagreement of educated opinion within a narrower compass. They
did not know what the experience of experience itself would teach.
And their criticisms on the logic and metaphysics of their opponents
were rendered inconclusive, as against all certainty, by the extent to
which they shared that logic and metaphysics themselves. Carneades, at
least, seems to assume throughout that all existence is material, that
there is a sharp distinction between subject and object in knowledge,
and that there is an equally sharp distinction between sensation and
reasoning in the processes by which knowledge is obtained. In like
manner, his ethical scepticism all turns on the axiom, also shared by
him with the Stoics, that for a man to be actuated by any motive but
his own interest is mere folly.

Modern agnosticism occupies the same position with regard to the
present foundation and possible future extension of human knowledge as
was occupied by the ancient Sceptics with regard to the possibility of
all knowledge. Its conclusions also are based on a very insufficient
experience of what can be effected by experience, and on an analysis of
cognition largely adopted from the system which it seeks to overthrow.
Like Scepticism also, when logically thought out, it tends to issue
in a self-contradiction, at one time affirming the consciousness of
what is, by definition, beyond consciousness; and at another time
dogmatically determining the points on which we must remain for ever
ignorant. It may be that some problems, as stated by modern thinkers,
are insoluble; but perhaps we may find our way our of them by
transforming the question to be solved.

If, in the domain of pure speculation, contemporary agnosticism
exaggerates the existing divergences, in ethics its whole effort is,
contrariwise, to reduce and reconcile them. Such was also the tendency
of Carneades. He declared that, in their controversy about the highest
good, the difference between the Stoics and the Peripatetics was purely
verbal. Both held that we are naturally framed for the pursuit of
certain objects, and that virtuous living is the only means by which
they can be attained. But while the disciples of Aristotle held that
the satisfaction of our natural impulses remains from first to last
the only end, the disciples of Zeno insisted that at some point—not,
as would seem very particularly specified—virtuous conduct, which was
originally the means towards this satisfaction, becomes substituted
for it as the supreme and ultimate good.[253] That the point at issue
was more important than it seemed is evident from its reproduction
under another form in modern ethical philosophy. For, among ourselves,
the controversy between utilitarianism and what, for want of a better
name, we must call intuitionism, is gradually narrowing itself to the
question whether the pursuit of another’s good has or has not a higher
value than the quantity of pleasure which accrues to him from it,
_plus_ the effects of a good example and the benefits that society at
large is likely to gain from the strength which exercise gives to the
altruistic dispositions of one of its members. Those who attribute an
absolute value to altruism, as such, connect this value in some way
or other with the spiritual welfare of the agent; and they hold that
without such a gain to himself he would gradually fall back on a life
of calculating selfishness or of unregulated impulse. Here we have the
return from a social to an individual morality. The Stoics, conversely,
were feeling their way from the good of the individual to that of the
community; and they could only bridge the chasm by converting what
had originally been a means towards self-preservation into an end in
itself. This Carneades could not see. Convinced that happiness was both
necessary and attainable, but convinced also that the systems which
had hitherto offered it as their reward were logically untenable, he
wished to place morality on the broad basis of what was held in common
by all schools, and this seemed to be the rule of obedience to Nature’s
dictates,—a rule which had also the great merit of bidding men do in
the name of philosophy what they already felt inclined to do without
any philosophy at all. We are told, indeed, that he would not commit
himself to any particular system of ethics; the inference, however, is
not that he ignored the necessity of a moral law, but that he wished to
extricate it from a compromising alliance with untenable speculative
dogmas. Nevertheless his acceptance of Nature as a real entity was a
survival of metaphysics; and his morality was, so far as it went, an
incipient return to the traditions of the Old Academy.


VI.

We have now reached a point where Greek philosophy seems to have swung
back into the position which it occupied three hundred years before,
towards the close of the Peloponnesian War. The ground is again
divided between naturalists and humanists, the one school offering
an encyclopaedic training in physical science and exact philology,
the other literary, sceptical, and limiting its attention to the
more immediate interests of life; but both agreeing in the supreme
importance of conduct, and differing chiefly as to whether its basis
should or should not be sought in a knowledge of the external world.
Materialism is again in the ascendant, to this extent at least, that
no other theory is contemplated by the students of physical science;
while the promise of a spiritualistic creed is to be found, if at all,
in the school whose scepticism throws it back on the subjective sphere,
the invisible and impalpable world of mind. The attitude of philosophy
towards religion has, indeed, undergone a marked change; for the Stoic
naturalists count themselves among the most strenuous supporters of
beliefs and practices which their Sophistic predecessors had contemned,
while the humanist criticism is cautiously guarded by at least an
external conformity to established usage; but the Platonic doctrine of
immortality has disappeared with the dogmatic spiritualism on which it
rested; and faith in superior beings tends to dissociate itself from
morality, or to become identified with a simple belief in the fixity of
natural law.

Whenever naturalism and scepticism have thus stood opposed, the result
has been their transformation or absorption into a new philosophy,
combining the systematic formalism of the one with the introspective
idealism of the other. In Greece such a revolution had already been
effected once before by Plato; and a restoration of his system seemed
the most obvious solution that could offer itself on the present
occasion. Such was, in fact, the solution eventually adopted; what
we have to explain is why its adoption was delayed so long. For
this various reasons may be offered. To begin with, the speculative
languor of the age was unfavourable to the rise of a new school.
Greece was almost depopulated by the demands of foreign service; and
at Alexandria, where a new centre of Hellenism had been created, its
best energies were absorbed by the cultivation of positive science.
It was, no doubt, in great part owing to the dearth of ability that
ideas which, at an earlier period, would have been immediately taken
up and developed, were allowed to remain stationary for a hundred
years—the interval separating a Carneades from an Arcesilaus. The
regular organisation of philosophical teaching was another hindrance
to progress. A certain amount of property was annexed to the headships
of the different schools, and served as an endowment, not of research
but of contented acquiescence in the received traditions. Moreover, the
jealousy with which the professors of rival doctrines would naturally
regard one another, was likely to prevent their mutual approximation
from going beyond certain not very close limits, and might even lead
to a still severer definition of the characteristic tenets which
still kept them apart. Another and deeper disturbing force lay in the
dissensions which, at a very early stage of its development, had split
the spiritualistic philosophy into two opposing tendencies respectively
represented by Plato and Aristotle. Any thinker who wandered away
from the principles either of Stoicism or of Scepticism was more
likely to find himself bewildered by the conflicting claims of these
two illustrious masters, than to discern the common ground on which
they stood, or to bring them within the grasp of a single reconciling
system. Finally, an enormous perturbation in the normal course of
speculation was produced by the entrance of Rome on the philosophical
scene. But before estimating the influence of this new force, we must
follow events to the point at which it first becomes of calculable
importance.

We have seen how Carneades, alike in his theory of probability and
in his ethical eclecticism, had departed from the extreme sceptical
standpoint. His successor, Clitomachus, was content with committing
the doctrines of the master to writing. A further step was taken by
the next Scholarch, Philo, who is known as the Larissaean, in order to
distinguish him from his more celebrated namesake, the Alexandrian Jew.
This philosopher asserted that the negations of the New Academy were
not to be taken as a profession of absolute scepticism, but merely as
a criticism on the untenable pretensions of the Stoa. His own position
was that, as a matter of fact, we have some certain knowledge of
the external world, but that no logical account can be given of the
process by which it is obtained—we can only say that such an assurance
has been naturally stamped on our minds.[254] This is the theory of
intuitions or innate ideas, still held by many persons; and, as such,
it marks a return to pure Platonism, having been evidently suggested
by the semi-mythological fancies of the _Meno_ and the _Phaedrus_.
With Philo as with those Scotch professors who long afterwards took up
substantially the same position, the leading motive was a practical
one, the necessity of placing morality on some stronger ground than
that of mere probability. Neither he nor his imitators saw that if
ethical principles are self-evident, they need no objective support; if
they are derivative and contingent, they cannot impart to metaphysics
a certainty which they do not independently possess. The return to
the old Academic standpoint was completed by a much more vigorous
thinker than Philo, his pupil, opponent, and eventual successor,
Antiochus. So far from attempting any compromise with the Sceptics,
this philosopher openly declared that they had led the school away from
its true traditions; and claimed for his own teaching the merit of
reproducing the original doctrine of Plato.[255] In reality, he was, as
Zeller has shown, an eclectic.[256] It is by arguments borrowed from
Stoicism that he vindicates the certainty of human knowledge. Pushing
the practical postulate to its logical conclusion, he maintains, not
only that we are in possession of the truth, but also—what Philo had
denied—that true beliefs bear on their face the evidence by which they
are distinguished from illusions. Admitting that the senses are liable
to error, he asserts the possibility of rectifying their mistakes, and
of reasoning from a subjective impression to its objective cause. The
Sceptical negation of truth he meets with the familiar argument that it
is suicidal, for to be convinced that there can be no conviction is a
contradiction in terms; while to argue that truth is indistinguishable
from falsehood implies an illogical confidence in the validity of
logical processes; besides involving the assumption that there are
false appearances and that they are known to us as such, which would
be impossible unless we were in a position to compare them with the
corresponding truths.[257] For his own part, Antiochus adopted without
alteration the empirical theory of Chrysippus, according to which
knowledge is elaborated by reflection out of the materials supplied
by sense. His physics were also those of Stoicism with a slight
Peripatetic admixture, but without any modification of their purely
materialistic character. In ethics he remained truer to the Academic
tradition, refusing to follow the Stoics in their absolute isolation
of virtue from vice, and of happiness from external circumstances,
involving as it did the equality of all transgressions and the
worthlessness of worldly goods. But the disciples of the Porch had
made such large concessions to common sense by their theories of
preference and of progress, that even here there was very little left
to distinguish his teaching from theirs.[258]

Meanwhile a series of Stoic thinkers had also been feeling their
way towards a compromise with Plato and Aristotle, which, so far as
it went, was a step in the direction of spiritualism. We have seen,
in a former chapter, how one of the great distinguishing marks of
Stoicism, as compared with the systems immediately preceding it, was
the substitution of a pervading monism for their antithesis between God
and the world, between heaven and earth, between reason and sense. It
will be remembered also that this monistic creed was associated with
a return to the Heracleitean theory that the world is periodically
destroyed by fire. Now, with reference to three out of these four
points, Boêthus, a Stoic contemporary of Carneades, returned to the
Aristotelian doctrine. While still holding to the materialism of
his own school, including a belief in the corporeal nature of the
divinity, he separated God from the world, and represented him as
governing its movements from without; the world itself he maintained
to be eternal; and in the mind of man he recognised reason or nous as
an independent source of conviction. In his cosmology, Boêthus was
followed by a more celebrated master, Panaetius, who also adopted the
Aristotelian rationalism so far as to deny the continued existence of
the soul after death, and to repudiate the belief in divination which
Stoicism had borrowed from popular superstition; while in psychology
he partially restored the distinction between life and mind which had
been obliterated by his predecessors.[259] The dualistic theory of mind
was carried still further by Posidonius, the most eminent Stoic of the
first century B.C. This very learned and accomplished master, while
returning in other points to a stricter orthodoxy, was led to admit
the Platonic distinction between reason and passion, and to make it
the basis of his ethical system.[260] But the Platonising tendencies
of Posidonius had no more power than those of Antiochus to effect
a true spiritualistic revival, since neither they nor any of their
contemporaries had any genius for metaphysical speculation; while the
increased attention paid to Aristotle did not extend to the fundamental
principles of his system, which, even within the Peripatetic school,
were so misconceived as to be interpreted in a thoroughly materialistic
sense.[261]

A distinct parallelism may be traced in the lines of evolution
along which we have accompanied our two opposing schools. While the
Academicians were coming over to the Stoic theory of cognition, the
Stoics themselves were moving in the same general direction, and
seeking for an external reality more in consonance with their notions
of certainty than the philosophy of their first teachers could supply.
For, as originally constituted, Stoicism included a large element
of scepticism, which must often have laid its advocates open to the
charge of inconsistency from those who accepted the same principle in
a more undiluted form. The Heracleitean flux adopted by Zeno as the
physical basis of his system, was much better suited to a sceptical
than to a dogmatic philosophy, as the use to which it was put by
Protagoras and Plato sufficiently proved; and this was probably the
reason why Boêthus and Panaetius partially discarded it in favour
of a more stable cosmology. The dialectical studies of the school
also tended to suggest more difficulties than they could remove. The
comprehensive systematisation of Chrysippus, like that of Plato and
Aristotle, had for its object the illustration of each topic from
every point of view, and especially from the negative as well as
from the positive side. The consequence was that his indefatigable
erudition had collected a great number of logical puzzles which he
had either neglected or found himself unable to solve. There would,
therefore, be a growing inclination to substitute a literary and
rhetorical for a logical training: and as we shall presently see, there
was an extraneous influence acting in the same direction. Finally,
the rigour of Stoic morality had been strained to such a pitch that
its professors were driven to admit the complete ideality of virtue.
Their sage had never shown himself on earth, at least within the
historical period; and the whole world of human interests being, from
the rational point of view, either a delusion or a failure, stood in
permanent contradiction to their optimistic theory of Nature. The
Sceptics were quite aware of this practical approximation to their
own views, and sometimes took advantage of it to turn the tables on
their opponents with telling effect. Thus, on the occasion of that
philosophical embassy with an account of which the present chapter
began, when a noble Roman playfully observed to Carneades, ‘You must
think that I am not a Praetor as I am not a sage, and that Rome is
neither a city nor a state,’ the great Sceptic replied, turning to his
colleague Diogenes, ‘That is what my Stoic friend here would say.’[262]
And Plutarch, in two sharp attacks on the Stoics, written from the
Academic point of view, and probably compiled from documents of a much
earlier period,[263] charges them with outraging common sense by their
wholesale practical negations, to at least as great an extent as the
Sceptics outraged it by their suspense of judgment. How the ethical
system of Stoicism was modified so as to meet these criticisms has been
related in a former chapter; and we have just seen how Posidonius,
by his partial return to the Platonic psychology, with its division
between reason and impulse, contributed to a still further change in
the same conciliatory sense.


VII.

We have now reached a point in history where the Greek intellect seems
to be struck with a partial paralysis, continuing for a century and a
half. During that period, its activity—what there is of it—is shown
only in criticism and erudition. There is learning, there is research,
there is acuteness, there is even good taste, but originality and
eloquence are extinct. Is it a coincidence, or is it something more,
that this interval of sterility should occur simultaneously with the
most splendid period of Latin literature, and that the new birth of
Greek culture should be followed by the decrepitude and death of the
Latin muse? It is certain that in modern Europe, possessing as it
does so many independent sources of vitality, the flowering-times
of different countries rarely coincide; England and Spain, from the
middle of the sixteenth to the middle of the seventeenth century,
being the only instances that we can recall of two countries
almost simultaneously reaching the highest point of their literary
development. Possibly, during the great age of Latin literature, all
the most aspiring Greeks found employment as tutors in Roman families;
while the reading public of the West were too much absorbed by the
masterpieces composed in their own language, or too elated with
the consciousness of a new superiority, to encourage the rivalry of
those from whom they had wrested not only poetical independence, but
also, what till then had never been disputed with the Greeks, supreme
dominion in the world of mind. It is, at any rate, significant that
while Greek was the favourite language of Roman lovers in the time of
Lucretius and again in the time of Juvenal, there are no allusions to
its having been employed by them during the intermediate period.[264]
Be this as it may, from the fall of the Republic to the time of Trajan,
philosophy, like poetry and eloquence—or at least all philosophy that
was positive and practical—became domiciled in Rome, and received the
stamp of the Roman character. How Stoicism was affected by the change
has been pointed out in a former chapter. What we have now to study is
chiefly the reaction of Rome on the Greek mind, and its bearing on the
subsequent development of thought.

This reaction had begun to make itself felt long before the birth of
a philosophical literature in the Latin language. It may be traced to
the time when the lecture-halls at Athens were first visited by Roman
students, and Greek professors first received on terms of intimate
companionship into the houses of Roman nobles. In each instance, but
more especially in the latter, not only would the pupil imbibe new
ideas from the master, but the master would suit his teaching to the
tastes and capacities of the pupil. The result would be an intellectual
condition somewhat resembling that which attended the popularisation of
philosophy in Athens during the latter half of the fifth century B.C.;
and all the more so as speculation had already spontaneously reverted
to the Sophistic standpoint. The parallel will be still more complete
if we take the word Sophist in its original and comprehensive sense. We
may then say that while Carneades, with his entrancing eloquence and
his readiness to argue both sides of a question, was the Protagoras
of the new movement; Panaetius, the dignified rationalist and honoured
friend of Laelius and the younger Scipio, its Prodicus; and Posidonius,
the astronomer and encyclopaedic scholar, its Hippias, Phaedrus the
Epicurean was its Anaxagoras or Democritus.

The Epicurean philosophy was, in fact, the first to gain a footing in
Rome; and it thereby acquired a position of comparative equality with
the other schools, to which it was not really entitled, but which it
has ever since succeeded in maintaining. The new doctrine fell like
a spark on a mass of combustible material. The Romans were full of
curiosity about Nature and her workings; full of contempt for the
degrading Etruscan superstitions which hampered them at every turn, and
the falsity of which was proving too much even for the official gravity
of their state-appointed interpreters; full of impatience at the Greek
mythology which was beginning to substitute itself for the severe
abstractions of their own more spiritual faith;[265] full of loathing
for the Asiatic orgies which were being introduced into the highest
society of their own city. Epicureanism offered them a complete and
easily intelligible theory of the world, which at the same time came
as a deliverance from supernatural terrors. The consequence was that
its different parts were thrown out of perspective, and their relative
importance almost reversed. Originally framed as an ethical system
with certain physical and theological implications, it was interpreted
by Lucretius, and apparently also by his Roman predecessors,[266] as
a scientific and anti-religious system, with certain references to
conduct neither very prominently brought forward nor very distinctly
conceived. And we know from the contents of the papyrus rolls
discovered at Herculaneum, that those who studied the system in its
original sources paid particular attention to the voluminous physical
treatises of Epicurus, as well as to the theological works of his
successors. Nor was this change of front limited to Epicureanism, if,
as we may suspect, the rationalistic direction taken by Panaetius was
due, at least in part, to a similar demand on the side of his Roman
admirers.

But what had happened once before when philosophy was taken up by men
of the world, repeated itself on this occasion. Attention was diverted
from speculative to ethical problems, or at least to issues lying on
the borderland between speculation and practice, such as those relating
to the criterion of truth and the nature of the highest good. On
neither of these topics had Epicureanism a consistent answer to give,
especially when subjected to the cross-examination of rival schools
eager to secure Roman favour for their own doctrines. Stated under any
form, the Epicurean morality could not long satisfy the conquerors of
the world. To some of them it would seem a shameful dereliction of
duty, to others an irksome restraint on self-indulgence, while all
would be alienated by its declared contempt for the general interests
of culture and ambition. Add to this that the slightest acquaintance
with astronomy, as it was then taught in Hellenic countries, would be
fatal to a belief in the Epicurean physics, and we shall understand
that the cause for which Lucretius contended was already lost before
his great poem saw the light.

The requirements which Epicureanism failed to meet, were, to a
great extent, satisfied by Stoicism. This philosophy had, from a
comparatively early period, won the favour of a select class, but had
been temporarily overshadowed by the popularity of its hedonistic and
anti-religious rival, when a knowledge of the Greek systems first
became diffused through Italy. The uncouth language of the early
Stoics and the apparently unpractical character of their theories
doubtless exercised a repellent effect on many who were not out of
sympathy with their general spirit. These difficulties were overcome
first by Panaetius, and then, to a still greater extent, by Posidonius,
the elder contemporary and friend of Pompeius and Cicero, who was
remarkable not only for his enormous learning but also for his
oratorical talent.[267] It seems probable that the lessons of this
distinguished man marked the beginning of that religious reaction
which eventually carried all before it. We have already seen how he
abandoned the rationalistic direction struck out by his predecessor,
Panaetius; and his return to the old Stoic orthodoxy may very well have
responded to a revival of religious feeling among the educated Roman
public, who by this time must have discovered that there were other
ways of escaping from superstition besides a complete rejection of the
supernatural.

The triumph of Stoicism was, however, retarded by the combined
influence of the Academic and Peripatetic schools. Both claimed the
theory of a morality founded on natural law as a doctrine of their own,
borrowed from them without acknowledgment by the Porch, and restated
under an offensively paradoxical form. To a Roman, the Academy would
offer the further attraction of complete immunity from the bondage of a
speculative system, freedom of enquiry limited only by the exigencies
of practical life, and a conveniently elastic interpretation of the
extent to which popular faiths might be accepted as true. If absolute
suspense of judgment jarred on his moral convictions, it was ready
with accommodations and concessions. We have seen how the scepticism
of Carneades was first modified by Philo, and then openly renounced by
Philo’s successor, Antiochus. Roman influence may have been at work
with both; for Philo spent some time in the capital of the empire,
whither he was driven by the events of the first Mithridatic War; while
Antiochus was the friend of Lucullus and the teacher of Cicero.[268]


VIII.

The greatest of Roman orators and writers was also the first Roman
that held opinions of his own in philosophy. How much original thought
occurs in his voluminous contributions to the literature of the
subject is more than we can determine, the Greek authorities on which
he drew being known almost exclusively through the references to them
contained in his disquisitions. But, judging from the evidence before
us, carefully sifted as it has been by German scholars, we should
feel disposed to assign him a foremost rank among the thinkers of an
age certainly not distinguished either for fertility or for depth
of thought. It seems clear that he gave a new basis to the eclectic
tendencies of his contemporaries, and that this basis was subsequently
accepted by other philosophers whose speculative capacity has never
been questioned. Cicero describes himself as an adherent of the New
Academy, and expressly claims to have reasserted its principles after
they had fallen into neglect among the Greeks, more particularly as
against his own old master Antiochus, whose Stoicising theory of
cognition he agrees with Philo in repudiating.[269] Like Philo also,
he bases certainty on the twofold ground of a moral necessity for
acting on our beliefs,[270] and the existence of moral intuitions, or
natural tendencies to believe in the mind itself;[271] or, perhaps,
more properly speaking, on the single ground of a moral sense.
This, as already stated, was unquestionably a reproduction of the
Platonic ideas under their subjective aspect. But in his general
views about the nature and limits of human knowledge, Cicero leaves
the Academy behind him, and goes back to Socrates. Perhaps no two
men of great genius could be more unlike than these two,—for us the
most living figures in ancient history if not in all history,—the
Roman being as much a type of time-servingness and vacillation as the
Athenian was of consistency and resolute independence. Yet, in its
mere external results, the philosophy of Socrates is perhaps more
faithfully reproduced by Cicero than by any subsequent enquirer; and
the differences between them are easily accounted for by the long
interval separating their ages from one another. Each set out with
the same eager desire to collect knowledge from every quarter; each
sought above all things for that kind of knowledge which seemed to be
of the greatest practical importance; and each was led to believe that
this did not include speculations relating to the physical world; one
great motive to the partial scepticism professed by both being the
irreconcilable disagreement of those who had attempted an explanation
of its mysteries. The deeper ground of man’s ignorance in this respect
was stated somewhat differently by each; or perhaps we should say that
the same reason is expressed in a mythical form by the one and in a
scientific form by the other. Socrates held that the nature of things
is a secret which the gods have reserved for themselves; while, in
Cicero’s opinion, the heavens are so remote, the interior of the earth
so dark, the mechanism of our own bodies so complicated and subtle, as
to be placed beyond the reach of fruitful observation.[272] Nor did
this deprivation seem any great hardship to either, since, as citizens
of great and free states, both were pre-eminently interested in the
study of social life; and it is characteristic of their common tendency
that both should have been not only great talkers and observers but
also great readers of ancient literature.[273]

With regard to ethics, there is, of course, a great difference between
the innovating, creative genius of the Greek and the receptive but
timid intelligence of the Roman. Yet the uncertainty which, in the one
case, was due to the absence of any fixed system, is equally present in
the other, owing to the embarrassment of having so many systems among
which to choose. Three ethical motives were constantly present to the
thoughts of Socrates: the utility of virtue, from a material point
of view, to the individual; its social necessity; and its connexion
with the dual constitution of man as a being composed of two elements
whereof the one is infinitely superior to the other; but he never was
able, or never attempted to co-ordinate them under a single principle.
His successors tried to discover such a principle in the idea of
natural law, but could neither establish nor apply it in a satisfactory
manner. Cicero reproduces the Socratic elements, sometimes in their
original dispersion and confusion, sometimes with the additional
complication and perplexity introduced by the idea through which it had
been hoped to systematise and reconcile them. To him, indeed, that idea
was even more important than to the Greek moralists; for he looked on
Nature as the common ground where philosophy and untrained experience
might meet for mutual confirmation and support.[274] We have seen how
he adopted the theory—as yet not very clearly formulated—of a moral
sense, or general faculty of intuition, from Philo. To study and obey
the dictates of this faculty, as distinguished from the depraving
influence of custom, was his method of arriving at truth and right.
But if, when properly consulted, it always gave the same response, a
similar unanimity might be expected in the doctrines of the various
philosophical schools; and the adhesion of Academicians, Peripatetics,
and Stoics to the precept, Follow Nature, seemed to demonstrate that
such an agreement actually existed. Hence Cicero over and over again
labours to prove that their disputes were merely verbal, and that
Stoicism in particular had borrowed its ethics wholesale from his own
favourite sect. Yet from time to time their discrepancies would force
themselves on his notice; and by none have the differences separating
Stoicism from its rivals been stated with more clearness, concision,
and point.[275] These relate to the absolute self-sufficingness
of virtue, its unity, and the incompatibility of emotion with its
exercise. But Cicero seems to have regarded the theory of preference
and rejection as a concession to common sense amounting to a surrender
of whatever was parodoxical and exclusive in the Stoic standpoint.[276]
And with respect to the question round which controversy raged most
fiercely, namely, whether virtue was the sole or merely the chief
condition of happiness, Cicero, as a man of the world, considered that
it was practically of no consequence which side prevailed.[277] It
would be unfair to blame him for not seeing, what the stricter school
felt rather than saw, that the happiness associated with goodness was
not of an individual but of a social character, and therefore could not
properly be compared with objects of purely individual desire, such as
health, wealth, friends, and worldly fame.

But even taken in its mildest form, there were difficulties about
Greek idealism which still remained unsolved. They may be summed up in
one word, the necessity of subordinating all personal and passionate
feelings to a higher law, whatever the dictates of that law may be. Of
such self-suppression few men were less capable than Cicero. Whether
virtue meant the extirpation or merely the moderation of desire and
emotion, it was equally impossible to one of whom Macaulay has said,
with not more severity than truth, that his whole soul was under the
dominion of a girlish vanity and a craven fear.[278] Such weak and
well-intentioned natures almost always take refuge from their sorrows
and self-reproaches in religion; and probably the religious sentiment
was more highly developed in Cicero than in any other thinker of the
age. Here also a parallel with Socrates naturally suggests itself.
The relation between the two amounts to more than a mere analogy;
for not only was the intellectual condition of old Athens repeating
itself in Rome, but the religious opinions of all cultivated Romans
who still retained their belief in a providential God, were, to an
even greater extent than their ethics, derived through Stoicism from
the great founder of rational theology. Cicero, like Socrates, views
God under the threefold aspect of a creator, a providence, and an
informing spirit:—identical in his nature with the soul of man, and
having man for his peculiar care. With regard to the evidence of
his existence, the teleological argument derived from the structure
of organised beings is common to both; the argument from universal
belief, doubtless a powerful motive with Socrates, is more distinctly
put forward by Cicero; and while both regard the heavenly luminaries
as manifest embodiments of the divine essence, Cicero is led by
the traditions of Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics, to present the
regularity of their movements as the most convincing revelation of a
superhuman intelligence, and to identify the outermost starry sphere
with the highest God of all.[279] Intimately associated with this
view is his belief in the immortality of the soul, which he supposes
will return after death to the eternal and unchangeable sphere whence
it originally proceeded.[280] But his familiarity with the sceptical
arguments of Carneades prevented Cicero from putting forward his
theological beliefs with the same confidence as Socrates; while, at the
same time, it enabled him to take up a much more decided attitude of
hostility towards the popular superstitions from which he was anxious,
so far as possible, to purify true religion.[281] To sum up: Cicero,
like Kant, seems to have been chiefly impressed by two phenomena,
the starry heavens without and the moral law within; each in its own
way giving him the idea of unchanging and everlasting continuance,
and both testifying to the existence of a power by which all things
are regulated for the best. But the materialism of his age naturally
prevented him from regarding the external order as a mere reflex
or lower manifestation of the inward law by which all spirits feel
themselves to be members of the same intelligible community.

We have illustrated the position of Cicero by reference to the master
who, more than any other Greek philosopher, seems to have satisfied his
ideal of perfect wisdom. We must now observe that nothing is better
calculated to show how inadequate was the view once universally taken
of Socrates, and still, perhaps, taken by all who are not scholars,
than that it should be applicable in so many points to Cicero as
well. For, while the influence of the one on human thought was the
greatest ever exercised by a single individual, the influence of the
other was limited to the acceleration of a movement already in full
activity, and moreover tending on the whole in a retrograde direction.
The immeasurable superiority of the Athenian lies in his dialectical
method. It was not by a mere elimination of differences that he hoped
to establish a general agreement, but by reasoning down from admitted
principles, which were themselves to be the result of scientific
induction brought to bear on a comprehensive and ever-widening area
of experience. Hence his scepticism, which was directed against
authority, tended as much to stimulate enquiry as that of the Roman
declaimer, which was directed against reason, tended to deaden or to
depress it. Hence, also, the political philosophy of Socrates was as
revolutionary as that of his imitator was conservative. Both were,
in a certain sense, aristocrats; but while the aristocracy of the
elegant rhetorician meant a clique of indolent and incapable nobles,
that of the sturdy craftsman meant a band of highly-trained specialists
maintained in power by the choice, the confidence, and the willing
obedience of an intelligent people. And while the religion of Cicero
was a blind reliance on providence supplemented by priestcraft in this
world, with the hope, if things came to the worst, of a safe retreat
from trouble in the next; the religion of Socrates was an active
co-operation with the universal mind, an attempt to make reason and the
will of God prevail on earth, with the hope, if there was any future
state, of carrying on in it the intellectual warfare which alone had
made life worth living here. No less a contrast could be expected
between the orator who turned to philosophy only for the occupation of
a leisure hour, or for relief from the pangs of disappointed ambition,
and the thinker who gave her his whole existence as the elect apostle
and martyr of her creed.


IX.

We have seen what was the guiding principle of Cicero’s philosophical
method. By interrogating all the systems of his time, he hoped to
elicit their points of agreement, and to utilise the result for the
practical purposes of life. As actually applied, the effect of this
method was not to reconcile the current theories with one another,
nor yet to lay the foundation of a more comprehensive philosophy, but
to throw back thought on an order of ideas which, from their great
popularity, had been incorporated with every system in turn, and,
for that very reason, seemed to embody the precise points on which
all were agreed. These were the idea of Nature, the idea of mind or
reason, and the idea of utility. We have frequently come across them
in the course of the present work. Here it will suffice to recall the
fact that they had been first raised to distinct consciousness when
the results of early Greek thought were brought into contact with the
experiences of Greek life, and more especially of Athenian life, in
the age of Pericles. As originally understood, they gave rise to many
complications and cross divisions, arising from what was considered
to be their mutual incompatibility or equivalence. Thus Nature was
openly rejected by the sceptical Sophists, ignored by Socrates, and,
during a long period of his career, treated with very little respect
by Plato; reason, in its more elaborate forms, was slighted by the
Cynics, and employed for its own destruction by the Megarians, in both
cases as an enemy to utility; while to Aristotle the pure exercise
of reason was the highest utility of any, and Nature only a lower
manifestation of the same idealising process. At a later period, we
find Nature accepted as a watchword by Stoics, Epicureans, and Sceptics
alike, although, of course, each attached a widely different meaning
to the term; the supremacy of reason, without whose aid, indeed,
their controversies could not have been carried on, is recognised
with similar unanimity; and each sect lays exclusive stress on the
connexion of its principles with human happiness, thus making utility
the foremost consideration in philosophy. Consequently, to whatever
system a Roman turned, he would recognise the three great regulative
conceptions of Greek thought, although frequently enveloped in a
network of fine-spun distinctions and inferences which to him must
have seemed neither natural nor reasonable nor useful. On the other
hand, apart from such subtleties, he could readily translate all three
into terms which seemed to show that, so far from being divided by any
essential incompatibility, they did but represent different aspects
of a single harmonious ideal. Nature meant simplicity, orderliness,
universality, and the spontaneous consentience of unsophisticated
minds. Reason meant human dignity, especially as manifested in the
conquest of fear and of desire. And whatever was natural and reasonable
seemed to satisfy the requirements of utility as well. It might seem
also that these very principles were embodied in the facts of old
Roman life and of Rome’s imperial destiny. The only question was which
school of Greek philosophy gave them their clearest and completest
interpretation. Lucretius would have said that it was the system of
Epicurus; but such a misconception was only rendered possible by the
poet’s seclusion from imperial interests, and, apparently, by his
unacquaintance with the more refined forms of Hellenic thought. Rome
could not find in Epicureanism the comprehensiveness, the cohesion, and
the power which marked her own character, and which she only required
to have expressed under a speculative form. Then came Cicero, with his
modernised rhetorical version of what he conceived to be the Socratic
philosophy. His teaching was far better suited than that of his great
contemporary to the tastes of his countrymen, and probably contributed
in no small degree to the subsequent discredit of Epicureanism; yet,
by a strange irony, it told, to the same extent, in favour of a
philosophy from which Cicero himself was probably even more averse
than from the morality of the Garden. In his hands, the Academic
criticism had simply the effect of dissolving away those elements
which distinguished Stoicism from Cynicism; while his eclecticism
brought into view certain principles more characteristic of the Cynics
than of any other sect. The Nature to whose guidance he constantly
appeals was, properly speaking, not a Socratic but a Sophistic or Cynic
idea; and when the Stoics appropriated it, they were only reclaiming
an ancestral possession. The exclusion of theoretical studies and
dialectical subtleties from philosophy was also Cynic; the Stoic
theology when purified, as Cicero desired that it should be purified,
from its superstitious ingredients, was no other than the naturalistic
monotheism of Antisthenes; and the Stoic morality without its paradoxes
was little more than an ennobled Cynicism. The curve described by
thought was determined by forces of almost mechanical simplicity. The
Greek Eclectics, seeking a middle term between the Academy and the
Porch, had fallen back on Plato; Cicero, pursuing the same direction,
receded to Socrates; but the continued attraction of Stoicism drew
him to a point where the two were linked together by their historical
intermediary, the Cynic school. And, by a singular coincidence, the
primal forms of Roman life, half godlike and half brutal, were found,
better than anything in Hellenic experience, to realise the ideal of
a sect which had taken Heracles for its patron saint. Had Diogenes
searched the Roman Forum, he would have met with a man at every step.

Meanwhile the morality of Stoicism had enlisted a force of incalculable
importance on its behalf. This was the life and death of the younger
Cato. However narrow his intellect, however impracticable his
principles, however hopeless his resistance to the course of history,
Cato had merits which in the eyes of his countrymen placed him even
higher than Caesar; and this impression was probably strengthened
by the extraordinary want of tact which the great conqueror showed
when he insulted the memory of his noblest foe. Pure in an age of
corruption, disinterested in an age of greed, devotedly patriotic in
an age of selfish ambition, faithful unto death in an age of shameless
tergiversation, and withal of singularly mild and gentle character,
Cato lived and died for the law of conscience, proving by his example
that if a revival of old Roman virtue were still possible, only through
the lessons of Greek philosophy could this miracle be wrought. And
it was equally clear that Rome could only accept philosophy under a
form harmonising with her ancient traditions, and embodying doctrines
like those which the martyred saint of her republican liberties had
professed.

The Roman reformers were satisfied to call themselves Stoics; and, in
reviewing the Stoic system, we saw to what an extent they welcomed
and developed some of its fundamental thoughts. But we have now to
add that the current which bore them on had its source deeper down
than the elaborate combinations of Zeno and Chrysippus, and entered
into the composition of every other system that acted on the Roman
intellect simultaneously with theirs. Thus whatever forces co-operated
with Stoicism had the effect not of complicating but of simplifying its
tendencies, by bringing into exclusive prominence the original impulse
whence they sprang, which was the idea of Natural Law. Hence the
form ultimately assumed by Roman thought was a philosophy of Nature,
sometimes appearing more under a Stoic, and sometimes more under a
Cynic guise. Everything in Roman poetry that is not copied from Greek
models or inspired by Italian passion—in other words, its didactic,
descriptive, and satiric elements—may be traced to this philosophy.
Doubtless the inculcation of useful arts, the delight in beautiful
scenery, the praises of rustic simplicity, the fierce protests against
vice under all its forms, and the celebration of an imperial destiny,
which form the staple of Rome’s national literature, spring from her
own deepest life; but the quickening power of Greek thought was needed
to develope them into articulate expression.

There is, indeed, nothing more nobly characteristic of the Hellenic
spirit, especially as organised by Socrates, than its capacity not
only for communicating, but for awakening ideas; thus enabling all
the nations among which it spread to realise the whole potential
treasure of theoretical and practical energy with which they were
endowed. And, from this point of view, we may say that what seems
most distinctively proper to Rome—the triumphant consciousness of
herself as a world-conquering and world-ruling power—came to her from
Greece, and under the form of a Greek idea, the idea of providential
destiny. It was to make his countrymen understand the fateful character
and inevitable march of her empire that Polybius composed his great
history; it was also by a Greek that the most successful of her early
national epics was sung; and when at last her language was wrought into
an adequate instrument of literary expression—thanks also to Greek
rhetorical teaching,—and the culture of her children had advanced so
far that they could venture to compete with the Greeks on their own
ground, it was still only under forms suggested by Stoicism that Virgil
could rewrite the story of his country’s dedication to her predestined
task.

That Virgil was acquainted with this philosophy and had accepted some
of its principal conclusions is evident from a famous passage in the
Sixth _Aeneid_,[282] setting forth the theory of a universal and
all-penetrating soul composed of fiery matter, whence the particular
souls of men and animals are derived, by a process likened to the
scattering and germination of seeds; from another equally famous
passage in the Fourth _Eclogue_,[283] describing the periodical
recurrence of events in the same order as before; and also, although
to a less extent, from his acceptance of the Stoic astronomy in the
_Georgics_;[284] a circumstance which, by the way, renders it most
unlikely that he looked up to Lucretius as an authority in physical
science.[285] But even apart from this collateral evidence, one can
see that the _Aeneid_ is a Stoic poem. It is filled with the ideas
of mutation and vicissitude overruled by a divinely appointed order;
of the prophetic intimations by which that order is revealed; of the
obedience to reason by which passion is subdued; and of the faith
in divine goodness by which suffering is made easy to be borne. And
there are also gleams of that universal humanity familiar to Stoicism,
which read to some like an anticipation of the Christian or the modern
spirit, but which really resemble them only as earlier manifestations
of the same great philosophical movement.

This analogy with subsequent developments is aided, so far as it goes,
by the admixture of a certain Platonic element with Virgil’s Stoicism,
shown chiefly by the references to an antenatal existence of the soul,
introduced for the purpose of bringing Rome’s future heroes on the
scene. This, however, is the last example of an attempt on the part of
a Roman writer to combine Plato’s teaching with Stoicism.[286] At a
time when the Romans were more conscious of their literary dependence
on Greece than was the case after the Augustan age had reached its
zenith, they were probably drawn by the beauty of its literary form to
study a system which could otherwise interest them but little. Thus,
not only is Cicero full of admiration for Plato—as, indeed, might
be expected with so highly cultivated a disciple of the Academy—but
Cato, according to the well-known story, spent his last hours reading
and re-reading the _Phaedo_; and his nephew Brutus also occupied an
intermediate position between the Old Academy and the Porch. The
Roman love of simplification and archaism induced subsequent thinkers
either to let Platonism drop altogether, or to study those elements
in which it differed from the pure naturalistic doctrine under their
Pythagorean form. It may even be doubted whether Virgil’s psychology is
not derived from Pythagoras rather than from Plato; Ovid, so far as he
philosophises at all, is unquestionably a follower of the former;[287]
and in the moral teaching of the Sextii, who flourished under Augustus,
Pythagorean principles are blended with Stoicism.[288] It is another
manifestation of the same effort to grasp every Greek doctrine by its
roots, that Horace should proclaim himself the disciple of Aristippus
rather than of Epicurus.[289] Even he, however, feels himself drawn
with advancing years towards the nobler faith which was now carrying
all before it.[290]

With Seneca and his contemporaries, Stoicism has shaken itself free
from alien ingredients, and has become the accepted creed of the whole
republican opposition, being especially pronounced in the writings
of the two young poets, Persius and Lucan. But in proportion as
naturalistic philosophy assumed the form of a protest against vice,
luxury, inhumanity, despotism, and degradation, or of an exhortation to
welcome death as a deliverance from those evils, in the same proportion
did it tend to fall back into simple Cynicism; and on this side also
it found a ready response, not only in the heroic fortitude, but also
in the brutal coarseness and scurrility of the Roman character. Hence
the _Satires_ of the last great Roman poet, Juvenal, are an even more
distinct expression of Cynic than the epic of Virgil had been of Stoic
sentiment. Along with whatever was good and wholesome in Cynicism there
is the shameless indecency of the Cynics, and their unquestioning
acceptance of mendicancy and prostitution as convenient helps to
leading a natural and easily contented life. And it may be noticed
that the free-thinking tendencies which distinguished the Cynics from
the Stoics are also displayed in Juvenal’s occasional denunciations of
superstition.


X.

Thus the final effect of its communion with the Roman mind was not
so much to develope Greek philosophy any further, or to reconcile
its warring sects with one another, as to aid in their decomposition
by throwing them back on the earlier forms whence they had sprung.
Accordingly we find that the philosophic activity of Hellas immediately
before and after the Christian era—so far as there was any at
all—consisted in a revival of the Pythagorean and Cynic schools,
accompanied by a corresponding resuscitation of primitive Scepticism.
This last takes the shape of a very distinct protest against the
fashionable naturalism of the age, just as the scepticism of Protagoras
and Gorgias—if our view be correct—had once been called forth by the
naturalism of Prodicus and Hippias. The principal representative, if
not the founder, of Neo-Scepticism was Aenesidêmus, who taught in
Alexandria, when we are not informed, but probably after the middle
of the first century A.D.[291] An avowed disciple of Pyrrho, his
object was to reassert the sceptical principle in its original purity,
especially as against the Academicians, whom he charged with having
first perverted and then completely abandoned it.[292] Aenesidêmus
would hear nothing of probabilities nor of moral certainties. He also
claimed to distinguish himself from the Academicians by refusing to
assert even so much as that nothing can be asserted; but it appears
that, in this point, he had been fully anticipated by Arcesilaus and
Carneades.[293] For the rest, his own Scepticism recalls the method of
Gorgias and Protagoras much more distinctly than the method of the New
Academy—a fresh illustration of the archaic and revivalist tendencies
displayed by philosophy at this period. In other words, it is not
against the reasoning processes that his criticisms are directed, but
against the theory of causation on the objective side, and against the
credibility of our immediate perceptions on the subjective side.[294]
But, in both directions, he has worked out the difficulties of the old
Sophists with a minuteness and a precision unknown to them; and some of
his points have been found worth repeating in a different connexion by
modern critics. Thus, in analysing the theory of causation, he draws
attention to the plurality of causes as an obstacle to connecting
any given consequent with one antecedent more than with another; to
the illegitimate assumption that the laws inferred from experience
hold good under unknown conditions; to the arbitrary assumption of
hypothetical causes not evinced by experience; and to the absurdity
of introducing a new difficulty for the purpose of explaining an
old one.[295] With regard to causation itself, Aenesidêmus seems
to have resolved it into action and reaction, thus eliminating the
condition of antecedence and consequence, without which it becomes
unintelligible.[296]

The Alexandrian Sceptic’s general arguments against the possibility
of knowledge resolve themselves into a criticism of what Sir W.
Hamilton called Natural Realism, somewhat complicated and confused
by a simultaneous attack on the theory of natural morality conceived
as something eternal and immutable. They are summed up in the famous
ten Tropes. Of these the first three are founded on the conflicting
sensations produced by the same object when acting on different
animals—as is inferred from the marked contrast presented by their
several varieties of origin and structure,—on different men, and on
the different senses of the same individual. The fourth, which has
evidently an ethical bearing, enlarges on the changes in men’s views
caused by mental and bodily changes, according to their health, age,
disposition, and so forth. The next five Tropes relate to circumstances
connected with the objects themselves: their distance and position as
regards the spectator, the disturbance produced in their proper action
by external influences such as air and light, together with the various
membranes and humours composing the organs of sense through which they
are apprehended; their quantitative variation, involving as it does
opposite effects on the senses, or as with medicines, on the health;
the law of relativity, according to which many things are only known
when taken in company with others, such as double and half, right and
left, whole and part; comparative frequency or rarity of occurrence, as
with comets, which, while really of much less importance than the sun,
excite much more interest from their being so seldom seen. Finally, the
tenth Trope is purely ethical, and infers the non-existence of a fixed
moral standard from the divergent and even opposite customs prevailing
among different nations.[297]

In his attacks on the prevalent theories of ethics, Aenesidêmus again
reminds us both of Protagoras and of modern agnosticism. According to
him, the general disagreement of mankind proves, among other things,
that there is no definable highest good—it is neither virtue, nor
pleasure, nor knowledge.[298] In the absence of any dogmatic teaching
on the subject at the time when he lived, Protagoras could not give an
opinion with regard to the _summum bonum_; but Plato’s famous dialogue
represents him as one who, from his point of view, would be unwilling
to admit the possibility of introducing fixed principles into conduct;
and in like manner, Mr. Herbert Spencer, while accepting the hedonistic
principle, gives it such an extremely general signification that he
is thrown back on the sceptical principle of leaving everyone free to
follow his own inclinations, provided that, in so doing, he does not
interfere with the liberty of others.

The parallel between Aenesidêmus and Protagoras would become still more
complete were it true that the Alexandrian philosopher also sought
to base his Scepticism on the Heracleitean theory of Nature, arguing
that contradictory assertions are necessitated by the presence of
contradictory properties in every object.

That Aenesidêmus held this view is stated as a fact by Sextus, whose
testimony is here corroborated by Tertullian, or rather by Tertullian’s
informant, Soranus. We find, however, that Zeller, who formerly
accepted the statement in question as true, has latterly seen reason to
reject it. Aenesidêmus cannot, he thinks, have been guilty of so great
an inconsistency as to base his Scepticism on the dogmatic physics of
Heracleitus. And he explains the agreement of the ancient authorities
by supposing that the original work of Aenesidêmus contained a critical
account of the Heracleitean theory, that this was misinterpreted into
an expression of his adhesion to it by Soranus, and that the blunder
was adopted at second-hand by both Sextus and Tertullian.[299]

It is, at any rate, certain that the successors of Aenesidêmus adhered
to the standpoint of Pyrrho. One of them, Agrippa, both simplified and
strengthened the arguments of the school by reducing the ten Tropes to
five. The earlier objections to human certainty were summed up under
two heads: the irreconcilable conflict of opinions on all subjects; and
the essential relativity of consciousness, in which the percipient and
the perceived are so intimately united that what things in themselves
are cannot possibly be discovered. The other three Tropes relate to the
baselessness of reasoning. They were evidently suggested by Aristotle’s
remarks on the subject. The process of proof cannot be carried
backwards _ad infinitum_, nor can it legitimately revolve in a circle.
Thus much had already been admitted, or rather insisted on by the great
founder of logic. But the Sceptics could not agree to Aristotle’s
contention, that demonstration may be based on first principles of
self-evident certainty. They here fell back on their main argument;
that the absence of general agreement on every point is fatal to the
existence of such pretended axioms. A still further simplification was
effected by the reduction of the five Tropes to two—that all reasoning
rests on intuition, and that men’s intuitions are irreconcilably at
variance with one another.[300] As against true science, the sceptical
Tropes are powerless, for the validity of its principles has nothing
to do with their general acceptance. They are laid before the learner
for his instruction, and if he chooses to regard them as either false
or doubtful, the misfortune will be his and not theirs. But as against
all attempts to constrain belief by an appeal to authority, the Tropes
still remain invincible. Whether the testimony invoked be that of
ancient traditions or of a supposed inward witness, there is always the
same fatal objection that other traditions and other inward witnesses
tell quite a different story. The task of deciding between them must,
after all, be handed over to an impersonal reason. In other words, each
individual must judge for himself and at his own risk, just as he does
in questions of physical science.

We have already observed that Scepticism among the ancients was often
cultivated in connexion with some positive doctrine which it indirectly
served to recommend. In the case of its last supporters, this was the
study of medicine on an empirical as opposed to a deductive method.
The Sceptical contention is that we cannot go beyond appearances;
the empirical contention is, that all knowledge comes to us from
experience, and that this only shows us how phenomena are related to
one another, not how they are related to their underlying causes,
whether efficient or final. These allied points of view have been
brought into still more intimate association by modern thought, which,
as will be shown in the concluding chapter, has sprung from a modified
form of the ancient Scepticism, powerfully aided by a simultaneous
development of physical science. At the same time, the new school
have succeeded in shaking off the narrowness and timidity of their
predecessors, who were still so far under the influence of the old
dogmatists as to believe that there was an inherent opposition between
observation and reasoning in the methods of discovery, between facts
and explanations in the truths of science, and between antecedence
and causation in the realities of Nature. In this respect, astronomy
has done more for the right adjustment of our conceptions than any
other branch of knowledge; and it is remarkable that Sextus Empiricus,
the last eminent representative of ancient Scepticism, and the only
one (unless Cicero is to be called a Sceptic) whose writings are
still extant, should expressly except astronomy from the destructive
criticism to which he subjects the whole range of studies included in
what we should call the university curriculum of his time.[301] We need
not enter into an analysis of the ponderous compilation referred to;
for nearly every point of interest which it comprises has already been
touched on in the course of our investigation; and Sextus differs only
from his predecessors by adding the arguments of the New Academy to
those of Protagoras and Pyrrho, thus completing the Sceptical cycle.
It will be enough to notice the singular circumstance that so copious
and careful an enumeration of the grounds which it was possible to urge
against dogmatism—including, as we have seen, many still employed for
the same or other purposes,—should have omitted the two most powerful
solvents of any. These were left for the exquisite critical acumen of
Hume to discover. They relate to the conception of causation, and to
the conception of our own personality as an indivisible, continuously
existing substance, being attempts to show that both involve
assumptions of an illegitimate character. Sextus comes up to the very
verge of Hume’s objection to the former when he observes that causation
implies relation, which can only exist in thought;[302] but he does not
ask how we come to think such a relation, still less does he connect
it with the perception of phenomenal antecedence; and his attacks on
the various mental faculties assumed by psychologists pass over the
fundamental postulate of personal identity, thus leaving Descartes what
seemed a safe foundation whereon to rebuild the edifice of metaphysical
philosophy.


XI.

The effect aimed at by ancient Scepticism under its last form was to
throw back reflection on its original starting-point. Life was once
more handed over to the guidance of sense, appetite, custom, and
art.[303] We may call this residuum the philosophy of the dinner-bell.
That institution implies the feeling of hunger, the directing sensation
of sound, the habit of eating together at a fixed time, and the art
of determining time by observing the celestial revolutions. Even so
limited a view contains indefinite possibilities of expansion. It
involves the three fundamental relations that other philosophies have
for their object to work out with greater distinctness and in fuller
detail: the relation between feeling and action, binding together past,
present, and future in the consciousness of personal identity; the
relation of ourselves to a collective society of similarly constituted
beings, our intercourse with whom is subject from the very first to
laws of morality and of logic; and, finally, the relation in which we
stand, both singly and combined, to that universal order by which all
alike are enveloped and borne along, with its suggestions of a still
larger logic and an auguster morality springing from the essential
dependence of our individual and social selves on an even deeper
identity than that which they immediately reveal. We have already had
occasion to observe how the noble teaching of Plato and the Stoics
resumes itself in a confession of this threefold synthesis; and we
now see how, putting them at their very lowest, nothing less than
this will content the claims of thought. Thus, in less time than it
took Berkeley to pass from tar-water to the Trinity, we have led our
Sceptics from their philosophy of the dinner-bell to a philosophy
which the Catholic symbols, with their mythologising tendencies, can
but imperfectly represent. And to carry them with us thus far, nothing
more than one of their own favourite methods is needed. Wherever they
attempt to arrest the progress of enquiry and generalisation, we can
show them that no real line of demarcation exists. Let them once admit
the idea of a relation connecting the elements of consciousness, and
it will carry them over every limit except that which is reached when
the universe becomes conscious of itself. Let them deny the idea of a
relation, and we may safely leave them to the endless task of analysing
consciousness into elements which are feelings and nothing more. The
magician in the story got rid of a too importunate familiar by setting
him to spin ropes of sand. The spirit of Scepticism is exorcised by
setting it to divide the strands of reason into breadthless lines and
unextended points.

What influence Scepticism exercised on the subsequent course of Greek
thought is difficult to determine. If we are to believe Diogenes
Laertius, who flourished in the second quarter of the third century
A.D., every school except Epicureanism had at that time sunk into utter
neglect;[304] and it is natural to connect this catastrophe with the
activity of the Sceptics, and especially of Sextus Empiricus, whose
critical compilation had appeared not long before. Such a conclusion
would be supported by the circumstance that Lucian, writing more than
fifty years earlier, directs his attacks on contemporary philosophy
chiefly from the Sceptical standpoint; his _Hermotimus_ in particular
being a popularised version of the chief difficulties raised from that
quarter. Still it remains to be shown why the criticism of the Greek
Humanists, of Pyrrho, and of the New Academy should have produced so
much more powerful an effect under their revived form than when they
were first promulgated; and it may be asked whether the decline of
philosophy should not rather be attributed to the general barbarisation
of the Roman empire at that period.

We have also to consider in what relation the new Scepticism stood
to the new Platonism by which, in common with every other school, it
was eventually either displaced or absorbed. The answer usually given
to this question is that the one was a reaction from the other. It
is said that philosophy, in despair of being able to discover truth
by reason, took refuge in the doctrine that it could be attained by
supernatural revelation; and that this doctrine is the characteristic
mark distinguishing the system of Plotinus from its predecessors.
That a belief in the possibility of receiving divine communications
was widely diffused during the last centuries of polytheism is, no
doubt, established, but that it ever formed more than an adjunct to
Neo-Platonism seems questionable; and there is no evidence that we are
aware of to show that it was occasioned by a reaction from Scepticism.
As a defence against the arguments of Pyrrho and his successors, it
would, in truth, have been quite unavailing; for whatever objections
applied to men’s natural perceptions, would have applied with still
greater force to the alleged supernatural revelation. Moreover, the
mystical element of Neo-Platonism appears only in its consummation—in
the ultimate union of the individual soul with the absolute One; the
rest of the system being reasoned out in accordance with the ordinary
laws of logic, and in apparent disregard of the Sceptical attacks on
their validity.

The truth is that critics seem to have been misled by a superficial
analogy between the spiritualistic revival accomplished by Plotinus,
and the Romantic revival which marked the beginning of the present
century. The two movements have, no doubt, several traits in common;
but there is this great difference between them, that the latter
was, what the former was not, a reaction against individualism,
agnosticism, and religious unbelief. The right analogy will be found
not by looking forward but by looking back. It will then be seen
that the Neo-Platonists were what their traditional name implies,
disciples of Plato, and not only of Plato but of Aristotle as well.
They stood in the same relation to the systems which they opposed as
that in which the two great founders of spiritualism had stood to
the naturalistic and humanist schools of their time—of course with
whatever modifications of a common standpoint were necessitated by the
substitution of a declining for a progressive civilisation. Like Plato
also, they were profoundly influenced by the Pythagorean philosophy,
with its curious combination of mystical asceticism and mathematics.
And, to complete the analogy, they too found themselves in presence of
a powerful religious reaction, against the excesses of which, like him,
they at first protested, although with less than his authority, and
only, like him, to be at last carried away by its resistless torrent.
It is to the study of this religious movement that we must now address
ourselves, before entering on an examination of the latest form assumed
by Greek philosophy among the Greeks themselves.

 _Note._—It does not enter into the plan of this work to study the
 educational and social aspects of Greek philosophy under the Roman
 Empire. Those who wish for information on the subject should consult
 Capes’s _Stoicism_, Martha’s _Moralistes sous l’Empire Romain_,
 Renan’s _Marc-Aurèle_, chap, iii., Aubertin’s _Sénèque et Saint
 Paul_, Havet’s _Christianisme et ses Origines_, Vol. II., Gaston
 Boissier’s _Religion Romaine_, Duruy’s _Histoire Romaine_, chap, lxi.,
 Friedländer’s _Darstellungen aus der Sittengeschichte Rom’s_, Vol.
 III., chap. v. (5th ed.), and Bruno Bauer’s _Christus und die Cäsaren_.




CHAPTER IV.

THE RELIGIOUS REVIVAL.[305]


I.

The result of recent enquiries into the state of civilisation under
the Roman Empire during the first two centuries of its existence,
has been to suggest conclusions in many respects at variance with
those formerly entertained. Instead of the intellectual stagnation,
the moral turpitude, and the religious indifference which were once
supposed to have been the most marked characteristics of that period,
modern scholars discern symptoms of active and fruitful thought, of
purity and disinterestedness both in public and private life, but
above all of a religious feeling which erred far more on the side of
excess than on the side of defect. This change of view may be traced
to various causes. A new class of investigators have made ancient
history an object of special study. Fresh evidence has been brought
to light, and a more discriminating as well as a more extended use
has been made of the sources already available. And, perhaps, even
greater importance is attributable to the principle now so generally
accepted, that historical phenomena, like all other phenomena, are
essentially continuous in their movement. The old theories assumed that
the substitution of Christian for what is called Pagan civilisation
was accompanied by a sudden break in men’s habits and ideas. But the
whole spirit of modern philosophy has prepared us to believe that such
a break is not likely to have ever occurred. And a new survey of the
period in question is leading us to the conviction that, as a matter of
fact, it did not occur.

For a long time the history of the Roman Empire was written by the
descendants of its most deadly enemies—by Christian ecclesiastics or
by scholars trained under their influence, and by the inheritors of
the northern races who overran and destroyed it. The natural tendency
of both classes was to paint the vices of the old society in the most
glaring colours, that by so doing they might exhibit the virtues of its
conquerors and the necessity of their mission in stronger relief. In
this respect, their task was greatly facilitated by the character of
the authorities from whom their information was principally derived.
Horace and Petronius, Seneca and Juvenal, Tacitus and Suetonius,
furnished them with pictures of depravity which it was impossible
to exaggerate, which had even to be toned down before they could
be reproduced in a modern language. No allowance was made for the
influence of a rhetorical training in fostering the cultivation of
effect at the expense of truth, nor for the influence of aristocratic
prejudice in securing a ready acceptance for whatever tended to the
discredit of a monarchical government. It was also forgotten that the
court and society of Rome could give no idea of the life led in the
rest of Italy and in the provinces. Moreover, the contrast continually
instituted or implied by these historians was not between the ancient
civilisation and the state of things which immediately succeeded it,
nor yet between the society of a great capital as it was then, and as
it was in the historian’s own time. The points selected for contrast
were what was worst in Paganism and what is best in Christianity. The
one was judged from the standpoint of courtiers and men of the world,
embittered by disappointment and familiar with every form of depravity,
the other was judged from the standpoint of experience acquired in a
college quadrangle, a country parsonage, or a cathedral close. The
modern writer knew little enough even about his own country, he knew
next to nothing about what morality was in the Middle Ages, and nothing
at all about what it still continues to be in modern Italy.

Even the very imperfect means of information supplied by the literature
of the empire were not utilised to the fullest extent. It was naturally
the writers of most brilliant genius who received most attention,
and these, as it happened, were the most prejudiced against their
contemporaries. Their observations, too, were put on record under
the form of sweeping generalisations; while the facts from which a
different conclusion might be gathered lay scattered through the pages
of more obscure authorities, needing to be carefully sifted out and
brought together by those who wished to arrive at a more impartial view
of the age to which they relate.

Another noteworthy circumstance is that the last centuries of Paganism
were on the whole marked by a steady literary decline. To a literary
man, this meant that civilisation as a whole was retrograding, that
it was an effete organism which could only be regenerated by the
infusion of new life from without; while, conversely, the fresh
literary productivity of mediaeval and modern Europe was credited to
the complete renovation which Christianity and the Barbarians were
supposed to have wrought. A closer study of Roman law has done much to
correct this superficial impression. It has revealed the existence,
in at least one most important domain, of a vast intellectual and
moral advance continued down to the death of Marcus Aurelius. And the
retrograde movement which set in with Commodus may be fairly attributed
to the increased militarism necessitated by the encroachments of
barbarism, and more directly to the infusion of barbarian elements into
the territory of the empire, rather than to any spontaneous decay of
Roman civilisation. The subsequent resuscitation of art and letters
is another testimony to the permanent value and vitality of ancient
culture. It was in those provinces which had remained least affected
by the northern invasion, such as Venetia and Tuscany, that the free
activity of the human intellect was first or most fruitfully resumed,
and it was from the irradiation of still unconquered Byzantium that the
light which re-awakened them was derived.

Another science which has only been cultivated on a large scale within
comparatively recent years has confirmed the views suggested by
jurisprudence. An enormous mass of inscriptions has been brought to
light, deciphered, collated, and made available by transcription for
the purposes of sedentary scholars. With the help of these records,
fragmentary though they be, we have obtained an insight into the
sentiments, beliefs, and social institutions of Pagan antiquity as it
was just before the conversion of the Roman world to Christianity, such
as literature alone could not supply. Literature and history, too, have
told a somewhat different story when read over again in the light of
these new discoveries. Finally, the whole mine of materials, new and
old, has been worked by a class of enquirers who bring to their task
qualities nearly unknown among the scholars of a former generation.
These men are familiar with an immense range of studies lying outside
their special subject, but often capable of affording it unexpected
illustrations; they are free from theological prejudices; they are
sometimes versed in the practical conduct of state affairs; and habits
of wide social intercourse have emancipated them from the narrowing
associations incident to a learned profession.

Perhaps no subject has gained so much from the application of the
new historical method as that which we have now to study in its
connexion with the progress of Greek philosophy. This is the religion
of the Roman empire. On former occasions, we have had to observe how
fruitful was the interaction between faith and reason in the early
stages of Greek thought. We have now to show how the same process
was continued on a greater scale during its later development and
diffusion. The conditions and results of this conflict have sometimes
been gravely misconceived. We have said that in more than one direction
important advances were made under the empire. In the direction of
pure rationalism, however, there was no advance at all, but, on the
contrary, a continual loss of the ground formerly won. The polytheism
which Christianity displaced turns out to have been far more vigorous
and fertile than was once supposed, and in particular to have been
supported by a much stronger body not only of popular sentiment, but,
what at first seems very surprising, of educated conviction. We were
formerly taught to believe that the faith of Homer and Aeschylus, of
Pythagoras and Pheidias, was in the last stage of decrepitude when
its destined successor appeared, that it had long been abandoned by
the philosophers, and was giving place in the minds of the vulgar to
more exciting forms of superstition newly imported from the East. The
undue preponderance given to purely literary sources of information
is largely responsible for an opinion which now appears to have been
mistaken. Among the great Roman writers, Lucretius proclaims himself
a mortal enemy to religion; Ennius and Horace are disbelievers in
providence; the attitude of Juvenal towards the gods and towards a
future life is at least ambiguous, and that of Tacitus undecided;
Cicero attacks the current superstitions with a vigour which has
diverted attention from the essentially religious character of his
convictions; Lucian, by far the most popular Greek writer of the
empire, is notorious for his hostility to every form of theology. Among
less known authors, the elder Pliny passionately denounces the belief
in a divine guidance of life and in the immortality of the soul.[306]
Taken alone, these instances would tend to prove that sceptical ideas
were very widely diffused through Roman society, both before and after
the establishment of the empire. Side by side, however, with the
authorities just cited there are others breathing a very different
spirit; and what we have especially to notice is that with the progress
of time the latter party are continually gaining in weight and numbers.
And this, as we shall now proceed to show, is precisely what might have
been expected from the altered circumstances which ensued when the
civilised world was subjected to a single city, and that city herself
to a single chief.


II.

In the world of thought no less than in the world of action, the
boundless license which characterised the last days of Roman
republicanism was followed by a period of tranquillity and restraint.
Augustus endeavoured to associate his system of imperialism with a
revival of religious authority. By his orders a great number of ruinous
temples were restored, and the old ceremonies were celebrated once
more with all their former pomp. His efforts in this direction were
ably seconded by the greatest poet and the greatest historian of the
age. Both Virgil and Livy were animated by a warm religious feeling,
associated, at least in the case of the latter, with a credulity which
knew no bounds. With both, religion took an antiquarian form. They were
convinced that Rome had grown great through faith in the gods, that she
had a divine mandate to conquer the world, and that this supernatural
mission might be most clearly perceived in the circumstances of her
first origin.[307] It is also characteristic that both should have been
provincials, educated in the traditions of a reverent conservatism,
and sympathising chiefly with those elements in the constitution of
Rome which brought her nearest to primitive Italian habits and ideas.
Now it was not merely the policy, it was the inevitable consequence of
imperialism to favour the provinces[308] at the expense of the capital,
by depriving the urban population and the senatorial aristocracy of the
political preponderance which they had formerly enjoyed. Here, as in
most other instances, what we call a reaction did not mean a change in
the opinions or sentiments of any particular persons or classes, but
the advent of a new class whose ways of thinking now determined the
general tone of the public mind.

One symptom of this reaction was the fashionable archaism of the
Augustan age, the tendency to despise whatever was new in literature,
and to exalt whatever was old. It is well known how feelingly Horace
complains of a movement which was used to damage his own reputation as
a poet;[309] but what seems to have escaped observation is, that this
protest against the literary archaism of his contemporaries is only
one symptom of a much profounder division between his philosophy and
theirs. He was just as good a patriot as they were, but his sympathies
were with the Hellenising aristocracy to which Lucretius and Cicero had
belonged, not with the narrow-minded conservatism of the middle classes
and the country people. He was a man of progress and free-thought,
who accepted the empire for what it might be worth, a Roman Prosper
Merimée or Sainte-Beuve, whose preference of order to anarchy did not
involve any respect for superstitious beliefs simply because they were
supported by authority. And this healthy common sense is so much a part
of his character, that he sometimes gives his mistresses the benefit of
it, warning Leuconoe against the Babylonian soothsayers, and telling
Phidyle that the gods should be approached not only with sacrifices
but with clean hands.[310] Yet so strong was the spirit of the age,
that the sceptical poet occasionally feels himself obliged to second
or to applaud the work of restoration undertaken by Augustus, and to
augur from it, with more or less sincerity, a reformation in private
life.[311] And even the frivolous Ovid may be supposed to have had the
same object in view when composing his _Fasti_.

The religious revival initiated by Augustus for his own purposes was
soon absorbed and lost in a much wider movement, following independent
lines and determined by forces whose existence neither he nor any of
his contemporaries could suspect. Even for his own purposes, something
more was needed than a mere return to the past. The old Roman faith and
worship were too dry and meagre to satisfy the cravings of the Romans
themselves in the altered conditions created for them by the possession
of a world-wide empire; still less could they furnish a meeting-ground
for all the populations which that empire was rapidly fusing into a
single mass. But what was wanted might be trusted to evolve itself
without any assistance from without, once free scope was given to the
religious instincts of mankind. These had long been kept in abeyance
by the creeds which they had originally called into existence, and
by the rigid political organisation of the ancient city-state. Local
patriotism was adverse to the introduction of new beliefs either from
within or from without. Once the general interests of a community had
been placed under the guardianship of certain deities with definite
names and jurisdictions, it was understood that they would feel
offended at the prospect of seeing their privileges invaded by a
rival power; and were that rival the patron of another community, his
introduction might seem like a surrender of national independence at
the feet of an alien conqueror. So, also, no very active proselytism
was likely to be carried on when the adherents of each particular
religion believed that its adoption by an alien community would enable
strangers and possible enemies to secure a share of the favour which
had hitherto been reserved for themselves exclusively. And to allure
away the gods of a hostile town by the promise of a new establishment
was, in fact, one of the stratagems commonly employed by the general of
the besieging army.[312]

If the Roman conquest did not altogether put an end to these
sentiments, it considerably mitigated their intensity. The imperial
city was too strong to feel endangered by the introduction of alien
deities within its precincts. The subject states were relieved from
anxiety with regard to a political independence which they had
irrecoverably lost. Moreover, since the conquests of Alexander, vast
aggregations of human beings had come into existence, to which the
ancient exclusiveness was unknown, because they never had been cities
at all in the ancient sense of the word. Such were Alexandria and
Antioch, and these speedily became centres of religious syncretism.
Rome herself, in becoming the capital of an immense empire, acquired
the same cosmopolitan character. Her population consisted for the most
part of emancipated slaves, and of adventurers from all parts of the
world, many of whom had brought their national faiths with them, while
all were ready to embrace any new faith which had superior attractions
to offer. Another important agent in the diffusion and propagation of
new religions was the army. The legions constituted a sort of migratory
city, recruited from all parts of the empire, and moving over its whole
extent. The dangers of a military life combined with its authoritative
ideas are highly favourable to devotion; and the soldiers could readily
adopt new modes for the expression of this feeling both from each other
and from the inhabitants of the countries where they were stationed,
and would in turn become missionaries for their dissemination over
the most distant regions. That such was actually the case is proved by
numerous religious inscriptions found in the neighbourhood of Roman
camps.[313]

After considering by what agencies the seeds of religious belief
were carried from place to place, we have to examine, what was even
more important, the quality of the soil on which they fell. And
here, to continue the metaphor, we shall find that the Roman plough
had not only broken through the crust of particularist prejudice,
but had turned up new social strata eminently fitted to receive and
nourish the germs scattered over their surface by every breeze and
every bird of passage, or planted and watered by a spiritual sower’s
hand. Along with the positive check of an established worship, the
negative check of dissolving criticism had, to a great extent,
disappeared with the destruction of the régime which had been most
favourable to its exercise during the early stages of progress. The
old city aristocracies were not merely opposed on patriotic grounds to
free-trade in religion, but, as the most educated and independent class
in the community, they were the first to shake off supernatural beliefs
of every kind. We have grown so accustomed to seeing those beliefs
upheld by the partisans of political privilege and attacked in the name
of democratic principles, that we are apt to forget how very modern
is the association of free-thought with the supremacy of numbers. It
only dates from the French Revolution, and even now it is far from
obtaining everywhere. Athens was the most perfectly organised democracy
of antiquity, and in the course of this work we have repeatedly had
occasion to observe how strong was the spirit of religious bigotry
among the Athenian people. If we want rationalistic opinions we must
go to the great nobles and their friends, to a Pericles, a Critias,
or a Protagoras. There must also have been perfect intellectual
liberty among the Roman nobles who took up Hellenic culture with such
eagerness towards the middle of the second century B.C., and among
those who, at a later period, listened with equanimity or approval to
Caesar’s profession of Epicureanism in a crowded senatorial debate.
It was as much in order that the _De Rerum Naturâ_ should have been
written by a member of this class as that the _Aeneid_ should proceed
from the pen of a modest provincial farmer. In positive knowledge,
Virgil greatly excelled Lucretius, but his beliefs were inevitably
determined by the traditions of his ignorant neighbours. When civil
war, proscription, delation, and, perhaps more than any other cause,
their own delirious extravagance, had wrought the ruin of the Roman
aristocracy, their places were taken by respectable provincials
who brought with them the convictions without the genius of the
Mantuan poet; and thenceforward the tide of religious reaction never
ceased rising until the Crusades, which were its supreme expression,
unexpectedly brought about a first revival of Hellenic culture. On that
occasion, also, the first symptoms of revolt manifested themselves
among the nobles; taking the form of Gnosticism in the brilliant courts
of Languedoc, and, at a later period, of Epicureanism in the Ghibelline
circles of Florentine society; while, conversely, when the Ciompi or
poorer artisans of Florence rose in revolt against the rich traders,
one of the first demands made by the successful insurgents was, that
a preaching friar should be sent to give them religious instruction.
At a still later period, the same opposition of intellectual interests
continues to be defined by the same social divisions. Two distinct
currents of thought co-operated to bring about the Protestant
Reformation. One, which was religious and reactionary, proceeded
from the people. The other, which was secularising, scholarly, and
scientific, represented the tendencies of the upper classes and of
those who looked to them for encouragement and support. Throughout
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, many noble names are to be
found among the champions of reason; and while speculative liberty is
associated with the ascendency of the aristocratic party, superstition
and intolerance are associated with the triumph of the people, whether
under the form of a democracy or of a levelling despotism. So, also,
the great emancipating movement of the eighteenth century was fostered
by the descendants of the Crusaders, and, until after the Revolution,
met with no response among the bourgeoisie or the people; indeed the
reaction in favour of supernaturalism was begun by a child of the
people, Rousseau. All this, as we have already observed, has been
reversed in more recent times; but the facts quoted are enough to prove
how natural it was that in the ancient world decay of class privileges
should be equivalent to a strengthening of the influences which made
for supernaturalism and against enlightened criticism.


III.

After the revolution which destroyed the political power of the old
aristocracy, there came a further revolution the effect of which was
to diminish largely its social predominance. We learn from the bitter
sarcasms of Horace and Juvenal that under the empire wealth took the
place of birth, if not, as those satirists pretend, of merit, as a
passport to distinction and respect. Merely to possess a certain
amount of money procured admission to the equestrian and senatorial
orders; while a smaller pecuniary qualification entitled any Roman
citizen to rank among the _Honestiores_ as opposed to the _Humiliores_,
the latter only being liable, if found guilty of certain offences,
to the more atrocious forms of capital punishment, such as death by
the wild beasts or by fire.[314] Even a reputation for learning was
supposed to be a marketable commodity; and when supreme power was held
by a philosopher, the vulgar rich could still hope to attract his
favourable notice by filling their houses with books.[315] We also know
from Juvenal, what indeed the analogy of modern times would readily
suggest, that large fortunes were often rapidly made, and made by the
cultivation of very sordid arts. Thus members of the most ignorant and
superstitious classes were constantly rising to positions where they
could set the tone of public opinion, or at least help to determine its
direction.

The military organisation of the empire had the further effect of
giving a high social status to retired centurions—men probably
recruited from the most barbarous provincial populations, and certainly
more remarkable for their huge size than for their mental gifts.[316]
When one of these heroes heard a philosopher state that nothing can be
made out of nothing, he would ask with a horse-laugh whether that was
any reason for going without one’s dinner.[317] On the other hand, when
it came to be a question of supernatural agency, a man of this type
would astonish the Jews themselves by his credulity. Imbued with the
idea of personal authority, he readily fancied that anyone standing
high in the favour of God could cure diseases from a distance by simply
giving them the word of command to depart.[318]

A much more important factor in the social movement than those already
mentioned was the ever-increasing influence of women. This probably
stood at the lowest point to which it has ever fallen, during the
classic age of Greek life and thought. In the history of Thucydides,
so far as it forms a connected series of events, four times only
during a period of nearly seventy years does a woman cross the scene.
In each instance her apparition only lasts for a moment. In three of
the four instances she is a queen or a princess, and belongs either to
the half-barbarous kingdoms of northern Hellas or to wholly barbarous
Thrace. In the one remaining instance— that of the woman who helps
some of the trapped Thebans to make their escape from Plataea—while
her deed of mercy will live for ever, her name is for ever lost.[319]
But no sooner did philosophy abandon physics for ethics and religion
than the importance of those subjects to women was perceived, first
by Socrates, and after him by Xenophon and Plato. Women are said to
have attended Plato’s lectures disguised as men. Women formed part
of the circle which gathered round Epicurus in his suburban retreat.
Others aspired not only to learn but to teach. Arêtê, the daughter of
Aristippus, handed on the Cyrenaic doctrine to her son, the younger
Aristippus. Hipparchia, the wife of Crates the Cynic, earned a place
among the representatives of his school. But all these were exceptions;
some of them belonged to the class of Hetaerae; and philosophy,
although it might address itself to them, remained unaffected by
their influence. The case was widely different in Rome, where women
were far more highly honoured than in Greece;[320] and even if the
prominent part assigned to them in the legendary history of the
city be a proof, among others, of its untrustworthiness, still that
such stories should be thought worth inventing and preserving is an
indirect proof of the extent to which feminine influence prevailed.
With the loss of political liberty, their importance, as always
happens at such a conjuncture, was considerably increased. Under a
personal government there is far more scope for intrigue than where
law is king; and as intriguers women are at least the equals of men.
Moreover, they profited fully by the levelling tendencies of the age.
One great service of the imperial jurisconsults was to remove some of
the disabilities under which women formerly suffered. According to
the old law, they were placed under male guardianship through their
whole life, but this restraint was first reduced to a legal fiction
by compelling the guardian to do what they wished, and at last it was
entirely abolished. Their powers both of inheritance and bequest were
extended; they frequently possessed immense wealth; and their wealth
was sometimes expended for purposes of public munificence. Their social
freedom seems to have been unlimited, and they formed combinations
among themselves which probably served to increase their general
influence.[321]

All these circumstances taken together would permit the Roman women
to have opinions of their own if they liked, and would ensure a
respectful hearing for whatever they had to say; while the men who had
opinions to propagate would, for the same reason, be deeply interested
in securing their adhesion. On the other hand, they received a good
literary education, being sent apparently to the same schools as
their brothers, and there made acquainted with, at least, the Latin
poets.[322] Thus they would possess the degree of culture necessary
for readily receiving and transmitting new impressions. And we know,
as a matter of fact, that many Roman ladies entered eagerly into the
literary movement of the age, sharing the studies of their husbands,
discoursing on questions of grammar, freely expressing their opinion on
the relative merits of different poets, and even attempting authorship
on their own account.[323] Philosophy, as it was then taught, attracted
a considerable share of their attention; and some great ladies were
constantly attended by a Stoic professor, to whose lectures they
listened seemingly with more patience than profit.[324] One of their
favourite studies was Plato’s _Republic_, according to Epictêtus,
because it advocated a community of wives;[325] or, as we may more
charitably suggest, because it admitted women to an equality with men.
But there is no evidence to prove that their inquisitiveness ever went
to the length of questioning the foundations of religious faith; and
we may fairly reckon their increasing influence among the forces which
were tending to bring about an overwhelming religious revival among the
educated classes.

In this connexion, some importance must also be attributed to the
more indirect influence exercised by children; These did not form a
particularly numerous class in the upper ranks of Roman society; but,
to judge by what we see in modern France, the fewer there were of them
the more attention were they likely to receive; and their interests,
which like those of the other defenceless classes had been depressed or
neglected under the aristocratic régime, were favoured by the reforming
and levelling movement of the empire. One of Juvenal’s most popular
satires is entirely devoted to the question of their education; and,
in reference to this, the point of view most prominently put forward
is the importance of the examples which are offered to them by their
parents. Juvenal, himself a free-thinker, is exceedingly anxious that
they should not be indoctrinated with superstitious opinions; but we
may be sure that a different order of considerations would equally
induce others to give their children a careful religious training,
and to keep them at a distance from sceptical influences; while the
spontaneous tendency of children to believe in the supernatural would
render it easier to give them moral instruction under a religious form.

To complete our enumeration of the forces by which a new public opinion
was being created, we must mention the slaves. Though still liable
to be treated with great barbarity, the condition of this class
was considerably ameliorated under the empire. Their lives and, in
the case of women, their chastity, were protected by law; they were
allowed by custom to accumulate property; they had always the hope of
liberty before their eyes, for emancipations were frequent and were
encouraged by the new legislation; they often lived on terms of the
closest intimacy with their masters, and were sometimes educated enough
to converse with them on subjects of general interest. Now a servile
condition is more favourable than any other to religious ideas. It
inculcates habits of unquestioning submission to authority; and by
the miseries with which it is attended immensely enhances the value
of consolatory beliefs, whether they take the form of faith in divine
protection during this life, or of a compensation for its afflictions
in the next. Moreover, a great majority of the Roman slaves came from
those Eastern countries which were the native land of superstition, and
thus served as missionaries of Oriental cults and creeds in the West,
besides furnishing apt disciples to the teachers who came from Asia
with the express object of securing converts to their religion in Rome.
The part played by slaves in the diffusion of Christianity is well
known; what we have to observe at present is that their influence must
equally have told in favour of every other supernaturalist belief, and,
to the same extent, against the rationalism of writers like Horace and
Lucian.

Thus Roman civilisation, even when considered on its liberal,
progressive, democratic side, seems to have necessarily favoured the
growth and spread of superstition, because the new social strata
which it turned up were less on their guard against unwarranted
beliefs than the old governing aristocracies with their mingled
conservatism and culture. But this was not all; and on viewing the
empire from another side we shall find that under it all classes
alike were exposed to conditions eminently inconsistent with that
individual independence and capacity for forming a private judgment
which had so honourably distinguished at least one class under the
republican régime. If imperialism was in one sense a levelling and
democratic system, in another sense it was intensely aristocratic, or
rather timocratic. Superiorities of birth, race, age, and sex were
everywhere tending to disappear, only that they might be replaced
by the more ignoble superiorities of brute-force, of court-favour,
and of wealth. The Palace set an example of caprice on the one side
and of servility on the other which was faithfully followed through
all grades of Roman society, less from a spirit of imitation than
because circumstances were at work which made every rich man or woman
the centre of a petty court consisting of voluntary dependents whose
obsequiousness was rewarded by daily doles of food and money, by the
occasional gift of a toga or even of a small farm, or by the hope of
a handsome legacy. Before daybreak the doors of a wealthy house were
surrounded by a motley crowd, including not only famished clients
but praetors, tribunes, opulent freedmen, and even ladies in their
litters; all come nominally for the purpose of paying their respects
to the master, but in reality to receive a small present of money. At
a later hour, when the great man went abroad, he was attended by a
troop of poor hangers-on, who, after trudging about for hours in his
train and accompanying him home in the afternoon, often missed the
place at his table which their assiduities were intended to secure.
Even when it came, the invitation brought small comfort, as only the
poorest food and the worst wine were set before the client, while
he had the additional vexation of seeing his patron feasting on the
choicest dishes and the most delicious vintages; and this was also
the lot of the domestic philosopher whom some rich men regarded as an
indispensable member of their retinue.[326] Of course those who wished
for a larger share of the patron’s favours could only hope to win it
by unstinted tokens of admiration, deference, or assent; and probably
many besides the master of thirty legions in the well-known story
were invariably allowed to be right by the scholars with whom they
condescended to dispute.

Besides the attentions lavished on every wealthy individual, those who
had no children were especially courted, and that too by others who
were as well off as themselves with the object of being remembered in
their wills. So advantageous a position, indeed, did these _orbi_,
as they were called, occupy, that among the higher classes there was
extreme unwillingness to marry; although, as an encouragement to
population, the father of three children enjoyed several substantial
privileges. This circumstance, again, by preventing the perpetuation of
wealthy families, and allowing their property to pass into the hands of
degraded fortune-hunters, rendered impossible the consolidation of a
new aristocracy which might have reorganised the traditions of liberal
culture, and formed an effectual barrier against the downward pressure
of despotism on the one side and the inroads of popular superstition on
the other.

As a last illustration of the extent to which authority and
subordination were pushed in Roman society, it may be mentioned that
the better class of slaves were permitted to keep slaves for their own
service. But whether the institution of slavery as a whole should be
reckoned among the conditions favourable to authoritative beliefs is
doubtful, as it was an element common to every period of antiquity.
Perhaps, however paradoxical such an assertion may seem, the very
frequency of emancipation gave increased strength to the feeling of
dependence on an overruling personal power. A freedman could not forget
that the most important event in his life was due, not to any natural
law, but to the will or the caprice of a master; and this reflection
must have confirmed his faith in the divine beings of whom he and his
master were fellow-slaves.


IV.

We have now to show what new beliefs gained most ground, and what old
beliefs were most successfully revived, through the combination of
favourable conditions, an analysis of which has been attempted in the
preceding pages. Among the host of creeds which at this period competed
with one another for the favour of the rich or for the suffrages of
the poor, there were some that possessed a marked advantage over their
rivals in the struggle for existence. The worship of Nature considered
as imaging the vicissitudes of human life, could not fail to be the
most popular of any. All who desired a bond of sympathy uniting them
with their fellow-subjects over the whole empire, and even with the
tribes beyond its frontiers, might meet on this most universal ground.
All who wished to combine excitement with devotion were attracted by
the dramatic representation of birth and death, of bereavement and
sorrow and searching, of purification through suffering, and triumphant
reunion with the lost objects of affection in this or in another world.
Inquisitive or innovating minds were gratified by admission to secrets
a knowledge of which was believed to possess inestimable value. And the
most conservative could see in such celebrations an acknowledgment,
under other forms, of some divinity which had always been reverenced
in their own home, perhaps even the more authentic reproduction of
adventures already related to them as dim and uncertain traditions of
the past. More than one such cultus, representing under the traits
of personal love and loss and recovery, the death of vegetation in
winter and its return to life in spring, was introduced from the
East, and obtained a wide popularity through the empire. Long before
the close of the republic, the worship of Cybele was established in
Rome with the sanction of the Senate. Other Asiatic deities of a much
less respectable character, Astarte and the so-called Syrian goddess,
though not officially recognised, enjoyed a celebrity extending to
the remotest corners of the western world.[327] Still greater and
more universal was the veneration bestowed on Isis and Serapis. From
the prince to the peasant, from the philosopher to the ignorant girl,
all classes united in doing homage to their power. Their mysteries
were celebrated in the mountain valleys of the Tyrol, and probably
created as much excitement among the people of that neighbourhood as
the Ammergau passion-play does at present.[328] An inscription has
been discovered describing in minute detail an offering made to Isis
by a Spanish matron in honour of her little daughter. It was a silver
statue richly ornamented with precious stones, resembling, as our
authority observes, what would now be presented to the Madonna,[329]
who indeed is probably no more than a Christian adaptation of the
Egyptian goddess. And Plutarch, or another learned and ingenious writer
whose work has come down to us under his name, devotes a long treatise
to Isis and Osiris, in which the mythical history of the goddess is
as thickly covered with allegorical interpretations as the statue
dedicated to her by the Spanish lady was with emeralds and pearls.

Another form of naturalistic religion, fitted for universal acceptance
by its appeals to common experience, was the worship of the Sun. It
was probably as such that Mithras, a Syro-Persian deity, obtained
a success throughout the Roman empire which at one time seemed to
balance the rising fortunes of Christianity. Adoration of the heavenly
bodies was, indeed, very common during this period, and was probably
connected with the extreme prevalence of astrological superstition.
It would also harmonise perfectly with the still surviving Olympian
religion of the old Hellenic aristocracy, and would profit by the
support which philosophy since the time of Socrates had extended to
this form of supernaturalist belief. But, perhaps, for that very reason
the classes which had now become the ultimate arbiters of opinion,
felt less sympathy with Mithras-worship and other kindred cults than
with the Egyptian mysteries. These had a more recognisable bearing
on their own daily life, and, like the Chthonian religions of old
Greece, they included a reference to the immortality of the soul.
Moreover, the climate of Europe, especially of western Europe, does not
permit the sun to become an object of such excessive adoration as in
southern Asia. Mithras-worship, then, is an example of the expansive
force exhibited by Oriental ideas rather than of a faith which really
satisfied the wants of the Roman world.

A far higher place must be assigned to Judaism among the competitors
for the allegiance of Europe. The cosmopolitan importance at one time
assumed by this religion has been considerably obscured, owing to the
subsequent devolution of its part to Christianity. It is, however, by
no means impossible that, but for the diversion created by the Gospel,
and the disastrous consequences of their revolt against Rome, the Jews
might have won the world to a purified form of their own monotheism. A
few significant circumstances are recorded showing how much influence
they had acquired, even in Rome, before the first preaching of
Christianity. The first of these is to be found in Cicero’s defence of
Flaccus. The latter was accused of appropriating part of the annual
contributions sent to the temple at Jerusalem; and, in dealing with
this charge, Cicero speaks of the Jews, who were naturally prejudiced
against his client, as a powerful faction the hostility of which he is
anxious not to provoke.[330] Some twenty years later, a great advance
has been made. Not only must the material interests of the Jews be
respected, but a certain conformity to their religious prescriptions is
considered a mark of good breeding, In one of his most amusing satires,
Horace tells us how, being anxious to shake off a bore, he appeals for
help to his friend Aristius Fuscus, and reminds him of some private
business which they had to discuss together. Fuscus sees his object,
and being mischievously determined to defeat it, answers: ‘Yes, I
remember perfectly, but we must wait for some better opportunity;
this is the thirtieth Sabbath, do you wish to insult the circumcised
Jews?’ ‘I have no scruples on that point,‘ replies the impatient
poet. ‘But I have,’ rejoins Fuscus,—‘a little weak-minded, one of
the many, you know—excuse me, another time.‘[331] Nor were the Jews
content with the countenance thus freely accorded them. The same poet
elsewhere intimates that whenever they found themselves in a majority,
they took advantage of their superior strength to make proselytes by
force.’[332] And they pursued the good work to such purpose that a
couple of generations later we find Seneca bitterly complaining that
the vanquished had given laws to the victors, and that the customs
of this abominable race were established over the whole earth.[333]
Evidence to the same effect is given by Philo Judaeus and Josephus, who
inform us that the Jewish laws and customs were admired, imitated, and
obeyed over the whole earth.[334] Such assertions might be suspected
of exaggeration, were they not, to a certain extent, confirmed by the
references already quoted, to which others of the same kind may be
added from later writers showing that it was a common practice among
the Romans to abstain from work on the Sabbath, and even to celebrate
it by praying, fasting, and lighting lamps, to visit the synagogues,
to study the law of Moses, and to pay the yearly contribution of two
drachmas to the temple at Jerusalem.[335]

Then as now, Judaism seems to have had a much greater attraction for
women than for men; and this may be accounted for not only by the
greater credulity of the female sex, which would equally predispose
them in favour of every other new religion, but also by their natural
sympathy with the domestic virtues which are such an amiable and
interesting feature in the Jewish character. Josephus tells us that
towards the beginning of Nero’s reign nearly all the women of Damascus
were attached to Judaism;[336] and he also mentions that Poppaea, the
mistress and afterwards the wife of Nero, used her powerful influence
for the protection of his compatriots, though whether she actually
became a proselyte, as some have supposed, is doubtful.[337] According
to Ovid, the synagogues were much visited by Roman women, among
others, apparently, by those of easy virtue, for he alludes to them as
resorts which the man of pleasure in search of a conquest will find it
advantageous to frequent.[338]

The monotheism of the Jehovist religion would seem to have marked it
out as the natural faith of a universal empire. Yet, strange to say, it
was not by this element of Judaism that proselytes were most attracted.
Our authorities are unanimous in speaking of the sabbath-observance as
the most distinguishing trait of the Jews themselves, and the point in
which they were most scrupulously imitated by their adherents; while
the duty of contributing to the maintenance of the temple apparently
stood next in popular estimation. But if this be true, it follows
that the liberation of the spiritualistic element in Judaism from
its ceremonial husk was a less essential condition to the success of
Christianity than some have supposed. What the world objected to in
Judaism was not its concrete, historical, practical side, but its
exclusiveness, and the hatred for other nations which it was supposed
to breed. What the new converts wished was to take the place of the
Jews, to supersede them in the divine favour, not to improve on their
law. It was useless to tell them that they were under no obligation
to observe the sabbath, when the institution of a day of rest was
precisely what most fascinated them in the history of God’s relations
with his chosen people. And it was equally useless to tell them that
the hour had come when the Father should not be worshipped any more at
Jerusalem but everywhere in spirit and in truth, when Jerusalem had
become irrevocably associated in their minds with the establishment
of a divine kingdom on this earth. Thus, while the religion of the
Middle Ages reached its intensest expression in armed pilgrimages to
Palestine, the religion of modern Puritanism has embodied itself by
preference in the observance of what it still delights to call the
sabbath.

It must not be supposed that the influx of Asiatic religions into
Europe was attended by any loss of faith in the old gods of Greece
and Italy, or by any neglect of their worship. The researches of
Friedländer have proved the absolute erroneousness of such an idea,
widely entertained as it has been. Innumerable monuments are in
existence testifying to the continued authority of the Olympian
divinities, and particularly of Jupiter, over the whole extent of the
Roman empire. Ample endowments were still devoted to the maintenance
of their service; their temples still smoked with sacrifices; their
litanies were still repeated as a duty which it would have been
scandalous to neglect; in all hours of public and private danger their
help was still implored, and acknowledged by the dedication of votive
offerings when the danger was overcome; it was still believed, as in
the days of Homer, that they occasionally manifested themselves on
earth, signalising their presence by works of superhuman power.[339]
Nor was there anything anomalous in this peaceable co-existence of the
old with the new faiths. So far back as we can trace the records both
of Greek and Roman polytheism, they are remarkable for their receptive
and assimilative capacity. Apollo and Artemis were imported into Greece
from Lycia, Heracles and Aphrodite from Phoenicia, Dionysus and Ares
probably from Thrace. Roman religion under its oldest form included
both a Latin or Sabine and an Etruscan element; at a subsequent period
it became Hellenised without losing anything of its grave and decorous
character. In Greece, the elastic system of divine relationships was
stretched a little further so as to make room for the new comers. The
same system, when introduced into Roman mythology, served to connect
and enliven what previously had been so many rigid and isolated
abstractions. With both, the supreme religious conception continued
to be what it had been with their Aryan ancestors, that of a heavenly
Father Jove; and the fashionable deities of the empire were received
into the pantheon of Homer and Hesiod as recovered or adopted children
of the same Olympian sire. The danger to Hellenistic polytheism was
not from another form of the same type, but from a faith which should
refuse to amalgamate with it on any terms; and in the environment
created by Roman imperialism with its unifying and cosmopolitan
character, such a faith, if it existed anywhere, could not fail in the
long-run to supersede and extinguish its more tolerant rivals. But
the immediate effect produced by giving free play to men’s religious
instincts was not the concentration of their belief on a single object,
or on new to the exclusion of old objects, but an extraordinary
abundance and complexity of supernaturalism under all its forms. This
general tendency, again, admits of being decomposed into two distinct
currents, according as it was determined by the introduction of alien
superstitions from without, or by the development of native and popular
superstition from within. But, in each case, the retrogressive movement
resulted from the same political revolution. At once critical and
conservative, the city-aristocracies prevented the perennial germs of
religious life from multiplying to any serious extent within the limits
of their jurisdiction, no less vigilantly than they prohibited the
importation of its completed products from abroad. We have now to study
the behaviour of these germs when the restraint to which they had
formerly been subjected was lightened or withdrawn.


V.

The old religions of Greece and Italy were essentially oracular. While
inculcating the existence of supernatural beings, and prescribing the
modes according to which such beings were to be worshipped, they paid
most attention to the interpretation of the signs by which either
future events in general, or the consequences of particular actions,
were supposed to be divinely revealed. Of these intimations, some
were given to the whole world, so that he who ran might read, others
were reserved for certain favoured localities, and only communicated
through the appointed ministers of the god. The Delphic oracle in
particular enjoyed an enormous reputation both among Greeks and
barbarians for guidance afforded under the latter conditions; and
during a considerable period it may even be said to have directed the
course of Hellenic civilisation. It was also under this form that
supernatural religion suffered most injury from the great intellectual
movement which followed the Persian wars. Men who had learned to study
the constant sequences of Nature for themselves, and to shape their
conduct according to fixed principles of prudence or of justice, either
thought it irreverent to trouble the god about questions on which
they were competent to form an opinion for themselves, or did not
choose to place a well-considered scheme at the mercy of his possibly
interested responses. That such a revolution occurred about the middle
of the fifth century B.C., seems proved by the great change of tone in
reference to this subject which one perceives on passing from Aeschylus
to Sophocles. That anyone should question the veracity of an oracle is
a supposition which never crosses the mind of the elder dramatist. A
knowledge of augury counts among the greatest benefits conferred by
Prometheus on mankind, and the Titan brings Zeus himself to terms by
his acquaintance with the secrets of destiny. Sophocles, on the other
hand, evidently has to deal with a sceptical generation, despising
prophecies and needing to be warned of the fearful consequences brought
about by neglecting their injunctions.

Probably few contributed so much to the change as Socrates,
notwithstanding his general piety and the credulity which he exhibited
on this particular point. For his ethical and dialectical training,
combined with that careful study of facts which he so earnestly
recommended, went very far towards making a consultation of the oracle
superfluous; and he did actually impress on his auditors the duty
of dispensing with its assistance in all cases except those where
a knowledge of the future was necessary and could not be otherwise
obtained.[340] Even so superstitious a believer as Xenophon improved on
his master’s lessons in this respect, and instead of asking the Pythia
whether he should take service with the younger Cyrus—as Socrates had
advised—simply asked to what god he should sacrifice before starting on
the expedition. Towards the beginning of our era, as is well known, the
Greek oracles had fallen into complete neglect and silence.

But all this time the popular belief in omens had continued unaffected,
and had apparently even increased. The peculiar Greek feeling known
as Deisidaimonia is first satirised by Theophrastus, who defines
it as cowardice with regard to the gods, and gives several amusing
instances of the anxiety occasioned by its presence—all connected with
the interpretation of omens—such as Aristophanes could hardly have
failed to notice had they been usual in his time. Nor were such fancies
confined to the ignorant classes. Although the Stoics cannot be accused
of Deisidaimonia, they gave their powerful sanction to the belief in
divination, as has been already mentioned in our account of their
philosophy. It would seem that whatever authority the great oracular
centres had lost was simply handed over to lower and more popular forms
of the same superstition.

In Rome, as well as in Greece, rationalism took the form of disbelief
in divination. Here at least the Epicurean, the Academician, and,
among the Stoics, the disciple of Panaetius, were all agreed. But as
the sceptical movement began at a much later period in Rome than in
the country where it first originated, so also did the supernaturalist
reaction come later, the age of Augustus in the one corresponding very
nearly with the age of Alexander in the other. Virgil and Livy are
remarkable for their faith in omens; and although the latter complains
of the general incredulity with which narratives of such events were
received, his statements are to be taken rather as an index of what
people thought in the age immediately preceding his own, than as
an accurate description of contemporary opinion. Certainly nothing
could be farther from the truth than to say that signs and prodigies
were disregarded by the Romans under the empire. Even the cool and
cautious Tacitus feels himself obliged to relate sundry marvellous
incidents which seemed to accompany or to prefigure great historical
catastrophes; and the more credulous Suetonius has transcribed an
immense number of such incidents from the pages of older chroniclers,
besides informing us of the extreme attention paid even to trifling
omens by Augustus.[341]

Meanwhile the recognised methods for looking into futurity continued
to enjoy their old popularity, and that which relied on indications
afforded by the entrails of sacrifices was practised with unabated
confidence down to the time of Julian.[342] Even faith in natural law,
where it existed, accommodated itself to the prevalent superstition by
taking the form of astrology; and it is well known what reliance the
emperor Tiberius, for his time a singularly enlightened man, placed on
predictions derived from observation of the starry heavens.

Subsequently, with the revival of Hellenism, the Greek oracles broke
silence, and regained even more than their ancient reputation, as the
increased facilities for locomotion now rendered them accessible from
the remotest regions.[343] Sometimes the miraculous character of their
responses resulted in the conversion of hardened infidels. In this
connexion, the following anecdote is related by Plutarch. A certain
governor of Cilicia entertained serious doubts about the gods, and was
still further confirmed in his impiety by the Epicureans who surrounded
him. This man, for the purpose of throwing discredit on the famous
oracle of Mopsus, sent a freedman to consult it, bearing a sealed
letter containing a question with whose purport neither he nor any one
else except the sender was acquainted. On arriving at the oracle, the
messenger was admitted to pass a night within the temple, which was
the method of consultation usually practised there. In his sleep a
beautiful figure appeared to him, and after uttering the words ‘a black
one,’ immediately vanished. On hearing this answer the governor fell
on his knees in consternation, and, opening the sealed tablet, showed
his friends the question which it contained, ‘Shall I sacrifice a white
or a black bull to thee?’ The Epicureans were confounded; while the
governor offered up the prescribed sacrifice, and became thenceforward
a constant adorer of Mopsus.[344]

Nothing, as Friedländer observes, shows so well what intense credulity
prevailed at this time, with reference to phenomena of a marvellous
description, as the success obtained by a celebrated impostor,
Alexander of Abonuteichus, whose adventurous career may still be
studied in one of Lucian’s liveliest pieces. Here it will be enough
to mention that Alexander was a clever charlatan of imposing figure,
winning manners, and boundless effrontery, who established himself in
Abonuteichus, a small town in Paphlagonia, on the southern shore of
the Black Sea, where he made a trade of giving oracles in the name
of Asclêpius. The god of healing was represented for the occasion by
a large tame serpent fitted with a human head made of painted canvas
and worked by horsehair strings. Sometimes the oracular responses were
delivered by the mouth of the god himself. This was managed with the
help of a confederate who spoke through a tube connected with the false
head. Such direct communications were, however, only granted as an
exceptional favour and for a high price. In most instances the answer
was given in writing, and the fee charged for it only amounted to a
shilling of our money. Alexander had originally fixed on Abonuteichus,
which was his native place and therefore well known to him, as the
seat of his operations, on account of the extraordinary superstition
of its inhabitants; but the people of the adjacent provinces soon
showed themselves to be nowise behind his fellow-townsmen in their
credulity. The fame of the new oracle spread over all Asia Minor and
Thrace; and visitors thronged to it in such numbers as sometimes to
produce a scarcity of provisions. The prophet’s gross receipts rose to
an average of 3,000_l._ a year, and the office of interpreting his more
ambiguous responses became so lucrative that the two exegêtes employed
for this purpose paid each a talent a year (240_l._) for the privilege
of exercising it.

It was from the Epicureans, of whom we are told that there were a
considerable number in these parts, that the most serious opposition
to the impostor proceeded; but he contrived to silence their
criticisms by denouncing them to the fanatical multitude as ‘atheists
and Christians.’ Towards Epicurus himself Alexander nourished an
undying hatred; and when the oracle was consulted with regard to
that philosopher’s fate, it made answer that he was ‘bound in leaden
chains and seated in a morass.’ The κύριαι δόξαι, or summary of the
Epicurean creed, he publicly burned and threw its ashes into the sea;
and one unfortunate town which contained a large school of Epicureans
he punished by refusing its inhabitants access to the oracle. On the
other hand, according to Lucian, he was on the best of terms with the
disciples of Plato, Chrysippus, and Pythagoras.[345]

At last tidings of the oracle made their way to Italy and Rome, where
they created intense excitement, particularly among the leading men
of the state. One of these, Rutilianus, a man of consular dignity and
well known for his abject superstition, threw himself head-foremost
into the fashionable delusion. He sent off messenger after messenger in
hot haste to the shrine of Asclêpius; and the wily Paphlagonian easily
contrived that the reports which they carried back should still further
inflame the curiosity and wonder of his noble devotee. But, in truth,
no great refinement of imposture was needed to complete the capture
of such a willing dupe. One of his questions was, what teacher should
he employ to direct the studies of his son? Pythagoras and Homer were
recommended in the oracular response. A few days afterwards, the boy
died, much to the discomfiture of Alexander, whose enemies took the
opportunity of triumphing over what seemed an irretrievable mistake.
But Rutilianus himself came to the rescue. The oracle, he said, clearly
foreshadowed his son’s death, by naming teachers who could only be
found in the world below. Finally, on being consulted with regard to
the choice of a wife, the oracle promptly recommended the daughter
of Alexander and the Moon; for the prophet professed to have enjoyed
the favours of that goddess in the same circumstances as Endymion.
Rutilianus, who was at this time sixty years old, at once complied with
the divine injunction, and celebrated his marriage by sacrificing
whole hecatombs to his celestial mother-in-law.

With so powerful a protector, Alexander might safely bid his enemies
defiance. The governor of Bithynia had to entreat Lucian, whose life
had been threatened by the impostor, to keep out of harm’s way.
‘Should anything happen to you,’ he said, ‘I could not afford to
offend Rutilianus by bringing his father-in-law to justice.’ Even the
best and wisest man then living yielded to the prevalent delusion.
Marcus Aurelius, who was at that time fighting with the Marcomanni,
was induced to act on an oracle from Abonuteichus, promising that if
two lions were thrown into the Danube a great victory would be the
result. The animals made their way safely to the opposite bank; but
were beaten to death with clubs by the barbarians, who mistook them for
some outlandish kind of wolf or dog; and the imperial army was shortly
afterwards defeated with a loss of 20,000 men.[346] Alexander helped
himself out of the difficulty with the stale excuse that he had only
foretold a victory, without saying which side should win. He was not
more successful in determining the duration of his own life, which came
to an end before he had completed seventy years, instead of lasting,
as he had prophesied, for a hundred and fifty. This miscalculation,
however, seems not to have impaired his reputation, for even after
his death it was believed that a statue of him in the market-place of
Parium in Mysia had the power of giving oracles.[347]


VI.

Another wide-spread superstition was the belief in prophetic or
premonitory dreams. This was shared by some even among those who
rejected supernatural religion,—a phenomenon not unparalleled at the
present day. Thus the elder Pliny tells us how a soldier of the
Praetorian Guard in Rome was cured of hydrophobia by a remedy revealed
in a dream to his mother in Spain, and communicated by her to him.
The letter describing it was written without any knowledge of his
mishap, and arrived just in time to save his life.[348] And Pliny
was himself induced by a dream to undertake the history of the Roman
campaigns in Germany.[349] Religious believers naturally put at least
equal confidence in what they imagined to be revelations of the divine
will. Galen, the great physician, often allowed himself to be guided
by dreams in the treatment of his patients, and had every reason to
congratulate himself on the result. The younger Pliny, Suetonius,
Dion Cassius, and the emperors Augustus and Marcus Aurelius, were
all influenced in a similar manner; and among these Dion, who stands
last in point of time, shows by his repeated allusions to the subject
that superstition, so far from diminishing, was continually on the
increase.[350]

It was natural that the best methods of interpreting so useful a
source of information should be greatly sought after, and that they
should be systematised in treatises expressly devoted to the subject.
One such work, the _Oneirocritica_ of Artemidôrus, is still extant.
It was composed towards the end of the second century, as its author
tells us, at the direct and repeated command of Apollo. According to
Artemidôrus, the general belief in prophecy and in the existence of
providence must stand or fall with the belief in prophetic dreams. He
looked on the compilation of his work as the fulfilment of a religious
mission, and his whole life was devoted to collecting the materials
for it. His good faith is, we are told, beyond question, his industry
is enormous, and he even exercises considerable discrimination in
selecting and elucidating the phenomena which are represented to us as
manifestations of a supernatural interest in human affairs. Thus his
beliefs may be taken as a fair gauge of the extent to which educated
opinion had at that time become infected with vulgar superstition.[351]

Dreams, like oracles, were occasionally employed for the conversion of
infidels. An incident of the kind is related by Aelian, a writer who
flourished early in the third century, and who is remarkable, even in
that age, for his bigoted orthodoxy. A certain man named Euphronius,
he tells us, whose delight was to study the blasphemous nonsense of
Epicurus, fell very ill of consumption, and sought in vain for help
from the skill of the physicians. He was already at death’s door, when,
as a last resource, his friends placed him in the temple of Asclêpius.
There he dreamed that a priest came to him and said, ‘This man’s only
chance of salvation is to burn the impious books of Epicurus, knead
the ashes up with wax, and use the mixture as a poultice for his chest
and stomach.’ On awakening, he followed the divine prescription, was
restored to health, and became a model of piety for the rest of his
life. The same author gives us a striking instance of prayer answered,
also redounding to the credit of Asclêpius, the object of whose favour
is, however, on this occasion not a human being but a fighting-cock.
The scene is laid at Tanagra, where the bird in question, having had
his foot hurt, and evidently acting under the influence of divine
inspiration, joins a choir who are singing the praises of Asclêpius,
contributing his share to the sacred concert, and, to the best of
his ability, keeping time with the other performers. ‘This he did,
standing on one leg and stretching out the other, as if to show its
pitiable condition. So he sang to his saviour as far as the strength
of his voice would permit, and prayed that he might recover the use
of his limb.’ The petition is granted, whereupon our hero claps his
wings and struts about ‘with outstretched neck and nodding crest like a
proud warrior, thus proclaiming the power of providence over irrational
animals.’[352]

Aelian mentions other remarkable examples of the piety displayed by
brutes. ‘Elephants worship the sun, stretching out their trunks to it
like hands when it rises while men doubt the existence of the gods,
or at least their care for us.’ ‘There is an island in the Black Sea,
sacred to Heracles, where the mice touch nothing that belongs to the
god. When the grapes which are intended to be used for his sacrifices
begin to ripen, they quit the island in order to escape the temptation
of nibbling at them, coming back when the vintage is over. Hippo,
Diagoras, Herostratus, and other enemies of the gods would, no doubt,
spare these grapes just as little as anything else that was consecrated
to their use.’[353]

It is, perhaps, characteristic of the times that Aelian’s stories
should redound more especially to the credit of Asclêpius and Heracles,
who were not gods of the first order, but demi-gods or deified mortals.
Their worship, like that of the Nature-powers connected with earth
rather than with heaven, belongs particularly to the popular religion,
and seems to have been repressed or restrained in societies organised
on aristocratic principles. And as more immediate products of the
forces by which supernaturalist beliefs are created and maintained,
such divinities would profit by the free scope now given to popular
predilections. In their case also, as with the earth-goddesses
Dêmêtêr and Isis, a more immediate and affectionate relation might be
established between the believer and the object of his worship than
had been possible in reference to the chief Olympian gods. Heracles
had lived the life of a man, his activity had been almost uniformly
beneficent, and so he was universally invoked, as a helper and healer,
in the sick-chamber no less than on the storm-tost ship.[354]
Asclêpius was still more obviously the natural refuge of those who were
afflicted with any bodily disease, and, in a time of profound peace,
this was of all calamities the most likely to turn men’s thoughts
towards a supernatural protector. Hence we find that where, apart from
Christianity, the religious enthusiasm of the second century reaches
its intensest expression, which is in the writings of the celebrated
rhetor Aristeides, Asclêpius comes in for the largest share of
devotional feeling. During an illness which continued through thirteen
years, Aristeides sought day and night for help and inspiration
from the god. It came at last in the usual form of a prescription
communicated through a dream. Both on this and on other occasions, the
excitement of an overwrought imagination combined with an exorbitant
vanity made the sophist believe himself to be preferred above all other
men as an object of the divine favour. At one time he would see himself
admitted in his dreams to an exchange of compliments with Asclêpius;
at other times he would convert the most ordinary incidents into signs
of supernatural protection. Thus his foster-sister having died on the
day of his own recovery from a dangerous epidemic, it was revealed
to him in a dream that her life had been accepted as a ransom for
his. We are told that the monks of the Middle Ages could not refrain
from expressing their indignant contempt for the insane credulity of
Aristeides, in marginal notes on his orations; but the last-mentioned
incident, at least, is closely paralleled by the well-known story that
a devout lady was once permitted to redeem the life of Pius IX. by the
sacrifice of her own.[355]

Besides this increasing reverence paid to the deified mortals
of ancient mythology, the custom of bestowing divine honours on
illustrious men after or even before their death, found new scope
for its exercise under the empire. Among the manifestations of this
tendency, the apotheosis of the emperors themselves, of course, ranks
first. We are accustomed to think of it as part of the machinery of
despotism, surrounded by official ceremonies and enforced by cruel
punishments; but, in fact, it first originated in a spontaneous
movement of popular feeling; and in the case of Marcus Aurelius at
least, it was maintained for a whole century, if not longer, by the
mere force of public opinion. And many prophecies (which, as usual,
came true) were made on the strength of revelations received from him
in dreams.[356] But a much stronger proof of the prevalent tendency
is furnished by the apotheosis of Antinous. In its origin this may be
attributed to the caprice of a voluptuous despot; but its perpetuation
long after the motives of flattery or of fear had ceased to act, shows
that the worship of a beautiful youth, who was believed to have given
his life for another, satisfied a deep-seated craving of the age. It
is possible that, in this and other instances, the deified mortal may
have passed for the representative or incarnation of some god who was
already believed to have led an earthly existence, and might therefore
readily revisit the scene of his former activity. Thus Antinous
constantly appears with the attributes of Dionysus; and Apollonius
of Tyana, the celebrated Pythagorean prophet of the first century,
was worshipped at Ephesus in the time of Lactantius under the name of
Heracles Alexicacus, that is, Heracles the defender from evil.[357]


VII.

We now pass to a form of supernaturalism more characteristic than any
other of the direction which men’s thoughts were taking under the
Roman empire, and more or less profoundly connected with all the other
religious manifestations which have hitherto engaged our attention.
This is the doctrine of immortality, a doctrine far more generally
accepted in the first centuries of the Christian era, but quite apart
from Christian influence, than is supposed by most persons. Here our
most trustworthy information is derived from the epigraphic monuments.
But for them, we might have continued to believe that public opinion on
this subject was faithfully reflected by a few sceptical writers, who
were, in truth, speaking only for themselves and for the numerically
insignificant class to which they belonged. Not that the inscriptions
all point one way and the books another way. On the contrary, there
are epitaphs most distinctly repudiating the notion of a life beyond
the grave, just as there are expressions let fall by men of learning
which show that they accepted it as true. As much might be expected
from the divisions then prevailing in the speculative world. Of all
philosophical systems, Epicureanism was, at this time, the most widely
diffused: its adherents rejected the belief in another world as a
mischievous delusion; and many of them seem to have carefully provided
that their convictions should be recorded on their tombs. The monument
of one such philosopher, dedicated to eternal sleep, is still extant;
others are dedicated to safe repose; others, again, speak of the
opposite belief as a vain imagination. A favourite epitaph with persons
of this school runs as follows:—‘I was nothing and became, I was and am
no more, so much is true. To speak otherwise is to lie, for I shall be
no more.’[358] Sometimes, from the depths of their unconsciousness,
the dead are made to express indifference to the loss of existence.
Sometimes, in what was popularly believed to be the spirit of
Epicureanism, but was, in reality, most alien to it, they exhort the
passer-by to indulge his appetites freely, since death is the end of
all.

It must further be noted that disbelief in a future life, as a
philosophical principle, was not confined to the Epicureans. All
philosophers except the Platonists and Pythagoreans were materialists;
and no logical thinker who had once applied his mind to the subject
could accept such an absurdity as the everlasting duration of a
complex corporeal substance, whether consisting of gaseous or of fiery
matter. A majority of the Stoics allowed the soul to continue its
individual existence until, in common with the whole world, it should
be reabsorbed into the elemental fire; but others looked forward to a
more speedy extinction, without ceasing on that account to consider
themselves orthodox members of the school. Of these the most remarkable
instance is Marcus Aurelius. The great emperor was not blind to what
seemed the enormous injustice of death, and did not quite see his way
to reconciling it with the Stoic belief in a beneficent providence; but
the difficulty of finding room for so many ghosts, and perhaps also the
Heracleitean dogma of perpetual transformation, led him to renounce
whatever hope he may at one time have cherished of entering on a new
existence in some better world.[359] A similar consequence was involved
in the principles of the Peripatetic philosophy; and Alexander of
Aphrodisias, the famous Aristotelian commentator, who flourished about
200 A.D., affirms the perishable nature of the soul on his own account,
and, with perfect justice, attributes the same belief to Aristotle
himself.[360]

Among the scientific and literary men who were not pledged to any
particular school, we find the elder Pliny rejecting the belief in
immortality, not only as irrational but as the reverse of consolatory.
It robs us, he declares, of Nature’s most especial boon, which is
death, and doubles the pangs of dissolution by the prospect of
continued existence elsewhere.[361] Quintilian leaves the question
undecided;[362] Tacitus expresses himself doubtfully;[363] and Galen,
whose great physiological knowledge enabled him to see how fallacious
were Plato’s arguments, while his philosophical training equally
separated him from the materialists, also refuses to pronounce in
favour of either side.[364] What Juvenal thought is uncertain; but,
from his general tone, we may conjecture that he leant to the negative
side.[365]

Against these we have to set the confident expressions of belief in a
future life employed by all the Platonists and Pythagoreans, and by
some of the Stoic school. But their doctrines on the subject will be
most advantageously explained when we come to deal with the religious
philosophy of the age as a whole. What we have now to examine is the
general condition of popular belief as evinced by the character of the
funereal monuments erected in the time of the empire. Our authorities
are agreed in stating that the majority of these bear witness to a
wide-spread and ever-growing faith in immortality, sometimes conveyed
under the form of inscriptions, sometimes under that of figured
reliefs, sometimes more naïvely signified by articles placed in the
tomb for use in another world. ‘I am waiting for my husband,’ is the
inscription placed over his dead wife by one who was, like her, an
enfranchised slave. Elsewhere a widow ‘commends her departed husband to
the gods of the underworld, and prays that they will allow his spirit
to revisit her in the hours of the night.’[366] ‘In death thou art not
dead,’ are the words deciphered on one mouldering stone. ‘No,’ says
a father to a son whom he had lost in Numidia, ‘thou hast not gone
down to the abode of the Manes but risen to the stars of heaven.’ At
Doxato, near Philippi in Macedonia, ‘a mother has graven on the tomb of
her child: “We are crushed by a cruel blow, but thou hast renewed thy
being and art dwelling in the Elysian fields.”’[367] This conception
of the future world as a heavenly and happy abode where human souls
are received into the society of the gods, recurs with especial
frequency in the Greek epitaphs, but is also met with in Latin-speaking
countries. And, considering how great a part the worship of departed
spirits plays in all primitive religions, just such a tendency might be
expected to show itself at such a time, if, as we have contended, the
conditions of society under the empire were calculated to set free the
original forces by which popular faith is created. It seems, therefore,
rather arbitrary to assume, as Friedländer does,[368] that the movement
in question was entirely due to Platonic influence,—especially
considering that there are distinct traces of it to be found in
Pindar;—although at the same time we may grant that it was powerfully
fostered by Plato’s teaching, and received a fresh impulse from the
reconstitution of his philosophy in the third century of our era.

Side by side, however, with these exalted aspirations, the old popular
belief in a subterranean abode of souls survived under its very crudest
forms; and here also modern explorations have brought to light very
surprising evidence of the strength with which the grotesque idea of
Charon the Stygian ferryman still kept its hold on the imagination of
uneducated people. Originally peculiar to Greece, where it still exists
under a slightly altered form, this superstition penetrated into the
West at a comparatively early period. Thus in the tombs of Campania
alone many hundred skeletons have been found with bronze coins in
their mouths, placed there to pay their passage across the Styx; and
explorations at Praeneste show that this custom reaches back to the
middle of the fourth century B.C. We also learn from Lucian that, in
his time, the old animistic beliefs were entertained to the extent of
burning or burying the clothes, ornaments, and other appurtenances
of deceased persons along with their bodies, under the idea that the
owners required them for use in the other world; and it is to such
deposits that our museums of classical antiquity owe the greater part
of their contents.[369]

When the belief in a future life assumes the form last mentioned, it
is, as we have said, simply a survival of the most primitive animism,
not testifying to any religious reaction at the time when it can be
proved to have flourished. It is introduced in the present connexion
merely to show what ideas were current among those classes to whose
opinions Roman civilisation was gradually giving irresistible weight.
How the minds of the richer and more educated classes were affected
by this underlying stratum, is shown by the nature of the figured
representations with which their last abodes were ornamented. Everyone
has been made tolerably familiar with these through the sculptured
sarcophagi preserved in our museums; but, from their symbolical
character, the significance of the reliefs with which they are
decorated is not obvious at first sight; and some of the mythical
adventures thus embodied may have been wrought without any reference to
the destination of the dark and narrow chamber which they enclosed, or
may even have been intended to divert the imagination from sad thoughts
by the luxuriance of rushing life and joy and victory which they
displayed; but after making every possible deduction on this score,
there remain many others offering a deeper source of consolation to
the bereaved survivor by the pictured promise of future reunion with
those whom he had loved and lost. One favourite subject is the visit
of Diana to the sleeping Endymion, by which is clearly foreshadowed
an awakening to divine felicity from the sleep of death. The rape of
Proserpine, followed by her restoration to the upper world, conveys
a similar intention; as also does the fate of Adonis, since he too
was believed to have risen from the dead. The marriage of Bacchus
and Ariadne unquestionably symbolises the exchange of an earthly for
a heavenly life; and the scenes of Bacchic revelry with which the
interior of some tombs is decorated, were, to the imagination of those
who designed them, no unbecoming image of the joys awaiting a blessed
soul in its celestial abode. An inscription of which we have already
quoted the opening words expresses in terms that hope of companionship
with the joyous band of Dionysus at which the plastic representations
can but mutely hint. ‘Now in a flowery meadow,’ says the mourning
mother of Doxato to her child, ‘the priestess marked with a sacred
seal is enrolling thee in the troop of Bacchus, where the Naiads that
bear the sacred baskets claim thee as their fellow to lead the solemn
procession by the light of torches.’ At the same time, a tenderer or
graver note is often struck. The stories of Admêtus and Alcestis, of
Protesilaus and Laodameia, point to a renewal of conjugal love beyond
the grave. What were formerly supposed to be scenes representing the
eternal farewell of husband and wife are, in the opinion of modern
archaeologists, pictures of their restoration to each other’s arms.
Rising higher still, Achilles among the daughters of Lycomêdes probably
typifies the liberation of an immortal spirit from the seductions of
sense. The labours of Heracles recall his apotheosis, and seem to show
that a life of noble effort shall be rewarded hereafter. The battle
of the Amazons is an allegory of strife with and triumph over the
temptations of earthly delight. Another often-recurring theme, the
hunting of the Calydonian boar, may mean the soul’s victory over death;
but this explanation is offered only as a conjecture of the present
writer’s.

A remarkable circumstance connected with the evidence afforded by
the figured monuments is its progressive character. According to M.
Ravaisson, ‘As time goes on, the indications of belief in a future
life, instead of becoming fainter, grow clearer and more distinct.
More and more exalted ideas are formed of the soul’s destiny, and ever
increasing honours are paid to the dead. Moreover, these ideas and
practices are extended so as to cover a greater number of individuals.
At first it would seem that the only persons whose fate excites any
interest are kings and heroes, the children or the descendants of the
gods; in the course of time many others, and at last all, or nearly
all, are admitted to a share in the same regard. The ancient principle
that happiness is reserved for those who resemble the gods remains
unchanged; but the notion of what constitutes resemblance to the gods,
or in other words perfection, gradually becomes so modified, that all
men may aspire to reach it.’[370]

We are here in presence of a phenomenon like that to which attention
was invited in an early chapter of this work.[371] The belief in
immortality, entertained under a gloomy and repulsive form by the
uneducated, is taken up by the higher classes, brought into contact
with their more generous ideas, broadened, deepened, purified, and
finally made the basis of a new religion. Nevertheless, in the present
instance at least, all was not clear gain; and the faith which smiles
on us from storied sarcophagus and mural relief, or pleads for our
sympathy in epitaphs more enduring than the hope which they enshrine,
had also its grotesque and hideous side, for an expression of which we
must turn to literature again.

Once credited with a continued existence, the departed spirit would not
remain in the Hades or the Elysium provided for it by the justice or
the piety, of the survivor, but persisted in returning to this world
and manifesting a most uncomfortable interest in its affairs; or,
even if willing to remain at rest, it was liable to be dragged back
by incantations, and compelled to reveal the secrets of futurity at
the bidding of an unprincipled magician. What science and good feeling
combined have proved unable to keep down among ourselves, naturally
raged with unmitigated virulence at a time when the primitive barbarism
and superstition were only covered over by a crust of culture which
at many points was growing thinner every day. Among Latin writers,
the younger Pliny, Suetonius, and Apuleius, among Greek writers,
Plutarch, Pausanias, Maximus Tyrius, Philostratus, and Dion Cassius,
afford unequivocal evidence of their belief and the belief of their
contemporaries in ghostly apparitions; and Lucian, while rejecting
ghost-stories on his own account, speaks as if they were implicitly
accepted even in philosophical circles.[372] Still more abundant is
the evidence proving the frequency of attempts made to evoke spirits
by means of magical incantations. Horace’s Canidia boasts that she can
raise the dead even after their bodies have been burned.[373] Lucan
describes the process of conjuring up a ghost at length; and it is
thought that he inserted the whole scene in his poem as a satire on the
emperor Nero, who is known to have been addicted to such practices, as
were also his successors, Didius Julianus, Caracalla, and Elagabalus.
And that the same art was cultivated by private persons is clear from
the allusions made to it by Quintilian, Apuleius, Tertullian, and
Heliodôrus.[374]


VIII.

We have now to consider how the philosophy of the empire was affected
by the atmosphere of supernaturalism which surrounded it on every side.
Of the Epicureans it need only be said that they were true to their
trust, and upheld the principles of their founder so long as the sect
itself continued to exist. But we may reckon it as a first consequence
of the religious reaction, that, after Lucretius, Epicureanism failed
to secure the adhesion of a single eminent man, and that, even as a
popular philosophy, it suffered by the competition of other systems,
among which Stoicism long maintained the foremost place. We showed
in a former chapter how strong a religious colouring was given to
their teaching by the earlier Stoics, especially Cleanthes. It would
appear, however, that Panaetius discarded many of the superstitions
accepted by his predecessors, possibly as a concession to that revived
Scepticism which was so vigorously advocated just before his time; and
it was under the form imposed on it by this philosopher that Stoicism
first gained acceptance in Roman society; if indeed the rationalism
of Panaetius was not itself partly determined by his intercourse with
such liberal minds as Laelius and the younger Scipio. But Posidonius,
his successor, already marks the beginning of a reactionary movement;
and, in Virgil, Stoical opinions are closely associated with an
unquestioning acceptance of the ancient Roman faith. The attitude of
Seneca is much more independent; he is full of contempt for popular
superstition, and his god is not very distinguishable from the order
of Nature. Yet his tendency towards clothing philosophical instruction
in religious terms deserves notice, as a symptom of the superior
facility with which such terms lent themselves to didactic purposes.
Acceptance of the universal order became more intelligible under the
name of obedience to a divine decree; the unity of the human race and
the obligations resulting therefrom impressed themselves more deeply
on the imaginations of those who heard that men are all members of
one body; the supremacy of reason over appetite became more assured
when its dictates were interpreted as the voice of a god within the
soul.[375]

The religious tendency of Seneca’s philosophy appears rather in his
psychology than in his metaphysics, in the stress which he lays on
human immortality rather than in his discussions on creation and
divine providence. His statements on this subject are not, indeed,
very consistent, death being sometimes spoken of as the end of
consciousness, and at other times, as the beginning of a new life,
the ‘birthday of eternity,’ to quote a phrase afterwards adopted
by Christian preachers. Nor can we be absolutely certain that the
promised eternity is not merely another way of expressing the soul’s
absorption into and identification with the fiery element whence it
was originally derived. This, however, is an ambiguity to be met with
in other doctrines of a spiritual existence after death, nor is it
entirely absent from the language even of Christian theologians. What
deserves attention is that, whether the future life spoken of by Seneca
be taken in a literal or in a figurative sense, it is equally intended
to lead our thoughts away from the world of sensible experience to a
more ideal order of things; and, to that extent, it falls in with the
more general religious movement of the age. Whether Zeller is, for
that reason, justified in speaking of him as a Platonising Stoic seems
more questionable; for the Stoics always agreed with Plato in holding
that the soul is distinct from and superior to the body, and that it
is consubstantial with the animating principle of Nature. The same
circumstances which were elsewhere leading to a revival of Platonism,
equally tended to develope this side of Stoicism, but it seems needless
to seek for a closer connexion between the two phenomena.[376]

On passing from Seneca to Epictêtus, we find that the religious element
has received a considerable accession of strength, so considerable,
indeed, that the simple progress of time will not altogether account
for it. Something is due to the superior devoutness of the Eastern
mind—Epictêtus was a Phrygian,—and still more to the difference in
station between the two philosophers. As a noble, Seneca belonged to
the class which was naturally most inclined to adopt an independent
attitude towards the popular beliefs; as a slave, Epictêtus belonged to
the class which was naturally most amenable to their authority. It was,
however, no accident that philosophy should, at a distance of only a
generation, be represented by two such widely contrasted individuals;
for the whole tendency of Roman civilisation was, as we have seen, to
bring the Oriental element and the servile element of society into
ever-increasing prominence. Nothing proves the ascendency of religious
considerations in the mind of Epictêtus more strongly than his aversion
from the physical enquiries which were eagerly prosecuted by Seneca.
Nature interests him solely as a manifestation of divine wisdom and
goodness. As a consequence of this intensified religious feeling,
the Stoic theory of natural law is transformed, with Epictêtus, into
an expression of filial submission to the divine will, while the
Stoic teleology becomes an enumeration of the blessings showered by
providence on man. In the latter respect, his standpoint approaches
very near to that of Socrates, who, although a free-born Athenian
citizen, belonged, like him, to the poorer classes, and sympathised
deeply with their feeling of dependence on supernatural protection,—a
remark which also applies to the humble day-labourer Cleanthes.
Epictêtus also shares the idea, characteristic of the Platonic rather
than of the Xenophontic Socrates, that the philosopher is entrusted
with a mission from God, without which it would be perilous for him to
undertake the office of a teacher, and which, in the discharge of that
office, he should keep constantly before his eyes. But the dialectical
element which with Socrates had furnished so strong a counterpoise to
the authoritative and traditional side of his philosophy, is almost
entirely wanting in the discourses of his imitator, and the little
of it which he admits is valued only as a means of silencing the
Sceptics. On the other hand, the weakness and insignificance of human
nature, considered on the individual side, are abundantly illustrated,
and contemptuous diminutives are habitually used in speaking of its
component parts.[378] It would seem that the attitude of prostration
before an overwhelming external authority prevented Epictêtus from
looking very favourably on the doctrine of individual immortality;
and even if he accepted that doctrine, which seems in the highest
degree improbable, it held a much less important place in his thoughts
than in those of Cicero and Seneca. It would seem, also, that the
Stoic materialism was betraying its fundamental incompatibility with
a hope originally borrowed from the idealism of Plato. Nor was this
renunciation inconsistent with the ethical dualism which drew a sharp
line of distinction between flesh and spirit in the constitution of
man, for the superiority of the spirit arose from its identity with
the divine substance into which it was destined to be reabsorbed after
death.[379]

If, in the philosophy of Epictêtus, physics and morality become
entirely identified with religion, religion, on the other hand, remains
entirely natural and moral. It is an offering not of prayer but of
praise, a service less of ceremonies and sacrifices than of virtuous
deeds, a study of conscience rather than of prophecy, a faith not so
much in supernatural portents as in providential law.[380] But in
arriving at Marcus Aurelius, we have overstepped the line which divides
rational religion from superstition. Instances of the good emperor’s
astonishing credulity have already been given and need not be repeated.
They are enough to show that his lavish expenditure on public worship
was dictated by something more than a regard for established customs.
We know, indeed, that the hecatombs with which his victories were
celebrated gave occasion to profane merriment even in the society
of that period. On one occasion, a petition was passed from hand to
hand, purporting to be addressed to the emperor by the white oxen,
and deprecating his success on the ground that if he won they were
lost.[381] Yet the same Marcus Aurelius, in speaking of his predecessor
Antoninus, expressly specifies piety without superstition as one of the
traits in his character which were most deserving of imitation.[382]
And, undoubtedly, the mental condition of those who were continually in
an agony of fear lest they should incur the divine displeasure by some
purely arbitrary act or omission, or who supposed that the gods might
be bribed into furthering their iniquitous enterprises, was beyond all
comparison further removed from true wisdom than the condition of those
who believed themselves to be favoured by particular manifestations
of the divine beneficence, perhaps as a recompense for their earnest
attempts to lead a just and holy life. We may conclude, then, that
philosophy, while injuriously affected by the supernaturalist movement,
still protected its disciples against the more virulent forms of
superstition, and by entering into combination with the popular belief,
raised it to a higher level of feeling and of thought. It was not,
however, by Stoicism that the final reconciliation of ancient religion
with philosophy could be accomplished, but by certain older forms of
speculation which we now proceed to study.

In the preceding chapter we attempted to show that the tendency of
Roman thought, when brought into contact with the Greek systems,
was to resolve them into their component elements, or to throw them
back on their historical antecedents. As a result of this dissolving
process, the Stoicism of the second century split up into a number of
more or less conflicting principles, each of which received exclusive
prominence according to the changeful mood of the thinker who resorted
to philosophy for consolation or for help. Stoicism had originally
embraced the dynamism of Heracleitus, the teleology of Socrates,
the physical morality of Prodicus and his Cynic successors, the
systematising dialectic of Aristotle, the psychism of Plato and the
Pythagoreans, and, to a certain extent, the superstitions of popular
mythology. With Epictêtus, we find the Cynic and the Socratic elements
most clearly developed, with Marcus Aurelius, the Socratic and the
Heracleitean, the latter being especially strong in the meditations
written shortly before his death. In the eastern provinces of the
empire, Cynicism was preached as an independent system of morality, and
obtained great success by its popular and propagandist character. Dion
Chrysostom, a much-admired lecturer of the second century, speaks with
enthusiasm of its most famous representative Diogenes, and recounts,
with evident gusto, some of the most shameless actions attributed,
perhaps falsely, to that eccentric philosopher.[383] And the popular
rhetorician Maximus Tyrius, although a professed Platonist, places the
Cynic life above every other.[384] But the traditions of Cynicism were
thoroughly opposed to the prevalent polytheism; and its whole attitude
was calculated to repel rather than to attract minds penetrated with
the enthusiastic spirit of the age. To all such the Neo-Pythagorean
doctrine came as a welcome revelation.

After its temporary adoption by the Academy, Pythagoreanism had
ceased to exist as an independent system, but continued to lead a
sort of underground life in connexion with the Orphic and Dionysiac
mysteries. When or where it reappeared under a philosophical form
cannot be certainly determined. Zeller fixes on the beginning of the
first century B.C. as the most probable date, and on Alexandria as the
most probable scene of its renewed speculative activity.[385] Some
fifty years later, we find Pythagorean teachers in Rome, and traces of
their influence are plainly discernible in the Augustan literature.
Under its earliest form, the new system was an attempt to combine
mathematical mysticism with principles borrowed from the Stoic and
other philosophies; or perhaps it was simply a return to the poetical
syncretism of Empedocles. Although composed of fire and air, the soul
is declared to be immortal; and lessons of holiness are accompanied
by an elaborate code of rules for ceremonial purification. The elder
Sextius, from whom Seneca derived much of his ethical enthusiasm,
probably belonged to this school. He taught a morality apparently
identical with that of Stoicism in every point except the inculcation
of abstinence from animal food.[386] To this might be added the
practice of nightly self-confession—an examination from the moral point
of view of how one’s whole day has been spent,—were we certain that the
Stoics did not originate it for themselves.[387]

The alliance between Neo-Pythagoreanism and Stoicism did not last long.
Their fundamental principles were too radically opposed to admit of
any reconciliation, except what could be effected by the absorption of
both into a more comprehensive system. And Roman Stoicism, at least,
was too practical, too scientific, too sane, to assimilate what must
have seemed a curious amalgam of mathematical jugglery and dreamy
asceticism; while the reputation of belonging to what passed for a
secret society would be regarded with particular dread in the vicinity
of the imperial court,—it was, in fact, for this particular reason that
the elder Seneca persuaded his son to renounce the vegetarian diet
which Sotion had induced him to adopt,—and the suspicious hostility of
the public authorities may have had something to do with the speedy
disappearance of Neo-Pythagoreanism from Rome.[388] On the other hand,
so coarsely materialistic and utilitarian a doctrine as that of the
Porch, must have been equally repulsive to the spiritualism which,
while it discerned a deep kinship permeating all forms of animal
existence, saw in the outward conditions of that existence only the
prison or the tomb where a heaven-born exile lay immured in expiation
of the guilt that had driven him from his former and well-nigh
forgotten abode. Hence, after Seneca, we find the two schools pursuing
divergent directions, the naturalism of the one becoming more and more
contrasted with the spiritualism of the other. It has been mentioned
how emphatically Marcus Aurelius rejected the doctrine of a future
life, which, perhaps, had been brought under his notice as a tenet of
the Neo-Pythagoreans. The latter, on their side, abandoned the Stoic
cosmology for the more congenial metaphysics of Plato, which they
enriched with some elements from Aristotle’s system, but without in
the least acknowledging their obligations to those two illustrious
masters. On the contrary, they professed to derive their hidden
wisdom from certain alleged writings of Pythagoras and his earlier
disciples, which, with the disregard for veracity not uncommon among
mystics, they did not scruple to forge wholesale. As a consequence
of their unfortunate activity, literature was encumbered with a mass
of worthless productions, of which many fragments still survive,
mixed, perhaps, with some genuine relics of old Italiote speculation,
the extrication of which is, however, a task of almost insuperable
difficulty.

It is only as a religious philosophy that Neo-Pythagoreanism can
interest us here. Considered in this light, the principles of its
adherents may be summed up under two heads. First, they taught the
separate existence of spirit as opposed to matter. Unlike the Stoics,
they distinguished between God and Nature, although they were not
agreed as to whether their Supreme Being transcended the world or was
immanent in it. This, however, did not interfere with their fundamental
contention, for either alternative is consistent with his absolute
immateriality. In like manner, the human soul is absolutely independent
of the body which it animates; it has existed and will continue to
exist for ever. The whole object of ethics, or rather of religion,
is to enforce and illustrate this independence, to prevent the soul
from becoming attached to its prison-house by indulgence in sensual
pleasures, to guard its habitation against defiling contact with the
more offensive forms of material impurity. Hence their recommendation
of abstinence from wine, from animal food, and from marriage, their
provisions for personal cleanliness, their use of linen instead of
woollen garments, under the idea that a vegetable is purer than an
animal tissue. The second article of the Pythagorean creed is that
spirit, being superior to matter, has the power of interfering with
and controlling its movements, that, being above space and time, it
can be made manifest without any regard to the conditions which they
ordinarily impose. To what an extent this belief was carried, is
shown by the stories told of Pythagoras, the supposed founder of the
school, and Apollonius of Tyana, its still greater representative in
the first century of our era. Both were credited with an extraordinary
power of working miracles and of predicting future events; but,
contrary to the usual custom of mythologers, a larger measure of this
power was ascribed to the one who lived in a more advanced stage of
civilisation, and the composition of whose biography was separated by
a comparatively short interval from the events which it professes to
relate.[389]


IX.

The most important result of the old Pythagorean teaching was, that
it contributed a large element—somewhat too large, indeed,—to Plato’s
philosophy. Neo-Pythagoreanism bears precisely the same relation to
that revived Platonism which was the last outcome of ancient thought.
It will be remembered that the great controversy between Stoicism
and Scepticism, which for centuries divided the schools of Athens,
and was passed on by them to Cicero and his contemporaries, seemed
tending towards a reconciliation based on a return to the founder of
the Academy, when, from whatever cause, Greek speculation came to
a halt, which continued until the last third of the first century
after Christ. At that epoch, we find a great revival of philosophical
interest, and this revival seems to have been maintained for at least
a hundred years, that is to say, through the whole of what is called
the age of the Antonines. In the struggle for existence among the rival
sects which ensued, Platonism started with all the advantages that a
great inheritance and a great name could bestow. At the commencement
of this period, we find the Academy once more professing to hold the
doctrines of its founder in their original purity and completeness.
Evidently the sober common-sense view of Antiochus had been discarded,
and Plato’s own writings were taken as an authoritative standard of
truth. A series of industrious commentators undertook the task of
elucidating their contents. Nor was it only in the schools that their
influence was felt. The beauty of their style must have strongly
recommended the _Dialogues_ to the attention of literary men. Plutarch,
the most considerable Greek writer of his time, was a declared
Platonist. So also was the brilliant African novelist, Apuleius, who
flourished under Marcus Aurelius. Celsus, the celebrated anti-Christian
controversialist, and Maximus, the Tyrian rhetorician, professed the
same allegiance; and the illustrious physiologist Galen shows traces
of Platonic influence. Platonism, as first constituted, had been
an eminently religious philosophy, and its natural tendencies were
still further strengthened at the period of its revival by the great
religious reaction which we have been studying in the present chapter;
while, conversely, in the struggle for supremacy among rival systems,
its affinities with the spirit of the age gave it an immense advantage
over the sceptical and materialistic philosophies, which brought it
into still closer sympathy with the currents of popular opinion. And
its partisans were drawn even further in the same direction by the
influence of Neo-Pythagoreanism, representing, as this did, one among
the three or four leading principles which Plato had attempted to
combine.

The chief theological doctrines held in common by the two schools, were
the immortality of the soul and the existence of daemons. These were
supposed to form a class of spiritual beings, intermediate between gods
and men, and sharing to some extent in the nature of both. According to
Plutarch, though very long-lived, they are not immortal; and he quotes
the famous story about the death of Pan in proof of his assertion;[390]
but, in this respect, his opinion is not shared by Maximus Tyrius[391],
who expressly declares them to be immortal; and, indeed, one hardly
sees how the contrary could have been maintained consistently with
Platonic principles; for, if the human soul never dies, much less can
spirits of a higher rank be doomed to extinction. As a class, the
daemons are morally imperfect beings, subject to human passions, and
capable of wrong-doing. Like men also, they are divided into good and
bad. The former kind perform providential and retributive offices on
behalf of the higher gods, inspiring oracles, punishing crime, and
succouring distress. Those who permit themselves to be influenced by
improper motives in the discharge of their appointed functions, are
degraded to the condition of human beings. The bad and morose sort are
propitiated by a gloomy and self-tormenting worship.[392] By means of
the imperfect character thus ascribed to the daemons, a way was found
for reconciling the purified theology of Platonism with the old Greek
religion. To each of the higher deities there is attached, we are
told, a daemon who bears his name and is frequently confounded with
him. The immoral or unworthy actions narrated of the old gods were, in
reality, the work of their inferior namesakes. This theory was adopted
by the Fathers of the Church, with the difference, however, that
they altogether suppressed the higher class of Platonic powers, and
identified the daemons with the fallen angels of their own mythology.
This is the reason why a word which was not originally used in a bad
sense has come to be synonymous with devil.

It was in perfect accordance with the spirit of Greek philosophy,
and more particularly of Platonism, that a connecting link should
be interposed between earth and heaven, the human and the divine,
especially when, as at this time, the supreme creator had come to be
isolated in solitary splendour from the rest of existence; but it would
be a mistake to suppose that the daemons were invented for the purpose
to which they were applied. We find them mentioned by Hesiod;[393]
and they probably represent an even older phase of religious thought
than the Olympian gods, being, in fact, a survival of that primitive
psychism which peopled the whole universe with life and animation. This
becomes still clearer when we consider that they are described, both
under their earliest and their latest Greek form, as being, in part at
least, human souls raised after death to a higher sphere of activity.
Among these, Maximus Tyrius includes the demi-gods of mythology,
such as Asclêpius and Heracles, who, as we have seen, were objects
of particular veneration under the empire.[394] Thus daemon-worship
combined three different elements or aspects of the supernaturalist
movement:—the free play given to popular imagination by the decay or
destruction of the aristocratic organisation of society and religion,
the increasing tendency to look for a perpetuation and elevation of
human existence, and the convergence of philosophical speculation with
popular faith.

Daemonism, however, does not fill a very great place in the creed of
Plutarch; and a comparison of him with his successors shows that the
saner traditions of Greek thought only gradually gave way to the rising
flood of ignorance and unreason. It is true that, as a moralist, the
philosopher of Chaeronea considered religion of inestimable importance
to human virtue and human happiness; while, as a historian, he accepted
stories of supernatural occurrences with a credulity recalling that
of Livy and falling little short of Dion Cassius. Nor did his own
Platonistic monotheism prevent him from extending a very generous
intellectual toleration to the different forms of polytheism which he
found everywhere prevailing.[395] In this respect, he and probably
all the philosophers of that and the succeeding age, the Epicureans,
the Sceptics, and some of the Cynics alone excepted, offer a striking
contradiction to one of Gibbon’s most celebrated epigrams. To them the
popular religions were not equally false but equally true, and, to a
certain extent, equally useful. Where Plutarch drew the line was at
what he called Deisidaimonia, the frightful mental malady which, as
already mentioned, began to afflict Greece soon after the conquests
of Alexander. It is generally translated superstition, but has a much
narrower meaning. It expresses the beliefs and feelings of one who
lives in perpetual dread of provoking supernatural vengeance, not by
wrongful behaviour towards his fellow-men, nor even by intentional
disrespect towards a higher power, but by the neglect of certain
ceremonial observances; and who is constantly on the look-out for
heaven-sent prognostications of calamities, which, when they come,
will apparently be inflicted from sheer ill-will, Plutarch has devoted
one of his most famous essays to the castigation of this weakness. He
deliberately prefers atheism to it, showing by an elaborate comparison
of instances that the former—with which, however, he has no sympathy
at all—is much less injurious to human happiness, and involves much
less real impiety, than such a constant attribution of meaningless
malice to the gods. One example of Deisidaimonia adduced by Plutarch is
Sabbatarianism, especially when carried, as it had recently been by the
Jews during the siege of Jerusalem, to the point of entirely suspending
military operations on the day of rest.[396] That the belief in
daemons, some of whom passed for being malevolent powers, might yield
a fruitful crop of new superstitions, does not seem to have occurred
to Plutarch; still less that the doctrine of future torments of which,
following Plato’s example, he was a firm upholder, might prove a terror
to others besides offenders against the moral law,—especially when
manipulated by a class whose interest it was to stimulate the feeling
in question to the utmost possible intensity.

When we pass from Plutarch to Maximus Tyrius and Apuleius, the darkness
grows perceptibly thicker, and is no longer broken by the _lucida tela
diei_ with which the Theban thinker had combated at least one class
of mistaken beliefs. These writers are so occupied with developing
the positive aspects of supernaturalism—daemonology, divination, and
thaumaturgy—that they can find no place for a protest against its
extravagances and perversions; nor is their mysticism balanced by
those extensive applications of philosophy to real life, whether
under the form of biography or of discourses on practical morality,
which enabled Plutarch’s mind to preserve an attitude of comparative
sobriety and calmness. Hence while Maximus is absolutely forgotten,
and Apuleius remembered only as an amusing story-teller, Plutarch has
been perhaps the most successful interpreter between Greek humanity
and modern thought. His popularity is now rapidly declining, but the
influence exercised by his writings on characters differing so much
from one another and from his own as those of Montaigne, Rousseau, and
Wordsworth, suffices to prove, if any proof be needed, how deep and
wide were the sympathies which they once evoked.

What progress devotional feeling had made during the interval which
separated Apuleius from Plutarch and his school, may be illustrated by
a comparison of the terms which they respectively employ in reference
to the Egyptian Isis. The author of the treatise on Isis and Osiris
identifies the goddess with the female or material, as distinguished
from the formative principle in Nature; which, to say the least of
it, is not giving her a very exalted rank in the scheme of creation.
Apuleius, on the other hand, addresses her, or makes his hero address
her, in the following enthusiastic language:—

 Holy everlasting Saviour of the human race! Bounteous nurse of
 mortals! Tender mother of the afflicted! Not for a day or night nor
 even for one little moment dost thou relax thy care for men, driving
 away the storms of life and stretching forth to them the right hand of
 deliverance, wherewith thou dost unravel even the tangled threads of
 fate, soothe the storms of fortune, and restrain the hurtful courses
 of the stars. The gods above adore thee, the gods below respect; thou
 dost cause the heavens to roll, the sun to shine; the world thou
 rulest, and treadest Tartarus under foot. To thee the stars reply,
 for thee the seasons come again; in thee the deities rejoice, and
 thee the elements obey. At thy nod the breezes blow, the clouds drop
 fatness, the seeds germinate and seedlings spring. But my wit is small
 to celebrate thy praises, my fortune poor to pay thee sacrifices, the
 abundance of my voice does not suffice to tell what I think of thy
 majesty, nor would a thousand tongues nor an unwearied and everlasting
 flow of speech. Therefore what alone religion joined to poverty can
 achieve, I will provide: an image of thy divine countenance and most
 holy godhead, guarded for perpetual contemplation within the recesses
 of my heart.[397]

Doubtless the cool intellect of a Greek and the fervid temperament of
an African would always have expressed themselves in widely different
accents. What we have to note is that the one was now taking the place
of the other because the atmosphere had been heated up to a point as
favourable to passion as it was fatal to thought.

After Apuleius, Platonism, outside the lecture rooms of Athens, becomes
identified with Pythagoreanism, and both with dogmatic theology. In
this direction, philosophy was feeling its way towards a reconciliation
with two great Oriental religions, Hebrew monotheism and Medo-Persian
dualism. The first advances had come from religion. Aristobulus, an
Alexandrian Jew (B.C. 160), was apparently the first to detect an
analogy between the later speculations of Plato and his own hereditary
faith. Both taught that the world had been created by a single
supreme God. Both were penetrated with the purest ethical ideas. Both
associated sensuality and idolatry in the same vehement denunciations.
The conclusion was obvious. What had been supernaturally revealed to
the chosen people could not have been discovered elsewhere by a simple
exercise of human reason. Plato must have borrowed his wisdom from
Moses.[398] At a later period, the celebrated Philo, following up the
clue thus furnished, proceeded to evolve the whole of Greek philosophy
from the Pentateuch. An elaborate system of allegorical interpretation,
borrowed from the Stoics, was the instrument with which he effected his
enterprise. The result was what might have been foreseen—a complete
Hellenisation of Hebrew religion. Circumscription, antithesis, and
mediation were, as we know, the chief moments of Greek thought. Philo
rearranged his monotheistic system according to the scheme which they
supplied. He first determined the divine unity with such logical
precision as to place God out of relation to the world. Then, in the
true Greek spirit, he placed at the other end of his metaphysical scale
matter—the shifting, formless, shadowy residuum left behind when every
ideal element has been thought away from the world. So conceived,
matter became, what it had been to Plato, the principle of all evil,
and therefore something with which God could not possibly be brought
into contact. Accordingly, the process of creation is made intelligible
by the interposition of a connecting link in the shape of certain
hypostasised divine attributes or forces, represented as at the same
time belonging to and distinct from the divine personality. Of these
the most important are the goodness to which the world owes its origin,
and the power by which it is governed. Both are united in the Logos or
Word. This last idea—which, by the way, was derived not from Plato but
from the Stoics—sums up in itself the totality of mediatorial functions
by which God and the world are put into communication with one another.
In like manner, Plato had interposed a universal soul between his
Ideas and the world of sensible appearances, and had pointed to an
arrangement of the Ideas themselves by which we could ascend in thought
to a contemplation of the absolute good. There seems, however, to be
a difference between the original Hellenic conception and the same
conception as adapted to Oriental ways of thinking. With Plato, as with
every other Greek philosopher, a mediator is introduced not for the
purpose of representing the supreme ideal to us nor of transmitting our
aspirations to it, but of guiding and facilitating our approach to it,
of helping us to a perfect apprehension and realisation of its meaning.
With Philo, on the contrary, the relation of the Logos to God is much
the same as that of a Grand Vizier to an Oriental Sultan. And, from
this point of view, it is very significant that he should compare it to
the high-priest who lays the prayers of the people before the eternal
throne, especially when we couple this with his declaration that the
Logos is the God of us imperfect beings, the first God being reserved
for the contemplation of those who are wise and perfect.[399]

Such a system was likely to result, and before long actually did
result, in the realisation of the Logos on earth, in the creation of
an inspired and infallible Church, mediating between God and man;
while it gave increased authority and expansive power to another
superstition which already existed in Philo’s time, and of which his
Logos doctrine was perhaps only the metaphysical sublimation,—the
superstition that the divine Word has been given to mankind under the
form of an infallible book. From another point of view, we may discern
a certain connexion between the idea that God would be defiled by any
immediate contact with the material world, and the Sabbatarianism which
was so rife among Gentiles as well as among Jews at that period. For
such a theory of the divine character readily associates itself with
the notion that holiness excludes not only material industry but any
interest the scope of which is limited to our present life.

That Philo’s interpretation of Platonism ultimately reacted on Greek
thought seems certain, but at what date his influence began to tell,
and how far it reached, must remain undecided. Plutarch speaks of
God’s purity and of his transcendent elevation above the universe
in language closely resembling that of the Alexandrian Jew, with
whose opinions he may have been indirectly acquainted.[400] We have
already seen how the daemons were employed to fill up the interval
thus created, and what serious concessions to popular superstition
the belief in their activity involved. Still Plutarch does not go so
far as to say that the world was not created by God. This step was
taken by Numenius, a philosopher who flourished about the middle of
the second century, and who represents the complete identification of
Platonism with Pythagoreanism, already mentioned as characteristic of
the period following that date. Numenius is acquainted with Philo’s
speculations, and accepts his derivation of Platonism from the
Pentateuch. ‘What,’ he asks, ‘is Plato but a Moses writing in the Attic
dialect?’[401] He also accepts the theory that the world was created
by a single intermediate agent, whom, however, he credits with a much
more distinct and independent personality than Philo could see his
way to admitting. And he regards the human soul as a fallen spirit
whose life on earth is the consequence of its own sinful desires. From
such fancies there was but a single step to the more thorough-going
dualism which looks on the material world as entirely evil, and as the
creation of a blind or malevolent power. This step had already been
taken by Gnosticism. The system so called summed up in itself, more
completely, perhaps, than any other, all the convergent or conflicting
ideas of the age. Greek mythology and Greek philosophy, Zoroastrianism,
Judaism, and Christianity each contributed an element to the fantastic
and complicated scheme propounded by its last great representative,
Valentinus. This teacher pitches his conception of the supreme God
even higher than Philo, and places him, like Plato’s absolute Good,
outside the sphere of being. From him—or it—as from a bottomless
gulf proceed a vast series of emanations ending in the Demiurgus or
creator of the visible world, whose action is described, in language
vividly recalling the speculations of certain modern metaphysicians,
as an enormous blunder. For, according to Gnosticism, the world is not
merely infected with evil by participation in a material principle, it
is evil altogether, and a special intervention of the higher powers
is needed in order to undo the work of its delirious author.[402]
Here we have a particular side of Plato’s philosophy exaggerated and
distorted by contact with Zoroastrian dualism. In the _Statesman_ there
is a mythical description of two alternate cycles, in one of which
the world is governed by a wise providence, while in the other things
are abandoned to themselves, and move in a direction the reverse of
that originally imposed on them. It is in the latter cycle that Plato
supposes us to be moving at present.[403] Again, after having been long
content to explain the origin of evil by the resistance of inert matter
to the informing power of ideal goodness, Plato goes a step further
in his latest work, the _Laws_, and hazards the hypothesis of an evil
soul actively counterworking the beneficent designs of God.[404] And
we find the same idea subsequently taken up by Plutarch, who sees in
it the most efficient means for exonerating God from all share in the
responsibility for physical disorder and moral wrong.[405] But both
master and disciple restricted the influence of their supposed evil
soul within very narrow limits, and they would have repudiated with
horror such a notion as that the whole visible world is a product of
folly or of sin.

Gnostic pessimism marks the extreme point of aberration to which Greek
thought was drawn by the attraction of Oriental superstition. How it
was rescued from destruction by a new systematisation of its ancient
methods and results will be explained in another chapter.


X.

In conclusion, a few words may profitably be devoted to the question
whether the rationalistic movement of our own age is likely to be
followed by such another supernaturalist reaction as that which
made itself so powerfully felt during the first centuries of Roman
imperialism. There is, no doubt, a certain superficial resemblance
between the world of the Caesars and the world in which we live.
Everywhere we see aristocracies giving way to more centralised and
equitable forms of government, the authority of which is sometimes
concentrated in the hands of a single absolute ruler. Not only are the
interests and wishes of the poorer and less educated classes consulted
with increasing anxiety, but the welfare of women is engrossing the
attention of modern legislators to an even greater extent than was
the case with the imperial jurists. Facilities for travelling, joined
to the far-reaching combinations of modern statesmanship and modern
strategy, are every day bringing Europe into closer contact with the
religious life of Asia. The decay of traditional and organised theology
is permitting certain forms of spontaneous and unorganised superstition
to develope themselves once more, as witness the wide diffusion of
spiritism, which is probably akin to the demonology and witchcraft
of earlier ages, and would, no doubt, be similarly persecuted by the
priests,—who, as it is, attribute spiritualistic manifestations to
diabolical agency,—had they sufficient power for the purpose. Lastly,
corresponding to the syncretism of the Roman empire, we may observe a
certain mixture and combination of religious principles, Catholic ideas
being avowedly adopted by even the most latitudinarian Protestants,
and Protestant influences entering into Catholicism, much more
imperceptibly it is true, but probably to an equal extent.

The analogy between modern Europe and the Roman empire is, however,
as we have already hinted, merely superficial. It has been shown in
the course of our analysis that to ensure the triumph of superstition
in the old world something more was necessary than the destruction of
aristocratic government. Every feeling of liberty—except the liberty
to die—and almost every feeling of self-respect had to be crushed out
by the establishment of an authoritative hierarchy extending from the
Emperor down to the meanest slaves, before the voice of Hellenic reason
could be hushed. But among ourselves it is rather of the opposite
fault—of too great independence and individualism—that complaints
are heard. If we occasionally see a hereditary monarch or a popular
minister invested with despotic power, this phenomenon is probably due
to the circumstances of a revolutionary period, and will in course
of time become more and more exceptional. Flatterers, parasites, and
will-hunters are not an increasing but a diminishing class. Modern
officers, as a body, show none of that contempt for reasoning and
amenability to superstition which characterised the Roman centurions;
in France, military men are even distinguished for their deadly hatred
of priests. And, what is more important than any other element in our
comparison, the reserves which modern civilisation is bringing to the
front are of a widely different intellectual stature and equipment
from their predecessors under Augustus and the Antonines. Since
the reorganisation of industry by science, millions of working-men
have received an education which prepares them to understand the
universality of law much better than the literary education given
to their social superiors, which, indeed, bears a remarkable
resemblance to the rhetorical and sophistical training enjoyed by the
contemporaries of Maximus Tyrius and Apuleius. If as much cannot be
said of the middle classes, they are at any rate far more enlightened
than Roman provincials, and are likely to improve still further with
the spread of education—another peculiarly modern phenomenon. On this
point we have, indeed, something better to argue from than _à priori_
probabilities. We see before our eyes the rationalistic movement
advancing _pari passu_ with the democratic movement, and, in some
countries, overtly aided by it. To say that this alliance has been
provoked by an accidental and temporary association of monarchy and
aristocracy with Church establishments, is a superficial explanation.
The paid advocates of delusion know well where their interest lies.
They have learned by experience that democracy means the education of
the people, and that the education of the people means the loss of
their own prestige. And they know also that, in many cases, the people
are already sufficiently educated to use political power, once they
have obtained it, for the summary destruction of organised and endowed
superstition. What has been said of popular influence applies equally
to the influence of women. When they were either not educated at all or
only received a literary education, every improvement in their position
was simply so much ground gained for superstition. The prospect is very
different now. Women are beginning to receive a training like that of
men, or rather a training superior to what all but a very few men have
hitherto enjoyed. And the result is that, wherever this experiment has
been tried, they have flung aside traditional beliefs once supposed to
be a necessity of their nature even more decisively and disdainfully
than have the professors by whom they are taught.

Once more, there was a cause of intellectual degeneration at work in
the ancient world, which for us has almost ceased to exist. This was
the flood of barbarism which enveloped and corrupted, long before it
overwhelmed, the Hellenised civilisation of Rome. But if the danger
of such an inundation is for ever removed, are we equally secure
against the contagion of that intellectual miasma which broods over
the multitudinous barbarian populations among whom we in turn are
settling as conquerors and colonists? Anyone choosing to maintain the
negative might point to the example of a famous naturalist who, besides
contributing largely to the advancement of his own special science, is
also distinguished for high general culture, but whom long residence
in the East Indies has fitted to be the dupe of impostures which it is
a disgrace even for men and women of fashion to accept. Experience,
however, teaches us that, so far at least, there is little danger to
be dreaded from this quarter. Instead of being prone to superstition,
Anglo-Indian society is described as prevailingly sceptical or even
agnostic; and, in fact, the study of theology in its lowest forms is
apt to start a train of reflection not entirely conducive to veneration
for its more modern developments. For the rest, European enlightenment
seems likely to spread faster and farther among the conquered, than
Oriental darkness among the conquering race.

So far, we have only considered belief in its relation to the
re-distribution of political, social, and national forces. But
behind all such forces there is a deeper and more perennial cause of
intellectual revolution at work. There is now in the world an organised
and ever-growing mass of scientific truths, at least a thousand times
greater and a thousand times more diffused than the amount of positive
knowledge possessed by mankind in the age of the Antonines. What those
truths can do in the future may be inferred from what they have already
done in the past. Even the elementary science of Alexandria, though
it could not cope with the supernaturalist reaction of the empire,
proved strong enough, some centuries later, to check the flood of
Mahometan fanaticism, and for a time to lead captivity captive in the
very strongholds of militant theological belief. When, long afterwards,
Jesuitism and Puritanism between them threatened to reconquer all that
the humanism of the Renaissance had won from superstition, when all
Europe from end to end was red with the blood or blackened with the
death-fires of heretics and witches, science, which had meanwhile been
silently laying the foundations of a new kingdom, had but to appear
before the eyes of men, and they left the powers of darkness to follow
where she led. When the follies and excesses of the Revolution provoked
another intellectual reaction, her authority reduced it to a mere
mimicry and shadow of the terrible revenges by which analogous epochs
in the past history of opinion had been signalised. And this was at a
time when the materials of reaction existed in abundance, because the
rationalistic movement of the eighteenth century had left the middle
and lower classes untouched. At the present moment, Catholicism has no
allies but a dispirited, half-sceptical aristocracy; and any appeal to
other quarters would show that her former reserves have irrevocably
passed over to the foe. What is more, she has unconsciously been
playing the game of rationalism for fifteen centuries. By waging a
merciless warfare on every other form of superstition, she has done her
best to dry up the sources of religious belief. Those whom she calls
heathens and pagans lived in an atmosphere of supernaturalism which
rendered them far less apt pupils of philosophy than her own children
are to-day. It was harder to renounce what she took away than it will
be to renounce what she has left, when the truths of science are seen
by all, as they are now seen by a few, to involve the admission that
there is no object for our devotion but the welfare of sentient beings
like ourselves; that there are no changes in Nature for which natural
forces will not account; and that the unity of all existence has, for
us, no individualisation beyond the finite and perishable consciousness
of man.




CHAPTER V.

THE SPIRITUALISM OF PLOTINUS.


I.

Among the most interesting of Plutarch’s religious writings is one
entitled _On the Delays in the Divine Vengeance_. As might be expected
from the name, it deals with a problem closely akin to that which
ages before had been made the subject of such sublime imagery and
such inconclusive reasoning by the author of the Book of Job. What
troubled the Hebrew poet was the apparently undeserved suffering of
the just. What the Greek moralist feels himself called on to explain
is the apparent prosperity and impunity of the wicked. He will not for
a moment admit that crime remains unavengeful; his object is to show
why the retribution does not follow directly on the deed. And, in order
to account for this, he adduces a number of very ingenious reasons. By
acting deliberately rather than in blind anger, the gods wish to read
us a useful lesson in patience and forbearance. Sometimes their object
is to give the sinner an opportunity for repentance and amendment; or
else they may be holding him in reserve for the performance of some
beneficial work. At other times, their justice is delayed only that it
may be manifested by some signal and striking form of retribution. In
many cases, the final stroke has been preceded by long years of secret
torment; and even where no suffering seems to be inflicted, the pangs
of remorse may furnish a sufficient expiation. Or again, vengeance may
be reserved for a future generation. Some persons hold that to visit
the sins of the fathers on the children is unjust, but in this they
are profoundly mistaken. Members of the same family and citizens of
the same state are connected as parts of one organic whole; sharing in
the benefits which accrue from the good deeds of their predecessors,
it is right that they should also share in the responsibility for
their crimes. Moreover, the posterity of the wicked inherit a sinful
disposition which, as the gods can clearly foresee, would betray itself
in overt acts were they not cut off in their youth. And it is equally
an error to suppose that the original wrongdoers remain unaffected
by the retribution which befalls their descendants. On the contrary,
they witness it from the next world, where it adds poignancy to their
remorse, and entails on them fresh penalties over and above those which
they have already been doomed to suffer.

Thus with Plutarch, as with his master Plato, a future world is the
grand court of appeal from the anomalies and inequalities of this
world; and, following the example of the _Gorgias_ and the _Republic_,
he reserves to the last a terrible picture of the torments held in
store for those who have not expiated their transgressions on earth,
describing them as they are supposed to have been witnessed by a
human soul temporarily separated from the body for the purpose of
viewing and reporting on this final manifestation of divine justice.
It would appear, however, from the narrative in question that future
punishments are not eternal. After a more or less protracted period
of expiation, the immortal soul is restored to the upper world, under
whatever embodiment seems most appropriate to its former career. Among
those whose turn has arrived for entering on a new existence at the
moment when Plutarch’s visitor makes his descent to hell, is the soul
of Nero. The wicked Emperor has just been condemned to assume the form
of a viper, when a great light shines forth, and from the midst of the
light a voice is heard crying: ‘Let him reappear under the guise of
a song-bird haunting the neighbourhood of marshes and meres; for he
has already paid the penalty of his guilt, and the gods owe him some
kindness for having liberated Greece, the best and most beloved by them
of all the nations that he ruled.’

It would seem from this singular and touching expression of gratitude
that the deathless idealism of Hellas found in Nero’s gift of a nominal
liberty ample compensation for the very real and precious works of art
of which she was despoiled on the occasion of his visit to her shores.
At first sight, that visit looks like nothing better than a display
of triumphant buffoonery on the one side and of servile adulation on
the other. But, in reality, it was a turning-point in the history of
civilisation, the awakening to new glories of a race in whom life had
become, to all outward appearance, extinct. For more than a whole
century the seat of intellectual supremacy had been established in
Rome; and during the same period Rome herself had turned to the West
rather than to the East for renovation and support. Caesar’s conquests
were like the revelation of a new world; and three times over, when the
two halves of the divided empire came into collision, the champion who
commanded the resources of that world had won. Henceforth it was to her
western provinces and to her western frontiers that Rome looked for
danger, for aggrandisement, or for renown. In Horace’s time, men asked
each other what the warlike Cantabrians were planning; and the personal
presence of Augustus himself was needed before those unruly Iberians
could be subdued. His adopted sons earned their first laurels at the
expense of Alpine mountaineers. His later years are filled with German
campaigns; and the great disaster of Varus must have riveted attention
more closely than any victory to what was passing between the Rhine and
the Elbe. Under Claudius, the conquest of Britain opened a new source
of interest in the West, and, like Germany before, supplied a new title
of triumph to the imperial family. Half the literary talent in Rome,
the two Senecas, Lucan, and at a later period Martial and Quintilian,
came from Spain, as also did Trajan, whose youth fall in this period.

With Nero’s visit to Greece in 66 the reaction begins. When, a few
years later, the empire was disputed between a general from Gaul and
a general from Syria, it was the candidate of the Eastern legions who
prevailed; the revolt of Judaea drew attention to Eastern affairs; and
the great campaigns of Trajan must have definitely turned the tide of
public interest in that direction, notwithstanding the far-sighted
protest of Tacitus. On more peaceful ground, Hadrian’s Asiatic tours
and his protracted residence in Athens completed the work inaugurated
by Nero. In his reign, the intellectual centre of gravity is definitely
transferred to Greece; and Roman literature, after its last blaze of
splendour under Trajan, becomes extinct, or survives only in forms
borrowed from the sophistical rhetoric of the East.

Plutarch, who was twenty-one when Nero declared his country free, was
the first leader in the great Hellenist revival, without, at the same
time, entirely belonging to it. He cared more for the matter than for
the form of antiquity, for the great deeds and greater thoughts of
the past than for the words in which they were related and explained.
Hence, by the awkwardness and heaviness of his style, he is more
akin to the writers of the Alexandrian period than to his immediate
successors. On the one side, he opens the era of classical idealism;
on the other, he closes that of encyclopaedic erudition. The next
generation bore much the same relation to Plutarch that the first
Sophists bore to Hecataeus and Herodotus. Addressing themselves to
popular audiences, they were obliged to study perspicuity and elegance
of expression, at the risk, it is true, of verbosity and platitude.
Such men were Dion Chrysostom, Herôdes Atticus, Maximus Tyrius, and
Aristeides. But the old models were imitated with more success by
writers who lived more entirely in the past. Arrian reproduced the
graceful simplicity of Xenophon in his narrative of the campaigns of
Alexander and his reports of the lectures of Epictêtus. Lucian composed
dialogues ranking with the greatest masterpieces of lighter Attic
literature. The felicity of his style and his complete emancipation
from superstition may probably be traced to the same source—a diligent
study of the ancient classics. It is certain that neither as a writer
nor as a critic does he represent the average educated taste of his own
times. So far from giving polytheism its deathblow, as he was formerly
imagined to have done, he only protested unavailingly against its
restoration.

Not only oratory and literature, but philosophy and science were
cultivated with renewed vigour. The line between philosophy and
sophisticism was not, indeed, very distinctly drawn. Epictêtus severely
censures the moral teachers of his time for ornamenting their lectures
with claptrap rhetoric about the battle of Thermopylae or flowery
descriptions of Pan and the Nymphs.[406] And the professed declaimers
similarly drew on a store of philosophical commonplaces. This sort of
popular treatment led to the cultivation of ethics and theology in
preference to logic and metaphysics, and to an eclectic blending of the
chief systems with one another. A severer method was inculcated in the
schools of Athens, especially after the endowment of their professors
by Marcus Aurelius; but, in practice, this came to mean what it means
in modern universities, the substitution of philology for independent
enquiry. The question was not so much what is true as what did Plato
or Aristotle really think. Alexandrian science showed something of the
same learned and traditional character in the works of Ptolemy; but the
great name of Galen marks a real progress in physiology, as well as a
return to the principles of Hippocrates.

Thus, so far as was possible in such altered circumstances, did
the Renaissance of the second century reproduce the intellectual
environment from which Plato’s philosophy had sprung. In literature,
there was the same attention to words rather than to things; sometimes
taking the form of exact scholarship, after the manner of Prodicus;
sometimes of loose and superficial declamation, after the manner of
Gorgias. There was the naturalism of Hippias, elaborated into a system
by the Stoics, and practised as a life by the new Cynics. There was
the hedonism of Aristippus, inculcated under a diluted form by the
Epicureans. There was the old Ionian materialism, professed by Stoics
and Epicureans alike. There was the scepticism of Protagoras, revived
by Aenesidêmus and his followers. There was the mathematical mysticism
of the Pythagoreans, flourishing in Egypt instead of in southern Italy.
There was the purer geometry of the Alexandrian Museum, corresponding
to the school of Cyrênê. On all sides, there was a mass of vague moral
preaching, without any attempt to exhibit the moral truths which we
empirically know as part of a comprehensive metaphysical philosophy.
And, lastly, there was an immense undefined religious movement, ranging
from theologies which taught the spirituality of God and of the human
soul, down to the most irrational and abject superstition. We saw
in the last chapter how, corresponding to this environment, there
was a revived Platonism, that Platonism was in fact the fashionable
philosophy of that age, just as it afterwards became the fashionable
philosophy of another Renaissance thirteen centuries later. But it
was a Platonism with the backbone of the system taken out. Plato’s
thoughts all centred in a carefully considered scheme for the moral and
political regeneration of society. Now, with the destruction of Greek
independence, and the absorption everywhere of free city-states into
a vast military empire, it might seem as if the realisation of such a
scheme had become altogether impracticable. The Republic was, indeed,
at that moment realising itself under a form adapted to the altered
exigencies of the time; but no Platonist could as yet recognise in
the Christian Church even an approximate fulfilment of his master’s
dream. Failing any practical issue, there remained the speculative side
of Plato’s teaching. His writings did not embody a complete system,
but they offered the materials whence a system could be framed. Here
the choice lay between two possible lines of construction; and each
had, in fact, been already attempted by his own immediate disciples.
One was the Pythagorean method of the Old Academy, what Aristotle
contemptuously called the conversion of philosophy into mathematics.
We saw in the last chapter how the revived Platonism of the first and
second centuries entered once more on the same perilous path, a path
which led farther and farther away from the true principles of Greek
thought, and of Plato himself when his intellect stood at its highest
point of splendour. Neo-Pythagorean mysticism meant an unreconciled
dualism of spirit and matter; and as the ultimate consequence of
that dualism, it meant the substitution of magical incantations and
ceremonial observances for the study of reason and virtue. Moreover, it
readily allied itself with Oriental beliefs, which meant a negation of
natural law that the Greeks could hardly tolerate, and, under the form
of Gnostic pessimism, a belief in the inherent depravity of Nature that
they could not tolerate at all.

The other alternative was to combine the dialectical idealism of
Plato with the cosmology of early Greek thought, interpreting the
two worlds of spirit and Nature as gradations of a single series and
manifestations of a single principle. This was what Aristotle had
attempted to do, but had not done so thoroughly as to satisfy the
moral wants of his own age, or the religious wants of the age when a
revived Platonism was seeking to organise itself into a system which
should be the reconciliation of reason and faith. Yet the better sort
of Platonists felt that this work could not be accomplished without
the assistance of Aristotle, whose essential agreement with their
master, as against Stoicism, they fully recognised. Their mistake
was to assume that this agreement extended to every point of his
teaching. Taken in this sense, their attempted harmonies were speedily
demolished by scholars whose professional familiarity with the original
sources showed them how strongly Aristotle himself had insisted on the
differences which separated him from the Academy and its founder.[407]
To identify the two great spiritualist philosophers being impossible,
it remained to show how they could be combined. The solution of such
a problem demanded more genius than was likely to be developed in
the schools of Athens. An intenser intellectual life prevailed in
Alexandria, where the materials of erudition were more abundantly
supplied, and where contact with the Oriental religions gave Hellenism
a fuller consciousness of its distinction from and superiority to
every other form of speculative activity. And here, accordingly, the
fundamental idea of Neo-Platonism was conceived.


II.

Plotinus is not only the greatest and most celebrated of the
Neo-Platonists, he is also the first respecting whose opinions we have
any authentic information, and therefore the one who for all practical
purposes must be regarded as the founder of the school. What we know
about his life is derived from a biography written by his disciple
Porphyry. This is a rather foolish performance; but it possesses
considerable interest, both on account of the information which it was
intended to supply, and also as affording indirect evidence of the
height to which superstition had risen during the third century of our
era. Plotinus gave his friends to understand that he was born in Egypt
about 205 A.D.; but so reluctant was he to mention any circumstance
connected with his physical existence, that his race and parentage
always remained a mystery. He showed somewhat more communicativeness
in speaking of his mental history, and used to relate in after-life
that at the age of twenty-eight he had felt strongly attracted to the
study of philosophy, but remained utterly dissatisfied with what the
most famous teachers of Alexandria had to tell him on the subject. At
last he found in Ammonius Saccas the ideal sage for whom he had been
seeking, and continued to attend his lectures for eleven years. At the
end of that period, he joined an eastern expedition under the Emperor
Gordian, for the purpose of making himself acquainted with the wisdom
of the Persians and Indians, concerning which his curiosity seems to
have been excited by Ammonius. But his hopes of further enlightenment
in that quarter were not fulfilled. The campaign terminated
disastrously; the emperor himself fell at the head of his troops in
Mesopotamia, and Plotinus had great difficulty in escaping with his
life to Antioch. Soon afterwards he settled in Rome, and remained there
until near the end of his life, when ill-health obliged him to retire
to a country seat in Campania, the property of a deceased friend,
Zêthus. Here the philosopher died, in the sixty-sixth year of his age.

Plotinus seems to have begun his career as a public teacher soon after
taking up his residence in Rome. His lectures at first assumed the
form of conversations with his private friends. Apparently by way of
reviving the traditions of Socrates and Plato, he encouraged them to
take an active part in the discussion: but either he did not possess
the authority of his great exemplars, or the rules of Greek dialogue
were not very strictly observed in Rome; for we learn from the report
of an eye-witness that interruptions were far too frequent, and that
a vast amount of nonsense was talked.[408] Afterwards a more regular
system of lecturing was established, and papers were read aloud by
those who had any observations to offer, as in our own philosophical
societies.

The new teacher gathered round him a distinguished society, comprising
not only professional philosophers, but also physicians, rhetors,
senators, and statesmen. Among the last-mentioned class, Rogatianus,
who filled the office of praetor, showed the sincerity of his
conversion by renouncing the dignities of his position, surrendering
his worldly possessions, limiting himself to the barest necessaries
of life, and allowing himself to be dependent even for these on the
hospitality of his friends. Thanks to this asceticism, he recovered the
use of his hands and feet, which had before been completely crippled
with gout.[409]

The fascination exercised by Plotinus was not only intellectual, but
personal. Singularly affable, obliging, and patient, he was always
ready to answer the questions of his friends, even laying aside his
work in order to discuss the difficulties which they brought to him for
solution. His lectures were given in Greek; and although this always
remained to him a foreign language, the pronunciation and grammar of
which he never completely mastered, his expressions frequently won
admiration by their felicity and force; and the effect of his eloquence
was still further heightened by the glowing enthusiasm which irradiated
his whole countenance, naturally a very pleasing one, during the
delivery of the more impressive passages.[410]

As might be expected, the circle of admirers which surrounded Plotinus
included several women, beginning with his hostess Gemina and her
daughter. He also stood high in the favour of the Emperor Galienus
and his consort Salonina; so much so, indeed, that they were nearly
persuaded to let him try the experiment of restoring a ruined city in
Campania, and governing it according to Plato’s laws.[411] Porphyry
attributes the failure of this project to the envy of the courtiers;
Hegel, with probably quite as much reason, to the sound judgment of the
imperial ministers.[412]

Our philosopher had, however, abundant opportunity for showing on a
more modest scale that he was not destitute of practical ability. So
high did his character stand, that many persons of distinction, when
they felt their end approaching, brought their children to him to be
taken care of, and entrusted their property to his keeping. As a result
of the confidence thus reposed in him, his house was always filled with
young people of both sexes, to whose education and material interests
he paid the most scrupulous attention, observing that as long as his
wards did not make a profession of philosophy, their estates and
incomes ought to be preserved unimpaired. It is also mentioned that,
although frequently chosen to arbitrate in disputes, he never made a
single enemy among the Roman citizens—a piece of good fortune which is
more than one could safely promise to anyone similarly circumstanced in
an Italian city at the present day.[413]

Plotinus possessed a remarkable power of reading the characters and
even the thoughts of those about him. It is said, probably with some
exaggeration, that he predicted the future fate of all the boys placed
under his care. Thus he foretold that a certain Polemo, in whom he
took particular interest, would devote himself to love and die young;
which proved only too true, and may well have been anticipated by a
good observer without the exercise of any supernatural prescience.
As another instance of his penetration, we are told that a valuable
necklace having been stolen from a widow named Chione, who lived in
his house with her family, the slaves were all led into the presence
of Plotinus that he might single out the thief. After a careful
scrutiny, the philosopher put his finger on the guilty individual.
The man at first protested his innocence, but was soon induced by an
application of the whip to confess, and, what was a much more valuable
verification of his accuser’s insight, to restore the missing article.
Porphyry himself could testify from personal experience to his friend’s
remarkable power of penetration. Being once about to commit suicide,
Plotinus divined his intention, and told him that it proceeded, not
from a rational resolution, but from a fit of the blues, as a remedy
for which he prescribed change of scene, and this did in fact have the
desired effect.[414]

Previous to his forty-ninth year, Plotinus wrote nothing. At that age
he began to compose short essays on subjects which suggested themselves
in the course of his oral teaching. During the next ten years, he
produced twenty-one such papers, some of them only a page or two in
length. At the end of that period, he made the acquaintance of his
future editor and biographer, Porphyry, a young student of Semitic
extraction, whose original name was Malchus. The two soon became fast
friends; and whatever speculative differences at first divided them
were quickly removed by an amicable controversy between Porphyry and
another disciple named Amelius, which resulted in the unreserved
adhesion of the former to the doctrine of their common master.[415] The
literary activity of Plotinus seems to have been powerfully stimulated
by association with the more methodical mind of Porphyry. During the
five years[416] of their personal intercourse he produced nineteen
essays, amounting altogether to three times the bulk of the former
series. Eight shorter pieces followed during the period of failing
health which preceded his death, Porphyry being at that time absent
in Sicily, whither he had retired when suffering from the fit of
depression already mentioned.

Porphyry observes that the first series of essays show the immaturity
of youth—a period which he extends to what is generally considered the
sufficiently ripe age of fifty-nine;—the second series the full-grown
power of manhood; and the last the weakness of declining years. The
truth is that his method of criticism, at least in this instance, was
to judge of compositions as if their merit depended on their length,
and perhaps also with reference to the circumstance whether their
subject had or had not been previously talked over with himself.
In point of fact, the earlier pieces include some of the very best
things that Plotinus ever wrote; and, taking them in the order of
their composition, they form a connected exposition of Neo-Platonic
principles, to which nothing of importance was ever added. This we
shall attempt to show in the most effectual manner possible by basing
our own account of Neo-Platonism on an analysis of their contents; and
we strongly recommend them to the attention of all Greek scholars who
wish to make themselves acquainted with Plotinus at first hand, but
have not leisure to wade through the whole of his works. It may also
be mentioned that the last series of essays are distinguished by the
popular character of their subjects rather than by any evidence of
failing powers, one of them, that on Providence,[417] being remarkable
for the vigour and eloquence of its style.

By cutting up some of the longer essays into parts, Porphyry succeeded,
much to his delight, in bringing the whole number up to fifty-four,
which is a product of the two perfect numbers six and nine. He then
divided them into six volumes, each containing nine books—the famous
_Enneads_ of Plotinus. His principle of arrangement was to bring
together the books in which similar subjects were discussed, placing
the easier disquisitions first. This disposition has been adhered to
by subsequent editors, with the single exception of Kirchhoff, who has
printed the works of Plotinus according to the order in which they
were written.[418] Porphyry’s scrupulous information has saved modern
scholars an incalculable amount of trouble, but has not, apparently,
earned all the gratitude it deserved, to judge by Zeller’s intimation
that the chronological order of the separate pieces cannot even now
be precisely determined.[419] Unfortunately, what could have been of
priceless value in the case of Plato and Aristotle, is of comparatively
small value in the case of Plotinus. His system must have been fully
formed when he began to write, and the dates in our possession give no
clue to the manner in which its leading principles were evolved.[420]

Such, so far as they can be ascertained, are the most important facts
in the life of Plotinus. Interwoven with these, we find some legendary
details which vividly illustrate the superstition and credulity of the
age. It is evident from his childish talk about the numbers six and
nine that Porphyry was imbued with Pythagorean ideas. Accordingly,
his whole account of Plotinus is dominated by the wish to represent
that philosopher under the guise of a Pythagorean saint. We have
already alluded to the manner in which he exalts his hero’s remarkable
sagacity into a power of supernatural prescience and divination. He
also tells us, with the most unsuspecting good faith, how a certain
Alexandrian philosopher whose jealousy had been excited by the
success of his illustrious countryman, endeavoured to draw down the
malignant influences of the stars on the head of Plotinus, but was
obliged to desist on finding that the attack recoiled on himself.[421]
On another occasion, an Egyptian priest, by way of exhibiting his
skill in magic, offered to conjure up the daemon or guardian spirit
of Plotinus. The latter readily consented, and the Temple of Isis
was chosen for the scene of the operations, as, according to the
Egyptian, no other spot sufficiently pure for the purpose could be
found in Rome. The incantations were duly pronounced, when, much to
the admiration of those present, a god made his appearance instead
of the expected daemon. By what particular marks the divinity of the
apparition was determined, Porphyry omits to mention. The philosopher
was congratulated by his countryman on the possession of such a
distinguished patron, but the celestial visitor vanished before any
questions could be put to him. This mishap was attributed to a friend
‘who, either from envy or fear, choked the birds which had been given
him to hold,’ and which seem to have played a very important part in
the incantation, though what it was, we do not find more particularly
specified.[422]

Another distinguished compliment was paid to Plotinus after his death
by no less an authority than the Pythian Apollo, who at this period had
fully recovered the use of his voice. On being consulted respecting the
fate of the philosopher’s soul, the god replied by a flood of bombastic
twaddle, in which the glorified spirit of Plotinus is described as
released from the chain of human necessity and the surging uproar of
the body, swimming stoutly to the storm-beaten shore, and mounting the
heaven-illumined path, not unknown to him even in life, that leads to
the blissful abodes of the immortals.[423]

In view of such tendencies, one hardly knows how much confidence is
to be placed in Porphyry’s well-known picture of his master as one
who lived so entirely for spiritual interests that he seemed ashamed
of having a body at all. We are told that, as a consequence of this
feeling, he avoided the subject of his past life, refused to let his
portrait be painted, neglected the care of his health, and rigorously
abstained from animal food, even when it was prescribed for him under
the form of medicine.[424] All this may be true, but it is not very
consistent with the special doctrines of Plotinus as recorded in his
writings, nor should it be allowed to influence our interpretation of
them. In his personal character and conduct he may have allowed himself
to be carried away by the prevalent asceticism and superstition of the
age; in his philosophy he is guided by the healthier traditions of
Plato and Aristotle, and stands in declared opposition to the mysticism
which was a negation of Nature and of life.

How far Plotinus was indebted to Ammonius Saccas for his speculative
ideas is another question with respect to which the Pythagoreanising
tendencies of his biographer may possibly have contributed to the
diffusion of a serious misconception. What Porphyry tells us is this.
Before leaving Alexandria, Plotinus had bound himself by a mutual
agreement with two of his fellow-pupils, Herennius and Origines
(not the Christian Father, but a pagan philosopher of the same age
and name), to keep secret what they had learned by listening to the
lectures of Ammonius. Herennius, however, soon broke the compact,
and Origines followed his example. Plotinus then considered that the
engagement was at an end, and used the results of his studies under
Ammonius as the basis of his conversational lectures in Rome, the
substance of which, we are left to suppose, was subsequently embodied
in his published writings. But, as Zeller has pointed out, this whole
story bears a suspicious resemblance to what is related of the early
Pythagorean school. There also the doctrines of the master were
regarded by his disciples as a mystery which they pledged themselves
to keep secret, and were only divulged through the infidelity of one
among their number, Philolaus. And the same critic proves by a careful
examination of what are known to have been the opinions of Origines
and Longinus, both fellow-pupils of Plotinus, that they differed from
him on some points of essential importance to his system. We cannot,
therefore, suppose that these points were included in the teaching of
their common master, Ammonius.[425] But if this be so, it follows that
Plotinus was the real founder of the Neo-Platonic school; and, in all
cases, his writings remain the great source whence our knowledge of its
first principles is derived.


III.

In point of style, Plotinus is much the most difficult of the ancient
philosophers, and, in this respect, is only surpassed by a very few
of the moderns. Even Longinus, who was one of the most intelligent
critics then living, and who, besides, had been educated in the
same school with our philosopher, could not make head or tail of his
books when copies of them were sent to him by Porphyry, and supposed,
after the manner of philologists, that the text must be corrupt, much
to the disgust of Porphyry, who assures us that its accuracy was
unimpeachable.[426] Probably politeness prevented Longinus from saying,
what he must have seen at a glance, that Plotinus was a total stranger
to the art of literary composition. We are told that he wrote as fast
as if he were copying from a book; but he had never mastered even
the elements of the Greek language; and the weakness of his eyesight
prevented him from reading over what he had written. The mistakes in
spelling and grammar Porphyry corrected, but it is evident that he
has made no alterations in the general style of the _Enneads_; and
this is nearly as bad as bad can be—disjointed, elliptical, redundant,
and awkward. Chapter follows chapter and paragraph succeeds to
paragraph without any fixed principle of arrangement; the connexion
of the sentences is by no means clear; some sentences are almost
unintelligible from their extreme brevity, others from their inordinate
length and complexity. The unpractised hand of a foreigner constantly
reveals itself in the choice and collocation of words and grammatical
inflections. Predicates and subjects are huddled together without any
regard to the harmonies of number and gender, so that even if false
concords do not occur, we are continually annoyed by the suggestion of
their presence.[427]

But even the most perfect mastery of Greek would not have made
Plotinus a successful writer. We are told that before taking up the pen
he had thoroughly thought out his whole subject; but this is not the
impression produced by a perusal of the _Enneads_. On the contrary, he
seems to be thinking as he goes along, and to be continually beset by
difficulties which he has not foreseen. The frequent and disorderly
interruptions by which his lectures were at one time disturbed seem
to have made their way into his solitary meditations, breaking or
tangling the thread of systematic exposition at every turn. Irrelevant
questions are constantly intruding themselves, to be met by equally
irrelevant answers. The first mode of expressing an idea is frequently
withdrawn, and another put in its place, which is, in most cases, the
less intelligible of the two; while, as a general rule, when we want to
know what a thing is, Plotinus informs us with indefatigable prolixity
what it is not.

Nevertheless, by dint of pertinacious repetition, the founder of
Neo-Platonism has succeeded in making the main outlines, and to a great
extent the details, of his system so perfectly clear that probably no
philosophy is now better understood than his. In this respect, Plotinus
offers a remarkable contrast to the two great thinkers from whom his
ideas are principally derived. While Plato and Aristotle construct each
particular sentence with masterly clearness, the general drift of their
speculations is by no means easy to ascertain; and, even now, critics
take diametrically opposite views of the interpretation which is to be
put on their teaching with regard to several most important points. The
expositors of Neo-Platonism, on the contrary, show a rare unanimity in
their accounts of its constitutive principles. What they differ about
is its origin and its historical significance. And these are points on
which we too shall have to enter, since all the ancient systems are
interesting to us chiefly as historical phenomena, and Neo-Platonism
more so than any other. Plotinus effected a vast revolution in
speculative opinion, but he effected it by seizing on the thoughts of
others rather than by any new thoughts or even new developments or
applications of his own.

Whether Plotinus was or was not the disciple of Ammonius, it is beyond
all doubt that he considered himself the disciple of Plato. There are
more than a hundred references to that philosopher in the _Enneads_,
against less than thirty references to all the other ancient thinkers
put together;[428] and, what is more remarkable, in only about half
of them is he mentioned by name. The reader is expected to know that
‘he’ always means Plato. And it is an article of faith with Plotinus
that his master cannot be mistaken; when the words of oracular wisdom
seem to contradict one another, there must be some way of harmonising
them. When they contradict what he teaches himself, the difficulty
must be removed by skilful interpretation; or, better still, it must
be discreetly ignored.[429] On the other hand, when a principle
is palpably borrowed from Aristotle, not only is its derivation
unacknowledged, but we are given to understand by implication that
it belongs to the system which Aristotle was at most pains to
controvert.[430]

But numerous as are the obligations, whether real or imaginary, of the
Alexandrian to the Athenian teacher, they range over a comparatively
limited field. What most interests a modern student in Platonism—its
critical preparation, its conversational dialectic, its personal
episodes, its moral enthusiasm, its political superstructure—had
apparently no interest for Plotinus as a writer. He goes straight
to the metaphysical core of the system, and occupies himself with
re-thinking it in its minutest details. Now this was just the part
which had either not been discussed at all, or had been very
insufficiently discussed by his predecessors. It would seem that the
revival of Platonic studies had followed an order somewhat similar
to the order in which Plato’s own ideas were evolved. The scepticism
of the _Apologia_ had been taken up and worked out to its last
consequences by the New Academy. The theory of intuitive knowledge,
the ethical antithesis between reason and passion, and the doctrine of
immortality under its more popular form, had been resumed by the Greek
and Roman Eclectics. Plutarch busied himself with the erotic philosophy
of the _Phaedrus_ and the _Symposium_, as also did his successor,
Maximus Tyrius. In addition to this, he and the other Platonists of
the second century paid great attention to the theology adumbrated
in those dialogues, and in the earlier books of the _Republic_. But
meanwhile Neo-Pythagoreanism had intervened to break the normal line
of development, and, under its influence, Plutarch passed at once to
the mathematical puzzles of the _Timaeus_. With Plato himself the
next step had been to found a state for the application of his new
principles; and such was the logic of his system, that the whole stress
of adverse circumstances could not prevent the realisation of a similar
scheme from being mooted in the third century; while, as we have seen,
something more remotely analogous to it was at that very time being
carried out by the Christian Church. Plato’s own disappointed hopes had
found relief in the profoundest metaphysical speculations; and now the
time has come when his labours in this direction were to engage the
attention hitherto absorbed by the more popular or literary aspects of
his teaching.

Now it was by this side of Platonism that Aristotle also had been most
deeply fascinated. While constantly criticising the ideal theory,
he had, in truth, accepted it under a modified form. His universal
classification is derived from the dialectic method. His psychology and
theology are constructed on the spiritualistic basis of the Academy,
and out of materials which the founder of the Academy had supplied.
It was therefore natural that Plotinus should avail himself largely
of the Stagirite’s help in endeavouring to reproduce what a tradition
of six centuries had obscured or confused. To reconcile the two Attic
masters was, as we know, a common school exercise. Learned commentators
had, indeed, placed their disagreement beyond all dispute. But there
remained the simpler course of bringing their common standpoint into
greater prominence, and combining their theories where this seemed
possible without too openly renouncing the respect due to what almost
all considered the superior authority of Plato. To which of the two
masters Neo-Platonism really owed most is a question that must be
postponed until we have made ourselves acquainted with the outlines of
the system as they appear in the works of Plotinus.


IV.

It has been already mentioned how large a place was given to erotic
questions by the literary Platonists of the second century. Even in
the school of Plotinus, Platonic love continued to be discussed,
sometimes with a freedom which pained and disgusted the master beyond
measure.[431] His first essay was apparently suggested by a question
put to him in the course of some such debate.[432] The subject is
beauty. In his treatment of it, we find our philosopher at once rising
superior to the indecorous frivolities of his predecessors. Physical
beauty he declares to be the ideal element in objects, that which
they have received from the creative soul, and which the perceptive
soul recognises as akin to her own essence. Love is nothing but the
excitement and joy occasioned by this discovery. But to understand the
truer and higher forms of beauty, we must turn away from sensible
perceptions, and study it as manifested in wise institutions, virtuous
habits, and scientific theories. The passionate enthusiasm excited
by the contemplation of such qualities as magnanimity, or justice,
or wisdom, or valour can only be explained by assuming that they
reveal our inmost nature, showing us what we were destined for, what
we originally were, and what we have ceased to be. For we need only
enumerate the vices which make a soul hideous—injustice, sensuality,
cowardice, and the like—to perceive that they are foreign to her real
nature, and are imposed on her by contamination with the principle
of all evil, which is matter. To be brave means not to dread death,
because death is the separation of the soul from the body. Magnanimity
means the neglect of earthly interests. Wisdom means the elevation of
our thoughts to a higher world. The soul that virtue has thus released
becomes pure reason, and reason is just what constitutes her intrinsic
beauty. It is also what alone really exists; without it all the rest of
Nature is nothing. Thus foul is opposed to fair, as evil to good and
false to true. Once more, as the soul is beautiful by participation
in reason, so reason in its turn depends on a still higher principle,
the absolute good to which all things aspire, and from which they are
derived—the one source of life, of reason, and of existence. Behind all
other loves is the longing for this ultimate good; and in proportion
to its superiority over their objects is the intensity of the passion
which it inspires, the happiness which its attainment and fruition must
bestow. He who would behold this supreme beauty must not seek for it
in the fair forms of the external world, for these are but the images
and shadows of its glory. It can only be seen with the inward eye, only
found in the recesses of our own soul. To comprehend the good we must
be good ourselves; or, what is the same thing, we must be ourselves and
nothing else. In this process of abstraction, we first arrive at pure
reason, and then we say that the ideas of reason are what constitutes
beauty. But beyond reason is that highest good of which beauty is
merely the outward vesture, the source and principle from which beauty
springs.

It is evident that what Plotinus says about beauty and love was
suggested by the well-known passages on the same subject in the
_Phaedrus_ and the _Symposium_. His analysis of aesthetic emotion
has, however, a much more abstract and metaphysical character than
that of his great model. The whole fiction of an antenatal existence
is quietly let drop. What the sight of sensible beauty awakens in a
philosophic soul is not the memory of an ideal beauty beheld in some
other world, but the consciousness of its own idealising activity, the
dominion which it exercises over unformed and fluctuating matter. And,
in all probability, Plato meant no more than this—in fact he hints as
much elsewhere,[433]—but he was not able or did not choose to express
himself with such unmistakable clearness.

Again, this preference for mythological imagery on the part of the
more original and poetical thinker seems to be closely connected with
a more vivid interest in the practical duties of life. With Plotinus,
the primal beauty or supreme good is something that can be isolated
from all other beauty and goodness, something to be perceived and
enjoyed in absolute seclusion from one’s fellow-men. God is, indeed,
described as the source and cause of all other good. But neither here
nor elsewhere is there a hint that we should strive to resemble him by
becoming, in our turn, the cause of good to others. Platonic love, on
the contrary, first finds its reality and truth in unremitting efforts
for the enlightenment and elevation of others, being related to the
transmission of spiritual life just as the love inspired by visible
beauty is related to the perpetuation and physical ennoblement of the
race.

This preference of pure abstract speculation to beneficent action may
be traced to the influence of Aristotle. Some of the most enthusiastic
expressions used by Plotinus in speaking of his supreme principle seem
to have been suggested by the _Metaphysics_ and the last book of the
_Nicomachean Ethics_. The self-thinking thought of the Stagirite does
not, indeed, take the highest rank with him. But it is retained in his
system, and is only relegated to a secondary place because, for reasons
which we shall explain hereafter, it does not fulfil equally well
with Plato’s Idea of Good, the condition of absolute and indivisible
unity, without which a first principle could not be conceived by any
Greek philosopher. But this apparent return to the standpoint of the
_Republic_ really involves a still wider departure from its animating
spirit. In other words, Plotinus differs from Aristotle as Aristotle
himself had differed from Plato; he shares the same speculative
tendency, and carries it to a greater extreme.

We have also to note that Plotinus arrives at his Absolute by a method
apparently very different from that pursued by either of his teachers.
Plato’s primal beauty is, on the face of it, an abstraction and
generalisation from all the scattered and imperfect manifestations of
beauty to be met with in our objective experience. And Aristotle is
led to his conception of an eternal immaterial thought by two lines
of analysis, both starting from the phenomena of external Nature. The
problem of his _Physics_ is to account for the perpetuity of motion.
The problem of his _Metaphysics_ is to explain the transformation
of potential into actual existence. Plotinus, on the other hand, is
always bidding us look within. What we admire in the objective world
is but a reflex of ourselves. Mind is the sole reality; and to grasp
this reality under its highest form, we must become like it. Thus the
more we isolate our own personality and self-identity from the other
interests and experiences of life, the more nearly do we approach to
consciousness of and coalescence with the supreme identity wherein all
things have their source.

But on looking at the matter a little more closely, we shall find
that Plotinus only set in a clearer light what had all along been
the leading motive of his predecessors. We have already observed
that Plato’s whole mythological machinery is only a fanciful way
of expressing that independent experience which the mind derives
from the study of its own spontaneous activity. And the process of
generalisation described in the _Symposium_ is really limited to
moral phenomena. Plato’s standpoint is less individualistic than
that of Plotinus in so far as it involves a continual reference to
the beliefs, experiences, and wants of other men; but it is equally
subjective, in the sense of interpreting all Nature by the analogies
of human life. There are even occasions when his spiritualism goes the
length of inculcating complete withdrawal from the world of common
life into an ideal sphere, when he seems to identify evil with matter,
when he reduces all virtue to contempt for the interests of the body,
in language which his Alexandrian successor could adopt without any
modification of its obvious meaning.[434]

So also with Aristotle. As a naturalist, he is, indeed, purely
objective; but when he offers a general explanation of the world,
the subjective element introduced by Protagoras and Socrates at once
reappears. Simple absolute self-consciousness is for him the highest
good, the animating principle of Nature, the most complete reality,
and the only one that would remain, were the element of nonentity to
disappear from this world. The utter misconception of dynamic phenomena
which marks his physics and astronomy can only be accounted for by his
desire to give life the priority over mechanical motion, and reason
the priority over life. Thus his metaphysical method is essentially
identical with the introspective method recommended by Plotinus, and,
if fully worked out, might have led to the same results.

We cannot, then, agree with Zeller, when he groups the Neo-Platonists
together with the other post-Aristotelian schools, on the ground
that they are all alike distinguished from Plato and Aristotle by
the exclusive attention which they pay to subjective and practical,
as opposed to scientific and theoretical interests. It seems to us
that such distinctions are out of relation to the historical order in
which the different systems of Greek philosophy were evolved. It is
not in the substance of their teaching, but in their diminished power
of original speculation, that the thinkers who came after Aristotle
offer the strongest contrast to their predecessors. In so far as they
are exclusively practical and subjective, they follow the Humanists
and Socrates. In so far as they combine Socratic tendencies with
physical studies, they imitate the method of Plato and Aristotle. Their
cosmopolitan naturalism is inherited from the Cynics in the first
instance, more remotely from the physiocratic Sophists, and, perhaps,
in the last resort, from Heracleitus. Their religion is traceable
either to Pythagoras, to Socrates, or to Plato. Their scepticism is
only a little more developed than that of Protagoras and the Cyrenaics.
But if we seek for some one principle held in common by all these later
schools, and held by none of the earlier schools, we shall seek for
it in vain. The imitative systems are separated from one another by
the same fundamental differences as those which divide the original
systems. Now, in both periods, the deepest of all differences is that
which divides the spiritualists from the materialists. In both periods,
also, it is materialism that comes first. And in both, the transition
from one doctrine to the other is marked by the exclusive prominence
given to subjective, practical, sceptical, or theological interests
in philosophy; by the enthusiastic culture of rhetoric in general
education; and by a strong religious reaction in the upper ranks of
society.

Thus we can quite agree with Zeller when he observes[435] that
Neo-Platonism only carried out a tendency towards spiritualism which
had been already manifesting itself among the later Stoics, and had
been still further developed by the Neo-Pythagoreans. But what does
this prove? Not what Zeller contends for, which is that Neo-Platonism
stands on the same ground with the other post-Aristotelian systems,
but simply that a recurrence of the same intellectual conditions was
being followed by a recurrence of the same results. Now, as before,
materialism was proving its inadequacy to account for the facts of
mental experience. Now, as before, morality, after being cut off from
physical laws, was seeking a basis in religious or metaphysical ideas.
Now, as before, the study of thoughts was succeeding to the study of
words, and the methods of popular persuasion were giving place to the
methods of dialectical demonstration. Of course, the age of Plotinus
was far inferior to the age of Plato in vitality, in genius, and in
general enlightenment, notwithstanding the enormous extension which
Roman conquest had given to the superficial area of civilisation, as
the difference between the _Enneads_ and the _Dialogues_ would alone
suffice to prove. But this does not alter the fact that the general
direction of their movement proceeds in parallel lines.

In saying that the post-Aristotelian philosophers were not original
thinkers, we must guard against the supposition that they contributed
nothing of value to thought. On the contrary, while not putting forward
any new theories, they generalised some of the principles borrowed from
their predecessors, worked out others in minute detail, and stated
the arguments on both sides of every controverted point with superior
dialectic precision. Thus, while materialism had been assumed as
self-evidently true by the pre-Socratic schools, it was maintained by
the Stoics and Epicureans on what seemed to be grounds of experience
and reason. And, similarly, we find that Plotinus, having arrived at
the consciousness that spiritualism is the common ground on which
Plato and Aristotle stand, the connecting trait which most completely
distinguishes them from their successors, proceeds in his second
essay[436] to argue the case against materialism more powerfully than
it had ever been argued before, and with nearly as much effect as it
has ever been argued since.


V.

Our personality, says the Alexandrian philosopher, cannot be a property
of the body, for this is composed of parts, and is in a state of
perpetual flux. A man’s self, then, is his soul; and the soul cannot
be material, for the ultimate elements of matter are inanimate, and
it is inconceivable that animation and reason should result from the
aggregation of particles which, taken singly, are destitute of both;
while, even were it possible, their disposition in a certain order
would argue the presence of an intelligence controlling them from
without. The Stoics themselves admit the force of these considerations,
when they attribute reason to the fiery element or vital breath by
which, according to them, all things are shaped. They do, indeed, talk
about a certain elementary disposition as the principle of animation,
but this disposition is either identical with the matter possessing it,
in which case the difficulties already mentioned recur, or distinct
from it, in which case the animating principle still remains to be
accounted for.

Again, to suppose that the soul shares in the changes of the body is
incompatible with the self-identity which memory reveals. To suppose
that it is an extended substance is incompatible with its simultaneous
presence, as an indivisible whole, at every point to which its activity
reaches; as well as with the circumstance that all our sensations,
though received through different organs, are referred to a common
centre of consciousness. If the sensorium is a fluid body it will have
no more power of retaining impressions than water; while, if it is a
solid, new impressions will either not be received at all, or only when
the old impressions are effaced.

Passing from sensation to thought, it is admitted that abstract
conceptions are incorporeal: how, then, can they be received and
entertained by a corporeal substance? Or what possible connexion can
there be between different arrangements of material particles and such
notions as temperance and justice? This is already a sufficiently near
approach to the language of modern philosophy. In another essay, which
according to the original arrangement stands third, and must have
been composed immediately after that whence the foregoing arguments
are transcribed, there is more than an approach, there is complete
coincidence.[437] To deduce mind from atoms is, says Plotinus, if
we may so speak, still more impossible than to deduce it from the
elementary bodies. Granting that the atoms have a natural movement
downwards, granting that they suffer a lateral deflection and so
impinge on one another, still this could do no more than produce a
disturbance in the bodies against which they strike. But to what atomic
movement can one attribute psychic energies and affections? What sort
of collision in the vertical line of descent, or in the oblique line
of deflection, or in any direction you please, will account for the
appearance of a particular kind of reasoning or mental impulse or
thought, or how can it account for the existence of such processes at
all? Here, of course, Plotinus is alluding to the Epicureans; but it is
with the Stoic and other schools that he is principally concerned, and
we return to his attack on their psychology.

The activities of the soul are thought, sensation, reasoning, desire,
attention, and so forth: the activities of body are heat, cold, impact,
and gravitation; if to these we add the characteristics of mind, the
latter will have no special properties by which it can be known. And
even in body we distinguish between quantity and quality; the former,
at most, being corporeal, and the latter not corporeal at all. Here
Plotinus just touches the idealistic method of modern spiritualism, but
fails to follow it any further. He seems to have adopted Aristotle’s
natural realism as a sufficient theory of external perception, and to
have remained uninfluenced by Plato’s distrust of sensible appearances.

After disposing of the Stoic materialism, according to which the soul,
though distinct from the body, is, equally with it, an extended and
resisting substance, our philosopher proceeds to discuss the theories
which make it a property or function of the body. The Pythagorean
notion of the soul as a harmony of the body is met by a reproduction
of the well-known arguments used against it in Plato’s _Phaedo_. Then
comes the Aristotelian doctrine that the soul is the entelechy—that
is to say, the realised purpose and perfection—of the physical
organism to which it belongs. This is an idea which Aristotle himself
had failed to make very clear, and the inadequacy of which he had
virtually acknowledged by ascribing a different origin to reason,
although this is counted as one of the psychic faculties. Plotinus,
at any rate, could not appreciate an explanation which, whatever else
it implied, certainly involved a considerable departure from his own
dualistic interpretation of the difference between spirit and matter.
He could not enter into Aristotle’s view of the one as a lower and less
concentrated form of the other. The same arguments which had already
been employed against Stoicism are now turned against the Peripatetic
psychology. The soul as a principle, not only of memory and desire,
but even of nutrition, is declared to be independent of and separable
from the body. And, finally, as a result of the whole controversy, its
immortality is affirmed. But how far this immortality involves the
belief in a prolongation of personal existence after death, is a point
which still remains uncertain. We shall return to the question in
dealing with the religious opinions of Plotinus.

Closely connected with the materialism of the Stoics, and equally
adverse to the principles of Plato and Aristotle, was their fatalism.
In opposition to this, Plotinus proceeds to develop the spiritualistic
doctrine of free-will.[438] In the previous discussion, we had to
notice how closely his arguments resemble those employed by more
modern controversialists. We have here to point out no less wide a
difference between the two. Instead of presenting free-will as a fact
of consciousness which is itself irreconcilable with the dependence
of mental on material changes, our philosopher, conversely, infers
that the soul must be free both from the conditions of mechanical
causation and from the general interdependence of natural forces,
because it is an individual substance.[439] In truth, the phenomena
of volition were handled by the ancient philosophers with a vagueness
and a feebleness offering the most singular contrast to their
powerful and discriminating grasp of other psychological problems.
Of necessarianism, in the modern sense, they had no idea. Aristotle
failed to see that, quite apart from external restraints, our choice
may conceivably be determined with the utmost rigour by an internal
motive; nor could he understand that the circumstances which make a
man responsible for his actions do not amount to a release of his
conduct from the law of universal causation. In this respect, Plato
saw somewhat deeper than his disciple, but created fresh confusion
by identifying freedom with the supremacy of reason over irrational
desire.[440] Plotinus generally adopts the Platonist point of view.
According to this, the soul is free when she is extricated from the
bonds of matter, and determined solely by the conditions of her
spiritual existence. Thus virtue is not so much free as identical with
freedom; while, contrariwise, vice means enslavement to the affections
of the body, and therefore comes under the domain of material
causation.[441] Yet, again, in criticising the fatalistic theories
which represent human actions as entirely predetermined by divine
providence, he protests against the ascription of so much that is evil
to so good a source, and insists that at least the bad actions of men
are due to their own free choice.[442]

In vindicating human freedom, Plotinus had to encounter a difficulty
exceedingly characteristic of his age. This was the astrological
superstition that everything depended on the stars, and that the future
fate of every person might be predicted by observing their movements
and configurations at the time of his birth. Philosophers found it
much easier to demolish the pretensions of astrology by an abstract
demonstration of their absurdity, than to get rid of the supposed facts
which were currently quoted in their favour. That fortunes could be
foretold on the strength of astronomical calculations with as much
certainty as eclipses, seems to have been an accepted article of belief
in the time of Plotinus, and one which he does not venture to dispute.
He is therefore obliged to satisfy himself with maintaining that the
stars do not cause, but merely foreshow the future, in the same manner
as the flight of birds, to the prophetic virtue of which he also
attaches implicit credence. All parts of Nature are connected by such
an intimate sympathy, that each serves as a clue to the rest; and, on
this principle, the stars may be regarded as the letters of a scripture
in which the secrets of futurity are revealed.[443]

How much originality there may be in the anti-materialistic arguments
of Plotinus we cannot tell. He certainly marks a great advance on Plato
and Aristotle, approximating, in this respect, much more closely than
they do to the modern standpoint. The indivisibility and permanence of
mind had, no doubt, been strongly insisted on by those teachers, in
contrast with the extended and fluctuating nature of body. But they did
not, like him, deduce these characteristics from a direct analysis of
consciousness as such. Plato inferred the simplicity and self-identity
of mind from the simplicity and self-identity of the ideas which it
contemplates. Aristotle went a step further, or perhaps only expressed
the same meaning more clearly, when he associated immateriality with
the identity of subject and object in thought.[444] Moreover, both
Plato and Aristotle seem to have rested the whole spiritualistic case
on objective rather than on subjective considerations; although, as we
have seen, the subjective interest was what dominated all the while
in their thoughts. Starting with the analogy of a living body, Plato
argues, both in the _Phaedrus_ and in the _Laws_, that soul must
everywhere be the first cause of motion, and therefore must exist
prior to body.[445] The elaborate scientific analysis of Aristotle’s
_Physics_ leads up to a similar conclusion; and the ontological
analysis of the _Metaphysics_ starts with the distinction between
Form and Matter in bodies, to end with the question of their relative
priority, and of the objective machinery by which they are united.
Plotinus, too, sometimes refers to mind as the source of physical
order; but this is rather in deference to his authorities than because
the necessity of such an explanation seemed to him, as it did to them,
the deepest ground of a spiritualistic philosophy. On the other hand,
his psychological arguments for the immateriality of the soul are drawn
from a wider area of experience than theirs, feeling being taken into
account no less than thought; instead of restricting himself to one
particular kind of cognition for evidence of spiritual power, he looks
for it in every manifestation of living personality.

In criticising the Stoic system as a whole, the New Academy and the
later Sceptics had incidentally dwelt on sundry absurdities which
followed from the materialistic interpretation of knowledge; and
Plotinus evidently derived some of his most forcible objections from
their writings; but no previous philosopher that we know of had set
forth the whole case for spiritualism and against materialism with
such telling effect. And what is, perhaps, more important than any
originality in detail, is the profound insight shown in choosing this
whole question of spiritualism _versus_ materialism for the ground
whereon the combined forces of Plato and Aristotle were to fight their
first battle against the naturalistic system which had triumphed
over them five centuries before. It was on dialectical and ethical
grounds that the controversy between Porch and Academy, on ethical
and religious grounds that the controversy between Epicureanism and
all other schools of philosophy, had hitherto been conducted. Cicero
and Plutarch never allude to their opponents as materialists. Only
once, in his polemic against Colôtes, does Plutarch observe that
neither a soul nor anything else could be made out of atoms, but this
is because they are discrete, not because they are extended.[446] For
the rest, his method is to trip up his opponents by pointing out their
inconsistencies, rather than to cut the ground from under their feet by
proving that their theory of the universe is wrong.

Under such guidance as this. Platonism had made but little way. We
saw, in the concluding sections of the last chapter and in the opening
section of the present chapter, that it profited by the religious and
literary revival of the second century, just as it was to profit long
afterwards by the greater revival of the fifteenth century, so much so
as to become the fashionable philosophy of the age. Yet, even in that
period of its renewed splendour, the noblest of contemporary thinkers
was not a Platonist but a Stoic; and although it would be unfair to
measure the moral distance between the Porch and the Academy by the
interval which separates an Aurelius from an Apuleius, still it would
seem as if naturalism continued to be the chosen creed of strenuous and
dutiful endeavour, while spiritualism was drifting into an alliance
with hysterical and sensuous superstition. If we may judge by the
points which Sextus Empiricus selects for controversial treatment,
Stoicism was still the reigning system in his time, that is to say,
about the beginning of the third century; and if, a generation later,
it had sunk into neglect, every rival school, except that of Epicurus,
was in exactly the same condition. Thus the only advance made was to
substitute one form of materialism for another, until Neo-Platonism
came and put an end to their disputes by destroying the common
foundation on which they stood; while, at the same time, it supplied a
completely organised doctrine round which the nobler elements of the
Hellenic revival could rally for a last stand against the foes that
were threatening it from every side.


VI.

We have seen how Plotinus establishes the spiritualistic basis of
his philosophy. We have now to see how he works out from it in all
directions, developing the results of his previous enquiries into a
complete metaphysical system. It will have been observed that the whole
method of reasoning by which materialism was overthrown, rested on the
antithesis between the unity of consciousness and the divisibility of
corporeal substance. Very much the same method was afterwards employed
by Cartesianism to demonstrate the same conclusion. But with Descartes
and his followers, the opposition between soul and body was absolute,
the former being defined as pure thought, the latter as pure extension.
Hence the extreme difficulty which they experienced in accounting for
the evident connexion between the two. The spiritualism of Plotinus
did not involve any such impassable chasm between consciousness and
its object. According to him, although the soul is contained in or
depends on an absolutely self-identical unity, she is not herself
that unity, but in some degree shares the characters of divisibility
and extension.[447] If we conceive all existence as bounded at either
extremity by two principles, the one extended and the other inextended,
then soul will still stand midway between them; not divided in herself,
but divided in respect to the bodies which she animates. Plotinus holds
that such an assumption is necessitated by the facts of sensation.
A feeling of pain, for example, is located in a particular point of
the body, and is, at the same time, apprehended as my feeling, not
as some one else’s. A similar synthesis obtains through the whole of
Nature. The visible universe consists of many heterogeneous parts, held
together by a single animating principle. And we can trace the same
qualities and figures through a multitude of concrete individuals,
their essential unity remaining unbroken, notwithstanding the
dispersion of the objects in which they inhere.

Here Plotinus avowedly follows the teaching of Plato, who, in the
_Timaeus_, describes Being or Substance as composed by mingling
the indivisible and unchanging with the divisible and corporeal
principle.[448] And, although there is no express reference, we know
that in placing soul between the two, he was equally following Plato.
It is otherwise in the next essay, which undertakes to give a more
explicit analysis of psychical phenomena.[449] The soul, we are told,
consists, like external objects, of two elements related to one another
as Form and Matter. These are reason and sense. The office of the
former is, primarily, to enlighten and control the latter. Plato had
already pointed to such a distinction; but Aristotle was the first to
work it out clearly, and to make it the hinge of his whole system.
It is, accordingly, under the guidance of Aristotle that Plotinus
proceeds in what he has next to say. Just as there is a soul of the
world corresponding to our soul, so also, he argues, there must be a
universal objective Reason outside and above the world. In speaking
of this Reason, we shall, for clearness’ sake, in general call it by
its Greek name, Nous. Nous, according to Aristotle, is the faculty
by which we apprehend abstract ideas; it is self-thinking thought;
and, as such, it is the prime mover of Nature. Plotinus adopts the
first two positions unreservedly, and the third to a certain extent;
while he brings all three into combination with the Platonic theory
of ideas. It had always been an insuperable difficulty in the way of
Plato’s teaching that it necessitated, or seemed to necessitate, the
unintelligible notion of ideas existing without any mind to think
them. For a disciple of Aristotle, the difficulty ceases to exist if
the archetypal essences assumed by Plato are conceived as residing
in an eternal Nous. But, on the other hand, how are we to reconcile
such an accommodation with Aristotle’s principle, that the Supreme
Intelligence can think nothing but itself? Simply by generalising from
the same master’s doctrine that the human Nous is identical with the
ideas which it contemplates. Thought and its object are everywhere one.
Thus, according to Plotinus, the absolute Nous embraces the totality of
archetypes or forms which we see reflected and embodied in the material
universe. In thinking them, it thinks itself, not passing from one to
the other as in discursive reasoning, nor bringing them into existence
by the act of thought, but apprehending them as simultaneously present
realities.

To explain how the Nous could be identical with a number of distinct
ideas was a difficult problem. We shall have to show at a more
advanced stage of our exposition how Plotinus endeavoured to solve
it with the help of Plato’s _Sophist_. In the essay where his theory
is first put forward, he cuts the knot by asserting that each idea
virtually contains every other, while each in its actual and separate
existence is, so to speak, an independent Nous. But correlation is
not identity; and to say that each idea thinks itself is not to
explain how the same subject can think, and in thinking be identical
with all. The personal identity of the thinking subject still stands
in unreconciled opposition to the multitude of thoughts which it
entertains, whether successively or in a single intuition. Of two
things one: either the unity of the Nous or the diversity of its ideas
must be sacrificed. Plotinus evades the alternative by a kind of
three-card trick. Sometimes his ideal unity is to be found under the
notion of convergence to a common centre, sometimes under the notion
of participation in a common property, sometimes under the notion of
mutual equivalence.

The confusion was partly inherited from Aristotle. When discussing
the psychology of that philosopher, we showed that his active Nous
is no other than the idea of which we are at any moment actually
conscious. Our own reason is the passive Nous, whose identity is lost
in the multiplicity of objects with which it becomes identified in
turn. But Aristotle was careful not to let the personality of God, or
the supreme Nous, be endangered by resolving it into the totality of
substantial forms which constitute Nature. God is self-conscious in the
strictest sense. He thinks nothing but himself. Again, the subjective
starting-point of Plotinus may have affected his conception of the
universal Nous. A single individual may isolate himself from his
fellows in so far as he is a sentient being; he cannot do so in so far
as he is a rational being. His reason always addresses itself to the
reason of some one else—a fact nowhere brought out so clearly as in the
dialectic philosophy of Socrates and Plato. Then, when an agreement
has been established, their minds, before so sharply divided, seem to
be, after all, only different personifications of the same universal
spirit. Hence reason, no less than its objects, comes to be conceived
as both many and one. And this synthesis of contradictories meets us in
modern German as well as in ancient Greek philosophy.

After his preliminary analysis of Nous, we find Plotinus working out
in two directions from the conception so obtained.[450] He begins by
explaining in what relation the human soul stands to the universal
reason. To him, personally, it seemed as if the world of thought into
which he penetrated by reflecting on his own inmost essence, was so
much the real home of his soul that her presence in a bodily habitation
presented itself as a difficulty requiring to be cleared up. In this
connexion, he refers to the opinions of the Pythagoreans, who looked
on our earthly life as an unmixed evil, a punishment for some sin
committed in a former stage of existence. Their views seem to have
been partly shared by Plato. Sometimes he calls the body a prison and
a tomb into which the soul has fallen from her original abode. Yet, in
his _Timaeus_, he glorifies the visible world, and tells us that the
universal soul was divinely appointed to give it life and reason; while
our individual souls have also their part to play in perfecting the
same providential scheme.

It is to the second theory that Plotinus evidently leans. However
closely his life may have been conformed to the Pythagorean model—a
point with respect to which we have nothing better than the very
prejudiced statements of Porphyry to rely on—there is no trace of
Pythagorean asceticism in his writings. Hereafter we shall see how
hostile he was to Gnostic pessimism. In the preceding essay, he had
already specified admiration for physical beauty as a first and
necessary step in the soul’s ascent to a contemplation of spiritual
realities;[451] and now it is under the guidance of Plato’s later
speculations that he proceeds to account for her descent from that
higher world to the restraints of matter and of sense.

With regard to the universal soul of Nature, there is, indeed, no
difficulty at all. In giving a sensible realisation to the noetic
ideas, she suffers no degradation or pollution by contact with the
lower elements of matter. Enthroned on the outer verge of the cosmos,
she governs the whole course of Nature by a simple exercise of
volition, and in the enjoyment of a felicity which remains undisturbed
by passion or desire. But just as we have seen the supreme Nous
resolving itself into a multitude of individual intelligences, so also
does the cosmic soul produce many lesser or partial souls of which
our own is one. Now these derivative souls cannot all be equal, for
that would be to defeat the purpose of creation, which is to realise
all the possibilities of creation from the highest to the lowest.
Thus each has an office corresponding to her place in the scale of
perfection.[452] We may say of the human soul that she stoops to
conquer. Her mission is to cope with the more recalcitrant forms of
matter. It is to the struggle with their impurities that the troubles
and passions of our life are due. By yielding to earthly temptations,
we suffer a second fall, and one much more real than the first; by
overcoming them, as is perfectly in our power to do, we give scope and
exercise to faculties which would otherwise have remained dormant
and unknown. Moreover, our soul retains the privilege of returning
to her former abode, enriched by the experience acquired in this
world, and with that clearer perception of good which the knowledge
of its opposite alone can supply. Nay, paradoxical as the assertion
may seem, she has not entirely descended to earth, but remains in
partial communication with the noetic world by virtue of her reasoning
faculty; that is to say, when its intuitions are not darkened and
disturbed by the triumph of sensuous impressions over the lower soul.
On this and on many other occasions, Plotinus betrays a glimmering
consciousness that his philosophy is purely subjective, and that its
attempted transcendentalism is, in truth, a projection of psychological
distinctions into the external world. Starting with the familiar
division of human nature into body, soul, and spirit (or reason),
he endeavours to find an objective counterpart for each. Body is
represented by the material universe, soul by the animating principle
of Nature, reason by the extramundane Nous. Under these three heads is
comprised the totality of real existence; but existence itself has to
be accounted for by a principle lying above and beyond it, which has
still to be obtained by an effort of abstraction from the data that
self-consciousness supplies.[453]

In his very first essay, Plotinus had hinted at a principle higher and
more primordial than the absolute Nous, something with which the soul
is connected by the mediation of Nous, just as she herself mediates
between Nous and the material world. The notion of such a supreme
principle was derived from Plato. In the sixth and seventh books of
the _Republic_, we are told that at the summit of the dialectic series
stands an idea to grasp which is the ultimate object of all reasoning.
Plato calls this the Idea of Good, and describes it as holding a place
in the intellectual world analogous to that held by the sun in the
physical world. For, just as the sun brings all visible things into
being, and also gives the light by which they are seen, so also the
Good is not only that by which the objects of knowledge are known, but
also that whence their existence is derived, while at the same time
itself transcending existence in dignity and power.[454]

In a former part of this work[455] we found reason to believe that
Plato’s supreme good is no other than the Idea of Sameness which occurs
in the _Sophist_ and in the _Timaeus_, where it is correlated with
the Idea of Difference; and we also concluded that the divine creator
of the last-named dialogue is intended to represent it under a more
concrete and popular form.[456] We may, perhaps, also discover it in
the Limit of the _Philêbus_; and if we are to believe what Aristotle
tells us about the later teaching of Plato, it seems to have finally
coalesced with the Pythagorean One, which combines with the unlimited
Dyad to form first number, and then everything else, just as the Same
combines with the Different to form existence in the _Timaeus_.[457]

For the Platonic Idea of Good, Aristotle had substituted his own
conception of self-thinking thought, as the absolute on which all
Nature hangs: and we have seen how Plotinus follows him to the extent
of admitting that this visible universe is under the immediate control
of an incorporeal Reason, which also serves as a receptacle for the
Platonic Ideas. But what satisfied Aristotle does not fully satisfy
him. The first principle must be one, and Nous fails to answer the
conditions of absolute unity, Even self-thinking thought involves the
elementary dualism of object and subject. Again, as Plotinus somewhat
inconsistently argues, Nous, being knowledge, must cognise something
simpler than itself.[458] Or, perhaps, what he means is that in Nous,
which is its product, the first principle becomes self-conscious.
Consciousness means a check on the outflow of energy due to the
restraining action of the One, a return to and reflection on itself of
the creative power.[459]

If the necessity of the One is proved by the inward differentiation
of what seemed most simple, it is also proved by the integration of
what seems most divided. In his next essay, our philosopher wanders
off from the investigation of what he has just begun, by abruptly
starting the question whether all souls are one.[460] This question
is, however, most intimately connected with his main theme. He answers
it in the affirmative. Strictly personal as our feelings seem, we are,
in reality, one with each other, through our joint participation in
the world-soul. Love and sympathy among human beings are solely due to
this connexion. Plotinus mentions, as another evidence of its reality,
the secret affinities called into play even at a great distance by
magical spells—an allusion very characteristic of his age.[461] What
prevents us from more fully perceiving the unity of all souls is the
separateness of the bodies with which they are associated. Matter is
the principle of individuation. But even within the soul there is a
division between the rational and the irrational part, concentration
being the characteristic of the one and dispersion of the other. The
latter is fitted by its divided nature for presiding over the bodily
functions of sensation and nutrition; and with the dissolution of the
body it returns to the unity of the higher soul. There are two ways in
which we can account for this pervading unity. It is either as products
or as portions of the universal soul that all particular souls are
one. Plotinus combines both explanations. The world-soul first gives
birth to an image of itself, and then this is subdivided into as many
partial souls as there are bodies requiring animation.

On extending our survey still wider, we find that the existence of
a thing everywhere depends on its unity.[462] All bodies perish by
dissolution, and dissolution means the loss of unity. Health, beauty,
and virtue are merely so many different kinds of harmony and unison.
Shall we then say that soul, as the great unifying power in Nature, is
the One of which we are in search? Not so; for preceding investigations
have taught us that soul is only an agent for transmitting ideas
received from a higher power; and the psychic faculties themselves are
held together by a unifying principle for which we have to account.
Neither is the whole sum of existence the One, for its very name
implies a plurality of parts. And the claims of the Nous to that
distinction have been already disproved. In short, nothing that exists
can be the One, for, as we have seen, unity is the cause of existence
and must therefore precede it.

 ‘What then,’ asks Plotinus, ‘is the One? No easy question to answer
 for us whose knowledge is based on ideas, and who can hardly tell what
 ideas are, or what is existence itself. The farther the soul advances
 in this formless region, where there is nothing for her to grasp,
 nothing whose impress she can receive, the more does her footing fail
 her, the more helpless and desolate does she feel. Oftentimes she
 wearies of such searching and is glad to leave it all and to descend
 into the world of sense until she finds rest on the solid earth,
 as the eyes are relieved in turning from small objects to large.
 For she does not know that to be one herself is to have gained the
 object of her search, for then she is no other than that which she
 knows. Nevertheless it is only by this method that we can master the
 philosophy of the One. Since, then, what we seek is one, and since we
 are considering the first principle of all things and the Good, he who
 enters on this quest must not place himself afar from the things that
 are first by descending to the things that are last, but he must leave
 the objects of sense, and, freed from all evil, ascend to the first
 principle of his own nature, that by becoming one, instead of many, he
 may behold the beginning and the One. Therefore he must become Reason,
 trusting his soul to Reason for guidance and support, that she may
 wakefully receive what it sees, and with this he must behold the One,
 not admitting any element of sense, but gazing on the purest with pure
 Reason and with that which in Reason is first. Should he who addresses
 himself to this enterprise imagine that the object of his vision
 possesses magnitude or form or bulk, then Reason is not his guide,
 for such perceptions do not belong to its nature but to sense and to
 the opinion which follows on sense. No; we must only pledge Reason to
 perform what it can do. Reason sees what precedes, or what contains,
 or what is derived from itself. Pure are the things in it, purer
 still those which precede, or rather, that which precedes it. This is
 neither reason nor anything that is; for whatever is has the form of
 existence, whereas this has none, not even an ideal form. For the One,
 whose nature is to generate all things, cannot be any of those things
 itself. Therefore it is neither substance, nor quality, nor reason,
 nor soul; neither moving nor at rest, not in place, not in time, but
 unique of its kind, or rather kindless, being before all kind, before
 motion and before rest, for these belong to being, and are that to
 which its multiplicity is due. Why, then, if it does not move, is it
 not at rest? Because while one or both of these must be attributed
 to being, the very act of attribution involves a distinction between
 subject and predicate, which is impossible in the case of what is
 absolutely simple.’[463]

The One cannot, properly speaking, be an object of knowledge, but is
apprehended by something higher than knowledge. This is why Plato
calls it ineffable and indescribable. What we can describe is the
way to the view, not the view itself. The soul which has never been
irradiated with the light of that supreme splendour, nor filled with
the passionate joy of a lover finding rest in the contemplation of his
beloved, cannot be given that experience in words. But the beatific
vision is open to all. He from whom it is hidden has only himself
to blame. Let him break away from the restraints of sense and place
himself under the guidance of philosophy, that philosophy which leads
from matter to spirit, from soul to Nous, from Nous to the One.

Plotinus himself, we are told, reached the climax of complete
unification several times in his life, Porphyry only once, in the
sixty-eighth year of his age. Probably the condition so denominated
was a species of hypnotic trance. Its importance in the Neo-Platonic
system has been considerably exaggerated, and on the strength of this
single point some critics have summarily disposed of Plotinus and his
whole school as unreasoning mystics. Mysticism is a vague word capable
of very various applications. In the present instance, we presume that
it is used to express a belief in the existence of some method for the
discovery of truth apart from tradition; observation, and reasoning.
And, taken in this sense, the Neo-Platonic method of arriving at a
full apprehension of the One would be considered an extreme instance
of mysticism. We must bear in mind, however, that Plotinus arrives
at an intellectual conception of absolute unity by the most strictly
logical process. It makes no difference that his reasoning is unsound,
for the same criticism applies to other philosophers who have never
been accused of mysticism. It may be said that after leading us up
to a certain point, reason is replaced by intuition. Rather, what
the ultimate intuition does is not to take the place of logic, but
to substitute a living realisation for an abstract and negative
conception. Moreover, the intuition is won not by forsaking logic,
but by straining its resources to the very utmost. Again, one great
characteristic of mysticism, as ordinarily understood, is to deny the
truth of common observation and reasoning. Now Plotinus never goes this
length. As we have already remarked, he does not even share Plato’s
distrust of sensible impressions, but rather follows the example of
Aristotle in recognising their validity within a certain sphere. Nor
does he mention having received any revelations of divine truth during
his intercourse with the absolute One. This alone marks an immense
difference between his ecstasies—if such they can be called—and those
of the Christian mystics with whom he is associated by M. Barthélemy
Saint-Hilaire.[464]

It may be said that the One is itself a mystical conception, involving
a reversal of all our ordinary beliefs. The universe is a vast
multiplicity of objects, held together, if you will, by some secret
bond of union possibly related to the personal unity of consciousness,
but still neither lost nor confused in its identity. Precisely;
but Plotinus himself fully admits as much. His One is the cause of
existence, not existence itself. He knows just as well as we do, that
the abstract idea of unity has no reality apart from the mind. But if
so, why should he associate it, in the true mystical style, with the
transports of amorous passion? The question is pertinent, but it might
be addressed to other Greek systems as well. We must remember that
Plotinus is only commenting and enlarging on Plato. In the _Republic_
also, the Idea of Good is described as transcending the existence and
the knowledge which it produces,[465] and in the _Symposium_, the
absolute self beautiful, which seems to be the Good under another
name, is spoken of in terms not less passionately enthusiastic than
any applied by Plotinus to the vision of the One.[466] Doubtless the
practical sense of the great Attic master did not desert him even here:
the object of all thought, in its widest sweep and in its highest
flight, is to find room for every possible expansion of knowledge,
for every possible elevation of life. Plotinus was a stranger to
such broad views; but in departing from Plato, as usual he follows
Aristotle. The absolute self-thinking thought of the Stagirite is,
when we examine it closely, only one degree less chimerical than the
Neo-Platonic unification. For it means consciousness of self without
the correlative consciousness of a not-self, and as such, according
to Aristotle, it affords an eternal felicity equal or superior to the
best and happiest moments of our sensitive human life. What Plotinus
does is to isolate personal identity from reason and, as such, to make
it at once the cause and the supreme ideal of existence. This involves
two errors: first a false abstraction of one subjective phenomenon
from the sum total of conscious life; and, secondly, an illegitimate
generalisation of this abstraction into an objective law of things.
But in both errors, Aristotle had preceded him, by dissociating reason
from all other mental functions, and by then attributing the whole
cosmic movement to the love which this isolated faculty of reason, in
its absolute self-existence, for ever inspires. And he also set the
example of associating happiness, which is an emotional state, with an
intellectual abstraction from which emotion is necessarily excluded.

Again, the Stoics, Epicureans, and Sceptics all pass for being absolute
rationalists. Yet their common ideal of impassive self-possession,
when worked out to its logical consequences, becomes nearly
indistinguishable from the self-simplification of Plotinus. All alike
exhibit the Greek tendency towards endless abstraction—what we have
called the analytical moment of Greek thought, working together with
the moments of antithesis and circumscription. The sceptical isolation
of man from Nature, the Epicurean isolation of the individual from the
community, the Stoic isolation of will from feeling, reached their
highest and most abstract expression in the Neo-Platonic isolation of
pure self-identity from all other modes of consciousness and existence
combined.

In estimating the intellectual character of Plotinus, we must also
remember that the theory of the absolute One occupies a relatively
small place in his speculations; while, at a rough computation, the
purely mystical portions of his writings—by which we understand those
in which allusion is made to personal and incommunicable experiences
of his own—do not amount to more than one per cent. of the whole. If
these have attracted more attention than all the rest put together,
the reason probably is that they offer an agreeable relief to the
arid scholasticism which fills so much of the _Enneads_, and that
they are the only very original contribution made by Plotinus to
Greek literature. But the significance of a writer must not always be
measured by his most original passages, and this is eminently true
of our philosopher. His great merit was to make the spiritualism of
Plato and Aristotle more intelligible and interesting than it had
been before, and to furnish reason with a rallying-point when it was
threatened with utter destruction by the religious revival of the
empire.


VII.

So far our investigation has been analytical. We have seen Plotinus
acquire, one after another, the elements out of which his system has
still to be constructed. The first step was to separate spirit from
matter. They are respectively distinguished as principles of union and
of division. The bodies given to us in experience are a combination of
the two, a dispersion of form over an infinitely extended, infinitely
divisible, infinitely changeful substratum. Our own souls, which at
first seemed so absolutely self-identical, present, on examination,
a similarly composite character. A fresh analysis results in the
separation of Nous or Reason from the lower functions of conscious
life. And we infer by analogy that the soul in Nature bears the same
relation to a transcendent objective Nous. Nous is essentially pure
self-consciousness, and from this self-consciousness the world of
Ideas is developed. Properly speaking, Ideas are the sole reality:
sensible forms are an image of them impressed on matter through the
agency of the world-soul. But Nous, or the totality of Ideas, though
high, is not the highest. All that has hitherto occupied us, Nature,
Soul, and Reason, is pervaded by a fundamental unity, without which
nothing could exist. But Soul is not herself this unity, nor is Reason.
Self-consciousness, even in its purest expression, involves a duality
of object and subject. The notion of Being is distinct from the notion
of oneness. The principle represented by the latter, as the cause of
all things, must itself transcend existence. At the same time, it is
revealed to us by the fact of our own personal identity. To be united
with oneself is to be united with the One.

Thus we have, in all, five gradations: the One, Nous, Soul, the
sensible world, and, lastly, unformed Matter. Taken together, the
first three constitute a triad of spiritual principles, and, as such,
are associated in a single group by Plotinus.[467] Sometimes they are
spoken of as the Alexandrian Trinity. But the implied comparison with
the Trinity of Catholicism is misleading. With Neo-Platonism, the
supreme unity is, properly speaking, alone God and alone One. Nous
is vastly inferior to the first principle, and Soul, again, to Nous.
Possibly the second and third principles are personal; the first most
certainly is not, since self-consciousness is expressly denied to it
by Plotinus. Nor is it likely that the idea of a supernatural triad
was suggested to Neo-Platonism by Christianity. Each of the three
principles may be traced to its source in Greek philosophy. This
has been already shown in the case of the One and of the Nous. The
universal soul is to be found in Plato’s _Timaeus_; it is analogous,
at least in its lower, divided part, to Aristotle’s Nature; and it
is nearly identical with the informing spirit of Stoicism. As to the
number three, it was held in high esteem long before the Christian
era, and was likely to be independently employed for the construction
of different systems at a time when belief in the magical virtue of
particular numbers was more widely diffused than at any former period
of civilised history.

From another point of view, as we have already observed with Kirchner,
the fundamental triad assumed by Plotinus is body, soul, and spirit.
Under their objective aspect of the sensible universe, the world-soul,
and the Nous, these three principles constitute the sum of all reality.
Take away plurality from Nous and there remains the One. Take away
soul from body and there remains unformed matter. These are the two
transcendent principles between which the others extend, and by whose
combination in various proportions they are explained. It is true
that Plotinus himself does not allude to the possibility of such an
analysis, but it exhibits, better than any other, the natural order of
his dialectic.

Plotinus passes by an almost insensible transition from the more
elementary and analytical to the more constructive portion of his
philosophy. This naturally falls into two great divisions, the one
speculative and the other practical. It has to be shown by what
necessity and in what order the great cosmic principles are evolved
from their supreme source; and it has also to be shown in what way
this knowledge is connected with the supreme interests of the human
soul. The moral aspect of Neo-Platonism is not at first very clearly
distinguished from its metaphysical aspect; and both find their most
general solution in the same line of thought that has led us up to
a contemplation of the ultimate One. For the successive gradations
of our ascent represent, in an inverted order, the steps of creative
energy by which all things are evolved from their primal source; while
they directly correspond to the process of purification through which
every soul must pass in returning from the exile of her separate and
material existence to the happiness of identification with God. And
here we at once come on the fundamental contradiction of the system.
What we were so carefully taught to consider as one and nothing more,
must now be conceived as the first cause and the supreme good. Plotinus
does, indeed, try to evade the difficulty by saying that his absolute
is only a cause in relation to other things, that it is not so much
good as the giver of good, that it is only one in the sense of not
being many.[468] But after making these reservations, he continues to
use the old terms as confidently as if they stood for the ideas usually
associated with them. His fundamental error was to identify three
distinct methods of connecting phenomena, in thought, with each other
or with ourselves. We may view things in relation to their generating
antecedents, in relation to other things with which they are associated
by resemblance or juxtaposition, or in relation to the satisfaction of
our own wants. These three modes of reference correspond to Aristotle’s
efficient, formal, and final causes; but the word causation should be
applied only to the first. Whether their unfortunate confusion both by
Aristotle and by his successors was in any appreciable degree due to
their having been associated by him under a common denomination, may
reasonably be doubted. It is rather more probable that the same name
was given to these different conceptions in consequence of their having
first become partially identified in thought. Social arrangements,
which have a great deal to do with primitive speculation, would
naturally lead to such an identification. The king or other chief
magistrate stands at the head of the social hierarchy and forms the
bond of union among its members; he is the source of all authority; and
his position, or, failing that, his favour, is regarded as the supreme
good. Religion extends the same combination of attributes to her chief
God; and philosophy, following on the lines of religion, employs it to
unify the methods of science and morality.

All existence, according to Plotinus, proceeds from the One, which
he also calls God. But God does not create the world by a conscious
exercise of power; for, as we have seen, every form of consciousness
is excluded from his definition. Neither does it proceed from him by
emanation, for this would imply a diminution of his substance.[469] It
is produced by an overflow of his infinite power.[470] Our philosopher
tries to explain and defend this rather unintelligible mode of
derivation by the analogy of physical substances and their actions.
Light is constantly coming from the sun without any loss to the
luminary itself.[471] And all things are, in like manner, constantly
communicating their proper virtue to others while remaining unaltered
themselves. Here we have a good example of the close connexion between
science and abstract speculation. People often talk as if metaphysics
was something beyond the reach of verification. But some metaphysical
theories admit, at any rate, of disproof, in so far as they are founded
on false physical theories. Had Plotinus known that neither the sun nor
anything else in Nature can produce force out of nothing, he would,
very probably, have hesitated to credit the One with such a power.

In reasoning up from the world to its first cause, we were given to
understand that the two were related to one another as contradictory
opposites. The multiple must proceed from the simple, and existence
from that which does not exist. But the analogies of material
production now suggest a somewhat different view. What every power
calls into existence is an image of itself, but the effect is never
more than a weakened and imperfect copy of its original. Thus the
universe appears as a series of diminishing energies descending in
a graduated scale from the highest to the lowest. Here, again, bad
science makes bad philosophy. Effects are never inferior to their
causes, but always exactly equal, the effect being nothing else than
the cause in another place or under another form. This would be obvious
enough, did not superficial observation habitually confound the real
cause with the sum of its concomitants. What we are accustomed to think
of as a single cause is, in truth, a whole bundle of causes, which do
not always converge to a single point, and each of which, taken singly,
is, of course, inferior to the whole sum taken together. Thus when
we say that the sun heats the earth, this is only a conventional way
of speaking. What really does the work is a relatively infinitesimal
part of the solar heat separately transmitted to us through space.
Once neglect this truth, and there is no reason why effects should
not exceed as well as fall short of their causes in any assignable
proportion. Such an illusion is, in fact, produced when different
energies converge to a point. Here it is the consequent and not the
antecedent which is confounded with the sum of its concomitants, as
when an explosion is said to be the effect of a spark.

Of course we are speaking of causation as exercised under the
conditions of time, space, matter, and motion. It is then identical
with the transmission of energy and obeys the laws of energy. And
to talk about causation under any other conditions than these is
utter nonsense. But Plotinus and other philosophers exclude the most
essential of the conditions specified from their enquiries into the
ultimate origin of things. We are expressly informed that the genesis
of Nous from the One, and of Soul from Nous, must not be conceived as
taking place in time but in eternity.[472] Unfortunately those who
make such reservations are not consistent. They continue to talk about
power, causation, priority, and so forth, as if these conceptions
were separable from time. Hence they have to choose between making
statements which are absolutely unintelligible and making statements
which are absolutely untrue.

Perhaps the processes of logic and mathematics may be adduced as an
exception. It may be contended that the genus is prior to the species,
the premise to the conclusion, the unit to the multiple, the line
to the figure, in reason though not in time. And Plotinus avails
himself to the fullest extent of mathematical and logical analogies
in his transcendental constructions. His One is the starting-point
of numeration, the centre of a circle, the identity involved in
difference; and under each relation it claims an absolute priority, of
which causal power is only the most general expression. We have already
seen how a multitude of archetypal Ideas spring from the supreme Nous
as from their fountain-head. Their production is explained, on the
lines of Plato’s _Sophist_, as a process of dialectical derivation. By
logically analysing the conception of self-consciousness, we obtain,
first of all, Nous itself, or Reason, as the subject, and Existence
as the object of thought. Subject and object, considered as the same
with one another, give us Identity; considered as distinct, they
give us Difference. The passage from one to the other gives Motion;
the limitation of thought to itself gives Rest. The plurality of
determinations so obtained gives number and quantity, their specific
difference gives quality, and from these principles everything else
is derived.[473] It might seem as if, here at least, we had something
which could be called a process of eternal generation—a causal order
independent of time. But, in reality, the assumed sequence exists only
in our minds, and there it takes place under the form of time, not less
inevitably than do the external re-arrangements of matter and motion.
Thus in logic and mathematics, such terms as priority, antecedence, and
evolution can only be used to signify the order in which our knowledge
is acquired; they do not answer to causal relations existing among
things in themselves. And apart from these two orders—the objective
order of dynamical production in space and time, and the subjective
order of intelligibility in thought—there is no kind of succession that
we can conceive. Eternal relations, if they exist at all, must be
relations of co-existence, of resemblance, or of difference, continued
through infinite time. Wherever there is antecedence, the consequent
can only have existed for a finite time.

Some may think that we have pushed this point at unnecessary length.
But the Neo-Platonic method is not quite so obsolete as they, perhaps,
suppose. Whenever we repeat the Nicene and Athanasian Creeds, we are
expressing our religious belief in the language of the Alexandrian
schools, thus pledging ourselves to metaphysical dogmas which we can
neither explain nor defend. Such terms as sonship and procession have
no meaning except when applied to relations conceived under the form of
time; and to predicate eternity of them is to reduce them to so much
unintelligible jargon.

An energy continually advancing through successive gradations, and
diminishing as it advances—such, as we have seen, is the conception of
existence offered by Plotinus. We have seen, also, how to explain the
genesis of one principle from another without the aid of supernatural
volition or of mechanical causation, he is compelled to press into
the service every sort of relationship by which two objects can be
connected, and to invest it with a dynamical significance which
only the phenomena of matter and motion can possess. But what he
chiefly relies on for guidance in this tortuous labyrinth of timeless
evolution, is the old Greek principle that contraries are generated
from one another. And with him, as with the earlier thinkers, all
contraries reduce themselves, in the last analysis, to the four great
antitheses of the One and the Many, Being and not-Being, the Same
and the Other, Rest and Motion. It matters nothing that he should
have followed Plato to the extent of co-ordinating five of these
terms as supreme archetypal Ideas, immediately resulting from the
self-consciousness of Nous, and themselves producing all other forms
of existence. They are used, quite independently of that derivation,
to explain the connexion of the various creative principles with one
another. Nous is deduced from its first cause as Being from not-Being,
as the Many from the One, as Difference from Identity, and as Motion
from Rest.[474] To explain the generation of Soul from Nous is a
more difficult problem. The One had originally been defined as the
antithetical cause of Nous, and therefore the latter could easily be
accounted for by simply reversing the analytical process; whereas Nous
had not been defined as the cause of Soul, but as the model whence her
creative Ideas are derived. Soul, in fact, is not opposed to anything;
she is the connecting link between sense and spirit. In this strait,
Plotinus seems to think that the antithesis between Rest and Motion
is the best fitted to express the nature of her descent from the
higher principle; and on one occasion he illustrates the relation of
his three divine substances to one another by the famous figure of a
central point representing the One, a fixed circle round that point
representing the Nous, and outside that, again, a revolving circle
representing the Soul.[475] Still, the different parts of the system
are very awkwardly pieced together at this juncture; for the creative
energy of the Nous has already been invoked to account for the Ideas or
partial intelligences into which it spontaneously divides; and one does
not understand how it can be simultaneously applied to the production
of something that is not an Idea at all.

Fresh difficulties arise in explaining the activity which the Soul,
in her turn, exerts. As originally conceived, her function was
sufficiently clear. Mediating between two worlds, she transforms the
lower one into a likeness of the higher, stamping on material objects a
visible image of the eternal Ideas revealed to her by a contemplation
of the Nous. And, as a further elaboration of this scheme, we were
told that the primary soul generates an inferior soul, which, again,
subdivides itself into the multitude of partial souls required for the
animation of different bodily organisms. But now that our philosopher
has entered on a synthetic construction of the elements furnished by
his preliminary analysis, he finds himself confronted by an entirely
new problem. For his implied principle is that each hypostasis must
generate the grade which comes next after it in the descending series
of manifestations, until the possibilities of existence have been
exhausted. But in developing and applying the noetic Ideas, the Soul,
apparently, finds a pre-existing Matter ready to hand. Thus she has
to deal with something lower than herself, which she did not create,
and which is not created by the Forms combined with it in sensible
experience. We hear of a descent from thought to feeling, and from
feeling to simple vitality,[476] but in each instance the depth of the
Soul’s fall is measured by the extent to which she penetrates into the
recesses of a substance not clearly related to her nor to anything
above her.

Plotinus is driven by this perplexity to reconsider the whole theory
of Matter.[477] He takes Aristotle’s doctrine as the groundwork of
his investigation. According to this, all existence is divided into
Matter and Form. What we know of things—in other words, the sum of
their differential characteristics—is their Form. Take away this, and
the unknowable residuum is their Matter. Again, Matter is the vague
indeterminate something out of which particular Forms are developed.
The two are related as Possibility to Actuality, as the more generic
to the more specific substance through every grade of classification
and composition. Thus there are two Matters, the one sensible and
the other intelligible. The former constitutes the common substratum
of bodies, the other the common element of ideas.[478] The general
distinction between Matter and Form was originally suggested to
Aristotle by Plato’s remarks on the same subject; but he differs from
his master in two important particulars. Plato, in his _Timaeus_, seems
to identify Matter with space.[479] So far, it is a much more positive
conception than the ὕλη of the _Metaphysics_. On the other hand, he
constantly opposes it to reality as something non-existent; and he at
least implies that it is opposed to absolute good as a principle of
absolute evil.[480] Thus while the Aristotelian world is formed by the
development of Power into Actuality, the Platonic world is composed by
the union of Being and not-Being, of the Same and the Different, of the
One and the Many, of the Limit and the Unlimited, of Good and Evil, in
varying proportions with each other.

Plotinus, as we have said, starts with the Aristotelian account of
Matter; but by a process of dialectical manipulation, he gradually
brings it into almost complete agreement with Plato’s conception; thus,
as usual, mediating between and combining the views of his two great
authorities. In the first place, he takes advantage of Aristotle’s
distinction between intelligible and sensible Matter, to strip the
latter of that positive and vital significance with which it had been
clothed in the Peripatetic system. In the world of Ideas, there is an
element common to all specific forms, a fundamental unity in which they
meet and inhere, which may without impropriety be called their Matter.
But this Matter is an eternal and divine substance, inseparably united
with the fixed forms which it supports, and, therefore, something
which, equally with them, receives light and life and thought from
the central source of being. It is otherwise with sensible Matter,
the common substance of the corporeal elements. This is, to use the
energetic expression of our philosopher, a decorated corpse.[481]
It does not remain constantly combined with any form, but is for
ever passing from one to another, without manifesting a particular
preference for any. As such, it is the absolute negation of Form, and
can only be conceived, if at all, by thinking away every sensible
quality. Neither has it any quantity, for quantity means magnitude, and
magnitude implies definite figure. Aristotle opposed to each particular
form a corresponding privation, and placed Matter midway between
them. Plotinus, on the other hand, identifies Matter with the general
privation of all forms. It is at this point that he begins to work his
way back to the Platonic notion of Matter as simple extension. There
must, after all, be something about Matter which enables it to receive
every kind of quality and figure,—it must have some sort of mass or
bulk, not, indeed, in any definite sense, but with an equal capacity
for expansion and for contraction. Now, says Plotinus, the very
indeterminateness of Matter is precisely the capacity for extension in
all directions that we require. ‘Having no principle of stability, but
being borne towards every form, and easily led about in all directions,
it acquires the nature of a mass.’[482]

Henceforth, whatever our philosopher says about Matter will apply to
extension and to extension alone. It cannot be apprehended by sight,
nor by hearing, nor by smell, nor by taste, for it is neither colour,
nor sound, nor odour, nor juice. Neither can it be touched, for it is
not a body, but it becomes corporeal on being blended with sensible
qualities. And, in a later essay, he describes it as receiving all
things and letting them depart again without retaining the slightest
trace of their presence.[483] Why then, it may be asked, if Plotinus
meant extension, could he not say so at once, and save us all this
trouble in hunting out his meaning? There were very good reasons why he
should not. In the first place, he wished to express himself, so far as
possible, in Aristotelian phraseology, and this was incompatible with
the reduction of Matter to extension. In the next place, the idea of
an infinite void had been already appropriated by the Epicureans, to
whose system he was bitterly opposed. And, finally, the extension of
ordinary experience had not the absolute generality which was needed
in order to bring Matter into relation with that ultimate abstraction
whence, like everything else, it has now to be derived.

As a result of the preceding analysis, Plotinus at last identifies
Matter with the Infinite—not an infinite something, but the Infinite
pure and simple, apart from any subject of which it can be predicated.
We started with what seemed a broad distinction between intelligible
and sensible Matter. That distinction now disappears in a new and more
comprehensive conception; and, at the same time, Plotinus begins to see
his way towards a restatement of his whole system in clearer terms.
‘The Infinite is generated from the infinity or power or eternity of
the One; not that there is infinity in the One, but that it is created
by the One.’[484] With the first outrush of energy from the primal
fount of things, Matter begins to exist. But no sooner do movement and
difference start into life, than they are restrained and bent back
by the presence of the One; and this reflection of power or being on
itself constitutes the supreme self-consciousness of Nous.[485] Whether
the subsequent creation of Soul involves a fresh production of energy,
or whether a portion of the original stream, which was called into
existence by the One, escapes from the restraining self-consciousness
of Nous and continues its onward flow—this Plotinus does not say. What
he does say is that Soul stands to Nous in the relation of Matter to
Form, and is raised to perfection by gazing back on the Ideas contained
in Nous, just as Nous itself had been perfected by returning to the
One.[486] But while the two higher principles remain stationary,
the Soul, besides giving birth to a fresh stream of energy, turns
towards her own creation and away from the fountain of her life.
And, apparently, it is only by this condescension on her part that
the visible world could have been formed.[487] We can explain this
by supposing that as the stream of Matter departs more and more from
the One, its power of self-reflection continually diminishes, and at
length ceases altogether. It is thus that the substratum of sensible
objects must, as we have seen, be conceived under the aspect of a
passive recipient for the forms imposed on it by the Soul; and just as
those forms are a mere image of the noetic Ideas, so also, Plotinus
tells us, is their Matter an image of the intelligible Matter which
exists in the Nous itself; only the image realises the conception of
a material principle more completely than the archetype, because of
its more negative and indeterminate nature, a diminution of good being
equivalent to an increase of evil.[488]

Still Plotinus gives no clear answer to the question whence comes this
last and lowest Matter. He will not say that it is an emanation from
the Soul, nor yet will he say that it is a formless residue of the
element out of which she was shaped by a return to the Nous. In truth,
he could not make up his mind as to whether the Matter of sensible
objects was created at all. He oscillates between unwillingness to
admit that absolute evil can come from good, and unwillingness to admit
that the two are co-ordinate principles of existence. And, as usual,
where ideas fail him, he helps himself out of the difficulty with
metaphors. The Soul must advance, and in order to advance she must make
a place for herself, and that there may be a place there must be body.
Or, again, while remaining fixed in herself, she sends out a great
light, and by the light she sees that there is darkness beyond its
extreme verge, and moulds its formless substance into shape.[489]

The ambiguities and uncertainties which Plotinus exhibits in theorising
on the origin of Matter, are due not only to the conflicting influences
of Plato and Aristotle, but also to another influence quite distinct
from theirs. This is the Stoic cosmology. While utterly repudiating
the materialism of the Stoics, Plotinus evidently felt attracted by
their severe monism, and by the consistent manner in which they derived
every form of existence from the divine substance. They too recognised
a distinction between Form and Matter, the active and the passive
principle in Nature, but they supposed that the one, besides being
penetrated and moulded by the other, had also been originally produced
by it. Such a theory was well suited to the energetic and practical
character of Stoic morality, with its aversion from mere contemplation,
its immediate bearing on the concrete interests of life. Man was
conceived as an intelligent force, having for his proper function to
bring order out of chaos, ‘to make reason and the will of God prevail,’
and this ideal appeared to be reflected in the dynamic constitution of
Nature. With Plotinus, on the other hand, as with Aristotle, theory and
not practice was the end of life, or rather, as he himself expressed
it, practice was an inferior kind of theorising, an endeavour to set
before oneself in outward form what should properly be sought in the
noetic world where subject and object are one.[490] Accordingly, while
accepting the Stoic monism, he strove to bring it into close agreement
with Aristotle’s cosmology, by substituting contemplation for will as
the creative principle in all existence, no less than as the ideal of
happiness for man.

We have seen how, in accordance with this view, each principle is
perfected by looking back on its source.[491] Thus the activity of the
world-soul, so far as it is exercised for the benefit of what comes
after and falls beneath her, is an anomaly only to be accounted for
by her inferior place in the system of graduated descent; or else by
the utter impotence of Matter, which is incapable of raising itself
into Form by a spontaneous act of reflection, and can only passively
receive the images transmitted to it from above, without being able
to retain even these for any time. Nay, here also, what looks like
creative energy admits of being assimilated more or less closely to an
exercise of idealising thought. It is really for her own sake that the
Soul fills what lies beyond her with life and light, not, like Plato’s
Soul, from pure disinterested joy in the communication and diffusion of
good. It is because she recoils with horror from darkness and nonentity
that she shapes the formless substance into a residence for herself, on
the model of the imperial palace whence she came. Thus the functions of
sensation, nutrition, and reproduction are to be regarded as so many
modes of contemplation. In the first, the Soul dwells on the material
images which already exist; in the second and third, she strives to
perpetuate and multiply them still further. And the danger is that she
may become so enthralled by her own creation as to forget the divine
original after which it is formed.[492] Should she yield to the snare,
successive transmigrations will sink her lower and lower into the
depths of animalism and material darkness. To avoid this degradation,
to energise with the better part of our nature, is to be good. And with
the distinction between good and evil, we pass from the metaphysical to
the ethical portion of the system.


VIII.

All virtue, with Plotinus, rests on the superiority of the soul
to the body. So far, he follows the common doctrine of Plato and
Aristotle. But in working out the distinction, he is influenced by the
individualising and theoretic philosophy of the latter rather than by
the social and practical philosophy of the former. Or, again, we may
say that with him the intellectualism of Aristotle is heightened and
warmed by the religious aspirations of Plato, strengthened and purified
by the Stoic passionlessness, the Stoic independence of external
goods. In his ethical system, the virtues are arranged in an ascending
scale. Each grade reproduces the old quadripartite division into
Wisdom, Courage, Temperance and Justice, but in each their respective
significance receives a new interpretation. As civic virtues, they
continue to bear the meaning assigned to them in Plato’s _Republic_.
Wisdom belongs to reason, Courage to passionate spirit, Temperance
to desire, while Justice implies the fulfilment of its appropriate
function by each.[493] But all this only amounts to the restriction of
what would otherwise be unregulated impulse, the imposition of Form on
Matter, the supremacy of the soul over the body; whereas what we want
is to get rid of matter altogether. Here also, Plato sets us on the
right track when he calls the virtues purifications. From this point
of view, for the soul to energise alone without any interference, is
Wisdom; not to be moved by the passions of the body is Temperance; not
to dread separation from the body is Courage; and to obey the guidance
of reason is Justice.[494] Such a disposition of the soul is what Plato
means by flying from the world and becoming like God. Is this enough?
No, it is not. We have, so far, been dealing only with the negative
conditions of good, not with good itself. The essential thing is not
purification, but what remains behind when the work of purification
is accomplished. So we come to the third and highest grade of virtue,
the truly divine life, which is a complete conversion to reason. Our
philosopher endeavours to fit this also into the framework of the
cardinal virtues, but not without imposing a serious strain on the
ordinary meaning of words. Of Wisdom nothing need be said, for it
is the same as rationality. Justice is the self-possession of mind,
Temperance the inward direction towards reason, Courage the impassivity
arising from resemblance to that which is by nature impassive.[495]

Plotinus is careful to make us understand that his morality has neither
an ascetic nor a suicidal tendency. Pleasures are to be tolerated
under the form of a necessary relief and relaxation; pains are to be
removed, but if incurable, they are to be patiently borne; anger is,
if possible, to be suppressed, and, at any rate, not allowed to exceed
the limits of an involuntary movement; fear will not be felt except
as a salutary warning. The bodily appetites will be restricted to
natural wants, and will not be felt by the soul, except, perhaps, as a
transient excitement of the imagination.[496] Whatever abstinences our
philosopher may have practised on his own account, we find no trace of
a tendency towards self-mortification in his writings, nothing that is
not consistent with the healthiest traditions of Greek spiritualism as
originally constituted by the great Athenian school.

While not absolutely condemning suicide, Plotinus restricts the right
of leaving this world within much narrower limits than were assigned
to it by the Stoics. In violently separating herself from the body,
the soul, he tells us, is acting under the influence of some evil
passion, and he intimates that the mischievous effects of this passion
will prolong themselves into the new life on which she is destined
to enter.[497] Translated into more abstract language, his meaning
probably is that the feelings which ordinarily prompt to suicide, are
such as would not exist in a well-regulated mind. It is remarkable
that Schopenhauer, whose views of life were, on other points, the very
reverse of those held by Plotinus, should have used very much the same
argument against self-destruction. According to his theory, the will
to life, which it should be our principal business to conquer, asserts
itself strongly in the wish to escape from suffering, and only delays
the final moment of peaceful extinction by rushing from one phase of
existence to another. And in order to prove the possibility of such a
revival, Schopenhauer was obliged to graft on his philosophy a theory
of metempsychosis, which, but for this necessity, would certainly never
have found a place in it at all. In this, as in many other instances,
an ethical doctrine is apparently deduced from a metaphysical doctrine
which has, in reality, been manufactured for its support. All systems
do but present under different formulas a common fund of social
sentiment. A constantly growing body of public opinion teaches us that
we do not belong to ourselves, but to those about us, and that, in
ordinary circumstances, it is no less weak and selfish to run away from
life than to run away from death.

Plotinus follows up his essay on the Virtues by an essay on
Dialectic.[498] As a method for attaining perfection, he places
dialectic above ethics; and, granting that the apprehension of abstract
ideas ranks higher than the performance of social duties, he is quite
consistent in so doing. Not much, however, can be made of his few
remarks on the subject. They seem to be partly meant for a protest
against the Stoic idea that logic is an instrument for acquiring truth
rather than truth itself, and also against the Stoic use or abuse of
the syllogistic method. In modern phraseology, Plotinus seems to view
dialectic as the immanent and eternal process of life itself, rather
than as a collection of rules for drawing correct inferences from true
propositions, or from propositions assumed to be true. We have seen
how he regarded existence in the highest sense as identical with the
self-thinking of the absolute Nous, and how he attempted to evolve the
whole series of archetypal Ideas contained therein from the simple
fact of self-consciousness. Thus he would naturally identify dialectic
with the subjective reproduction of this objective evolution; and here
he would always have before his eyes the splendid programme sketched
in Plato’s _Republic_.[499] His preference of intuitive to discursive
reasoning has been quoted by Ritter as a symptom of mysticism. But
here, as in so many instances, he follows Aristotle, who also held that
simple abstraction is a higher operation, and represents a higher order
of real existence than complex ratiocination.[500]

The ultimate stage of perfection is, of course, the identification of
subject and object, the ascent from the Nous to the One. But, on this
point, Plotinus never added anything essential to what has already
been quoted from the analytical portion of his enquiry, and the essay
containing that passage is accordingly placed last in Porphyry’s
arrangement of his works.

Our account of Neo-Platonism has, with the exception of a few
illustrations, been derived exclusively from the earlier essays of
Plotinus. His subsequent writings are exceedingly obscure and tedious,
and they add little by way either of development or defence to the
outlines which he had sketched with a master’s hand. Whatever materials
they may supply for a better appreciation, whether of his philosophy or
of his general character as a thinker, will most profitably find their
place in the final survey of both which we shall now attempt to give.


IX.

Every great system of philosophy may be considered from four distinct
points of view. We may ask what is its value as a theory of the world
and of human life, measured either by the number of new truths which
it contains, or by the stimulus to new thought which it affords. Or
we may consider it from the aesthetic side, as a monumental structure
interesting us not by its utility, but by its beauty and grandeur.
Under this aspect, a system may be admirable for its completeness,
coherence, and symmetry, or for the great intellectual qualities
exhibited by its architect, although it may be open to fatal objections
as a habitation for human beings, and may fail to reproduce the plan
on which we now know that the universe is built. Or, again, our
interest in the work may be purely historical and psychological; we
may look on it as the product of a particular age and a particular
mind, as summing up for us under their most abstract form the ideas and
aspirations which at any given moment had gained possession of educated
opinion. Or, finally, we may study it as a link in the evolution of
thought, as a result of earlier tendencies, and an antecedent of later
developments. We propose to make a few remarks on the philosophy of
Plotinus, or, what is the same thing, on Neo-Platonism in general, from
each of these four points of view.

In absolute value, Neo-Platonism stands lowest as well as last among
the ancient schools of thought. No reader who has followed us thus far
will need to be reminded how many valuable ideas were first brought to
light, or reinforced with new arguments and illustrations by the early
Greek thinkers, by the Sophists and Socrates, by Plato and Aristotle,
by the Stoics, Epicureans, and Sceptics, and by the moralists of the
Roman empire. On every subject of speculation that can be started, we
continue to ask, like Plotinus himself, what the ‘blessed ancients’
had to say about it;[501] not, of course, because they lived a long
time ago, but because they came first, because they said what they had
to say with the unique charm of original discovery, because they were
in more direct contact than we are, not, indeed, with the facts, but
with the phenomena of Nature and life and thought. It is true that we
have nothing more to learn from them, for whatever was sound in their
teaching has been entirely absorbed into modern thought, and combined
with ideas of which they did not dream. But until we come to Hume and
his successors, there is nothing in philosophical literature that can
be compared to their writings for emancipating and stimulating power;
and, perhaps, when the thinkers of the last and present centuries have
become as obsolete as Bacon and Descartes are now, those writings will
continue to be studied with unabating zeal. Neo-Platonism, on the other
hand, is dead, and every attempt made to galvanise it into new life has
proved a disastrous failure. The world, that is to say the world of
culture, will not read Plotinus and his successors, will not even read
the books that are written about them by scholars of brilliant literary
ability like MM. Vacherot and Jules Simon in France, Steinhart and
Kirchner in Germany.[502]

We have not far to seek for the cause of this fatal condemnation.
Neo-Platonism is nothing if not a system, and as a system it is false,
and not only false but out of relation to every accepted belief. In
combining the dialectic of Plato with the metaphysics of Aristotle and
the physics of Stoicism, Plotinus has contrived to rob each of whatever
plausibility it once possessed. The Platonic doctrine of Ideas was an
attempt to express something very real and important, the distinction
between laws and facts in Nature, between general principles and
particular observations in science, between ethical standards and
everyday practice in life. The eternal Nous of Aristotle represented
the upward struggle of Nature through mechanical, chemical, and vital
movements to self-conscious thought. The world-soul of Stoicism
represented a return to monism, a protest against the unphilosophical
antithesis between God and the world, spirit and matter, necessity and
free-will. Plotinus attempts to rationalise the Ideas by shutting them
up in the Aristotelian Nous, with the effect of severing them still
more hopelessly from the real world, and, at the same time, making
their subjective origin still more flagrantly apparent than before.
And along with the Stoic conception of a world-soul, he preserves all
those superstitious fancies about secret spiritual sympathies and
affinities connecting the different parts of Nature with one another
which the conception of a transcendent Nous, as originally understood
by Aristotle, had at least the merit of excluding. Finally, by a
tremendous wrench of abstraction, the unity of existence is torn away
from existence itself, and the most relative of all conceptions is put
out of relation to the thought which, in the very same breath, it is
declared to condition, and to the things which it is declared to create.

Again, on the practical side, by combining Plato with Aristotle and
both with Stoicism, Plotinus contrives to eliminate what is most
valuable in each. If, in the _Republic_, the Good was placed above all
existence, this was only that we might transform existence into its
image. If Aristotle placed the theoretical above the ethical virtues,
he assigned no limits but those of observation and reasoning to the
energising of theoretic power. If the Stoics rested morality on the
absolute isolation of the human will, they deduced from this principle
not only the inwardness of virtue, but also the individualisation of
duty, the obligation of beneficence, and the forgiveness of sin. But
with Plotinus, Reason has no true object of contemplation outside
its own abstract ideas, and the self-realisation of Stoicism means a
barren consciousness of personal identity, from which every variety of
interest and sympathy is excluded: it is not an expansion of our own
soul into coincidence with the absolute All, but a concentration of
both into a single point, a flight of the alone to the alone;[503] and
only in this utter solitude does he suppose that the Platonic Good is
finally and wholly possessed.

Nor, with a single exception, is the fundamental untruth of the system
redeemed by any just and original observations on points of detail such
as lie so thickly scattered over the pages of other metaphysicians,
both in ancient and modern literature. The single exception is the
refutation of materialism to which attention has been already directed.
Apart from this, the _Enneads_ do not contain one single felicitous or
suggestive idea, nothing that can enlarge the horizon of our thoughts,
nothing that can exalt the purpose of our lives.

If, however, we pass to the second point of view, and judge
Neo-Platonism according to the requirements, not of truth or of
usefulness, but of beauty, our first verdict of utter condemnation will
be succeeded by a much more favourable opinion. Plotinus has used the
materials inherited from his predecessors with unquestionable boldness
and skill; and the constructive power exhibited in the general plan of
his vast system is fully equalled by the close reasoning with which
every detail is elaborated and fitted into its proper place. Nothing
can be imagined more imposing than this wondrous procession of forms
defiling from the unknown to the unknown—from the self-developing
consciousness of Reason as it breaks and flames and multiplies into
a whole universe of being and life and thought, ever returning, by
the very law of their production, to the source whence they have
sprung—onward and outward on the wings of the cosmic Soul, through
this visible world, where they reappear as images of intellectual
beauty in the eternal revolutions of the starry spheres above, in the
everlasting reproduction of organic species below, in the loveliest
thoughts and actions of the loveliest human souls—till the utmost
limits of their propagation and dispersion have been reached, till
the last faint rays of existence die out in the dark and void region
that extends to infinity beyond. Nothing in the realm of abstractions
can be more moving than this Odyssey of the human soul, wakened by
visions of earthly loveliness to a consciousness of her true destiny, a
remembrance of her lost and forgotten home; then abandoning these for
the possession of a more spiritual beauty, ascending by the steps of
dialectic to a contemplation of the archetypal Ideas that lie folded
and mutually interpenetrated in the bosom of the eternal Reason where
thought and being are but the double aspect of a single absolute
reality; seeking farther and higher, beyond the limits of existence
itself, for a still purer unity, and finding in the awful solitude of
that supreme elevation that the central source of all things does not
lie without but within, that only in returning to self-identity does
she return to the One; or, again, descending to the last confines of
light and life that she may prolong their radiation into the formless
depths of matter, projecting on its darkness an image of the glory
whose remembrance still attends her in her fall.

Still more impressive, if we consider the writings of Plotinus on their
personal side, and as a revelation of their author’s mind, is the high
and sustained purity, the absolute detachment and disinterestedness by
which they are characterised throughout. No trace of angry passion,
no dallying with images of evil, interferes to mar their exalted
spirituality from first to last. While the western world was passing
through a period of horror and degradation such as had never been known
before, the philosopher took refuge in an ideal sphere, and looked
down on it all with no more disturbance to his serenity than if he had
been the spectator of a mimic performance on the stage.[504] This,
indeed, is one of the reasons why the _Enneads_ are so much less
interesting, from a literary point of view, than the works of the Roman
Stoics. It is not only that we fail to find in them any allusions even
of the faintest kind to contemporary events or to contemporary life
and manners, such as abound in Seneca and Epictêtus, but there is not
the slightest reference to the existence of such a thing as the Roman
empire at all. One or two political illustrations occur, but they
are drawn from old Greek city life, and were probably suggested by
Plato or Aristotle.[505] But this tremendous blank is so perfectly in
keeping with the whole spirit of Neo-Platonism as to heighten instead
of lowering its aesthetic effect. In studying the philosophy of the
preceding centuries, to whatever school it may belong, we have the
image of death always before our eyes; and to fortify us against its
terrors, we are continually called upon to remember the vanity of life.
This is the protest of thought against the world, just as in Lucian and
Sextus we hear the protest of the world against thought. At last the
whole bitter strife comes to an end, the vision of sense passes away,

  And leaves us with Plotinus and pure souls.

Here we need no deliverance from troubles and indignities which are
not felt; nor do we need to be prepared for death, knowing that we
can never die. The world will no longer look askance at us, for we
have ceased to concern ourselves about its reformation. No scepticism
can shake our convictions, for we have discovered the secret of all
knowledge through the consciousness of that which is eternal in
ourselves. Thus the world of outward experience has dropped out of our
thoughts, because thought has orbed into a world of its own.


X.

In the foregoing remarks we have already passed from the purely
aesthetic to the historical or psychological view of Neo-Platonism—that
is, the view which considers a philosophy in reference to the
circumstances of its origin. Every speculative system reflects, more
or less fully, the spirit of the age in which it was born; and the
absence of all allusion to contemporary events does not prove that
the system of Plotinus was an exception to this rule. It only proves
that the tendency of the age was to carry away men’s thoughts from
practical to theoretical interests. We have already characterised the
first centuries of Roman imperialism as a period of ever-increasing
religious reaction; and in this reaction we attempted to distinguish
between the development of supernaturalist beliefs which were
native to Greece and Italy, and the importation of beliefs which had
originated in the East. We saw also how philosophy shared in the
general tendency, how it became theological and spiritualistic instead
of ethical and naturalistic, how its professors were converted from
opponents into upholders of the popular belief. Now, according to some
critics, Neo-Platonism marks another stage in the gradual substitution
of faith for reason, of authority for independent thought; the only
question being whether we should interpret it as a product of Oriental
mysticism, or as a simple sequence of the same movement which had
previously led from Cicero to Seneca, from Seneca to Epictêtus, from
Epictêtus to Marcus Aurelius.

Of these views, the first is taken by Ritter, and adopted with some
modifications by M. Vacherot in his _Histoire de l’École d’Alexandrie_.
It is also unreservedly accepted by Donaldson in his continuation of
Müller’s _History of Greek Literature_, and is probably held at this
moment by most Englishmen who take any interest in the subject at all.
The second view—according to which Neo-Platonism is, at least in its
main features, a characteristic although degenerate product of Greek
thought—is that maintained by Zeller. As against the Orientalising
theory, it seems to us that Zeller has thoroughly proved his case.[506]
It may be doubted whether there is a single idea in Plotinus which can
be shown to have its exact counterpart in any of the Hindoo or other
Asiatic systems whence he is supposed to have drawn; and, as our own
analysis has abundantly shown, he says nothing that cannot be derived,
either directly or by a simple and easy process of evolution, from
Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics. On the other hand, has not Zeller
gone much too far in treating Neo-Platonism as a product of the great
religious reaction which unquestionably preceded and accompanied its
appearance? Has he not altogether underrated its importance as a purely
speculative system, an effort towards the attainment of absolute truth
by the simple exercise of human reason? It seems to us that he has, and
we shall offer some grounds for venturing to differ from his opinion.

To appreciate the labours of Plotinus, we must, first of all, compare
his whole philosophic method with that of his predecessors. Now, Zeller
himself has shown quite clearly that in reach of thought, in power of
synthesis, in accuracy of reasoning, not one of these can be compared
to the founder of Neo-Platonism for a single moment.[507] We may go
still further and declare with confidence that no philosopher of equal
speculative genius had appeared in Hellas since Chrysippus, or, very
possibly, since Aristotle. The only ground for disputing his claims to
take rank with the great masters of Hellenic thought seems to be that
his system culminates on the objective side in something which lies
beyond existence, and on the subjective side in a mystical ecstasy
which is the negation of reason. We have shown, however, that if the
One is represented as transcending reality, so also is the Idea of Good
which corresponds to it in Plato’s scheme; and that the One is reached
if not grasped by a process of reasoning which, although unsound, still
offers itself as reasoning alone, and moves in complete independence of
any revelation or intuition such as those to which the genuine systems
of mysticism so freely resort.

It cannot be too often repeated that the One in no way conflicts
with the world of real existence, but, on the contrary, creates and
completes it. Now, within that world, with which alone reason is
properly concerned, Plotinus never betrays any want of confidence in
its power to discover truth; nor, contrary to what Zeller assumes,
does he seem to have been in the least affected by the efforts of the
later Sceptics to invalidate its pretensions in this respect.[508]
Their criticism was, in fact, chiefly directed against Stoicism, and
did not touch the spiritualistic position at all. That there can be no
certain knowledge afforded by sensation, or, speaking more generally,
by the action of an outward object on an inward subject, Plotinus
himself fully admits or rather contends.[509] But while distrusting
the ability of external perception, taken alone, to establish the
existence of an external object by which it is caused, he expressly
claims such a power for reason or understanding.[510] For him, as
for Aristotle, and probably for Plato also, the mind is one with its
real object; in every act of cognition the idea becomes conscious
of itself. We do not say that Scepticism is powerless against such
a theory as this, but, in point of fact, it was a theory which the
ancient Sceptics had not attacked, and their arguments no more led
Plotinus to despair of reason, than the similar arguments of Protagoras
and Gorgias had led Plato and Aristotle to despair of it six centuries
before. If Sextus and his school contributed anything to the great
philosophical revolution of the succeeding age, it was by so weakening
the materialistic systems as to render them less capable of opposing
the spiritualistic revival when it came.

Unquestionably Plotinus was influenced by the supernaturalistic
movement of his age, but only as Plato had been influenced by the
similar reaction of his time; and just as the Athenian philosopher
had protested against the superstitions which he saw gaining ground,
so also did the Alexandrian philosopher protest, with far less vigour
it is true, but still to some extent, against the worse extravagances
universally entertained by his contemporaries. Among these, to judge
by numerous allusions in his writings, astrology and magic held the
foremost place. That there was something in both, he did not venture
to deny, but he constantly endeavours to extenuate their practical
significance and to give a more philosophical interpretation to the
alleged phenomena on which they were based. Towards the old polytheism,
his attitude, without being hostile, is perfectly independent. We can
see this even in his life, notwithstanding the religious colouring
thrown over it by Porphyry. When invited by his disciple Amelius to
join in the public worship of the gods, he proudly answered, ‘It
is their business to come to me, not mine to go to them.’[511] In
allegorising the old myths, he handles them with as much freedom
as Bacon, and evidently with no more belief in their historical
character.[512] In giving the name of God to his supreme principle, he
is careful to exclude nearly every attribute associated with divinity
even in the purest forms of contemporary theology. Personality,
intelligence, will, and even existence, are expressly denied to the
One. Although the first cause and highest good of all things, it is
so not in a religious but in an abstract, metaphysical sense. The
Nous with its ideal offspring and the world-soul are also spoken of
as gods; but their personality, if they have any, is of the most
shadowy description, and there is no reason for thinking that Plotinus
ever worshipped them himself or intended them to be worshipped by
his disciples. Like Aristotle, he attributes animation and divinity
to the heavenly bodies, but with such careful provisions against an
anthropomorphic conception of their nature, that not much devotional
feeling is likely to have mingled with the contemplation of their
splendour. Finally, we arrive at the daemons, those intermediate
spirits which play so great a part in the religion of Plutarch and the
other Platonists of the second century. With regard to these, Plotinus
repeats many of the current opinions as if he shared them; but his
adhesion is of an extremely tepid character; and it may be doubted
whether the daemons meant much more for him than for Plato.[513]

The immortality of the soul is a subject on which idealistic
philosophers habitually express themselves in terms of apparently
studied ambiguity, and this is especially true of Plotinus. Here, as
elsewhere, he repeats the opinions and arguments of Plato, but with
certain developments which make his adhesion to the popular belief in a
personal duration after death considerably more doubtful than was that
of his master. One great difficulty in the way of Plato’s doctrine, as
commonly understood, is that it attributes a permanence to individuals,
which, on the principles of his system, should belong only to general
ideas. Now, at first sight, Plotinus seems to evade this difficulty
by admitting everlasting ideas of individuals no less than of generic
types.[514] A closer examination, however, shows that this view is even
more unfavourable than Plato’s to the hope of personal immortality. For
either our real self is independent of our empirical consciousness,
which is just what we wish to have preserved, or, as seems more
probable, the eternal existence which it enjoys is of an altogether
ideal character, like that which Spinoza also attributed to the human
soul, and which, in his philosophy, certainly had nothing to do with a
prolongation of individual consciousness beyond the grave. As Madame de
Staël observes of a similar view held at one time by Schelling, ‘cette
immortalité-là ressemble terriblement à la mort.’ And when, in addition
to his own theory of individual ideas, we find Plotinus adopting
the theory of the Stoics, that the whole course of mundane affairs
periodically returns to its starting-point and is repeated in the same
order as before,[515] we cannot help concluding that human immortality
in the popular sense must have seemed as impossible to him as it did to
them. We must, therefore, suppose that the doctrine of metempsychosis
and future retributions which he unquestionably professes, applies only
to certain determinate cycles of psychic life; or that it was to him,
what it had probably been to Plato, only a figurative way of expressing
the essential unity of all souls, and the transcendent character of
ethical distinctions.[516]

In this connexion we may deal with the question whether the philosophy
of Plotinus is properly described as a pantheistic system. Plotinus
was certainly not a pantheist in the same sense as Spinoza and Hegel.
With him, the One and the All are not identical; although impersonal
and unconscious, his supreme principle is not immanent in the universe,
but transcends and creates it: the totality of things are dependent
on it, but it is independent of them. Even were we to assume that the
One is only ideally distinct from the existence which it causes, still
the Nous would remain separate from the world-soul, the higher Soul
from Nature, and, within the sphere of Nature herself, Matter would
continue to be perpetually breaking away from Form, free-will would
be left in unreconciled hostility to fate. Once, and once only, if we
remember rightly, does our philosopher rise to the modern conception
of the universe as an absolute whole whose parts are not caused but
constituted by their fundamental unity, and are not really separated
from one another in Nature, but only ideally distinguished in our
thoughts. And he adds that we cannot keep up this effort of abstraction
for long at a time; things escape from us, and return to their original
unity.[517] With Plotinus himself, however, the contrary was true: what
he could not keep up was his grasp on the synthetic unity of things.
And he himself supplies us with a ready explanation why it should be
so, when he points to the dividing tendency of thought as opposed to
the uniting tendency of Nature. What he and the other Hellenic thinkers
wanted above all, was to make the world clear to themselves and to
their pupils, and this they accomplished by their method of serial
classification, by bringing into play what we have often spoken of as
the moments of antithesis, mediation, and circumscription, Stoicism
also had just touched the pantheistic idea, only to let it go again.
After being nominally identified with the world, the Stoic God was
represented as a designing intelligence, like the Socratic God—an idea
wholly alien from real pantheism.

If Plotinus rose above the vulgar superstitions of the West, while,
at the same time, using their language for the easier expression of
his philosophical ideas, there was one more refined superstition of
mixed Greek and Oriental origin which he denounced with the most
uncompromising vigour. This was Gnosticism, as taught by Valentinus
and his school. Towards the close of our last chapter, we gave some
account of the theory in question. It was principally as enemies of the
world and maligners of its perfection that the Gnostics made themselves
offensive to the founder of Neo-Platonism. To him, the antithesis of
good and evil was represented, not by the opposition of spirit and
Nature, but by the opposition between his ideal principle through all
degrees of its perfection, and unformed Matter. Like Plato, he looked
on the existing world as a consummate work of art, an embodiment
of the archetypal Ideas, a visible presentation of reason. But in
the course of his attack on the Gnostics,[518] other points of great
interest are raised, showing how profoundly his philosophy differed
from theirs, how entirely he takes his stand on the fixed principles
of Hellenic thought. Thus he particularly reproaches his opponents for
their systematic disparagement of Plato, to whom, after all, they owe
whatever is true and valuable in their metaphysics.[519] He ridicules
their belief in demoniacal possession, with its wholly gratuitous and
clumsy employment of supernatural agencies to account for what can be
sufficiently explained by the operation of natural causes.[520] And,
more than anything else, he severely censures their detachment of
religion from morality. On this last point, some of his remarks are so
striking and pertinent that they deserve to be quoted.

 Above all, he exclaims, we must not fail to notice what effect this
 doctrine has on the minds of those whom they have persuaded to despise
 the world and all that it contains. Of the two chief methods for
 attaining the supreme good, one has sensual pleasure for its end,
 the other virtue, the effort after which begins and ends with God.
 Epicurus, by his denial of providence, leaves us no choice but to
 pursue the former. But this doctrine [Gnosticism], involving as it
 does a still more insolent denial of divine order and human law,
 laughs to scorn what has always been the accepted ideal of conduct,
 and, in its rage against beauty, abolishes temperance and justice—the
 justice that is associated with natural feeling and perpetuated by
 discipline and reason—along with every other ennobling virtue. So,
 in the absence of true morality, they are given over to pleasure and
 utility and selfish isolation from other men—unless, indeed, their
 nature is better than their principles. They have an ideal that
 nothing here below can satisfy, and so they put off the effort for its
 attainment to a future life, whereas they should begin at once, and
 prove that they are of divine race by fulfilling the duties of their
 present state. For virtue is the condition of every higher aspiration,
 and only to those who disdain sensual enjoyment is it given to
 understand the divine. How far our opponents are from realising this
 is proved by their total neglect of ethical science. They neither
 know what virtue is, nor how many virtues there are, nor what ancient
 philosophy has to teach us on the subject, nor what are the methods of
 moral training, nor how the soul is to be tended and cleansed. They
 tell us to look to God; but merely saying this is useless unless they
 can tell us what the manner of the looking is to be. For it might be
 asked, what is to prevent us from looking to God, while at the same
 time freely indulging our sensual appetites and angry passions. Virtue
 perfected, enlightened, and rooted in the soul, will reveal God to us,
 but without it he will remain an empty name.[521]

Even M. Vacherot, with all his anxiety to discover an Oriental origin
for Neo-Platonism, cannot help seeing that this attack on the Gnostics
was inspired by an indignant reaction of Greek philosophy against the
inroads of Oriental superstition, and that the same character belongs
more or less to the whole system of its author. But, so far as we
are aware, Kirchner is the only critic who has fully worked out this
idea, and exhibited the philosophy of Plotinus in its true character
as a part of the great classical revival, which after producing the
literature of the second century reached its consummation in a return
to the idealism of Plato and Aristotle.[522]

Neo-Platonism may itself furnish us with no inapt image of the age
in which it arose. Like the unformed Matter about which we have been
hearing so much, the consciousness of that period was in itself dark,
indeterminate and unsteady, uncreative, unspontaneous, unoriginating,
but with a receptive capacity which enabled it to seize, reflect, and
transmit the power of living Reason, the splendour of eternal thought.


XI.

In fixing the relation of Plotinus to his own age, we have gone far
towards fixing his relation to all ages, the place which he occupies
in the development of philosophy as a connected whole. We have seen
that as an attempt to discover the truth of things, his speculations
are worthless and worse than worthless, since their method no less than
their teaching is false. Nevertheless, Wisdom is justified of all her
children. Without adding anything to the sum of positive knowledge,
Plotinus produced an effect on men’s thoughts not unworthy of the great
intellect and pure life which he devoted to the service of philosophy.
No other thinker has ever accomplished a revolution so immediate, so
comprehensive, and of such prolonged duration. He was the creator of
Neo-Platonism, and Neo-Platonism simply annihilated every school of
philosophy to which it was opposed. For thirteen centuries or more,
the three great systems which had so long divided the suffrages of
educated minds—Stoicism, Epicureanism, and Scepticism—ceased to exist,
and were allowed to lapse into such complete oblivion that only a few
fragments of the works in which they were originally embodied have
been preserved. And Plotinus was enabled to do this by the profound
insight which led him to strike less at any particular doctrine held
by his opponents than at the common foundation on which they all
stood, the materialism openly professed by the Stoics and Epicureans,
and assumed by the Sceptics as the necessary presupposition of every
dogmatic philosophy. It is true that the principle which he opposed
to theirs was not of his own origination, although he stated it more
powerfully than it had ever been stated before. But to have revived
the spiritualism of Plato and Aristotle in such a way as to win for it
universal acceptance, was precisely his greatest merit. It is also the
only one that he would have claimed for himself. As we have already
mentioned, he professed to be nothing more than the disciple of Plato.
And although Aristotelian ideas abound in his writings, still not only
are they overbalanced by the Platonic element, but Plotinus might
justly have contended that they also belong, in a sense, to Plato,
having been originally acquired by a simple development from his
teaching.

We have said that the founder of Neo-Platonism contrived to blend the
systems of his two great authorities in such a manner as to eliminate
much of the relative truth which is contained in each of them taken
by itself. It has been reserved for modern thought to accomplish the
profounder synthesis which has eliminated their errors in combining
their truths. Yet, perhaps, no other system would have satisfied
the want of the time so well as that constructed by Plotinus out of
the materials at his disposal. Such as it was, that system held its
ground as the reigning philosophy until all independent thinking was
suppressed by Justinian, somewhat more than two and a half centuries
after its author’s death. Even then it did not become extinct, but
reappeared in Christian literature, in the writings attributed to
Dionysius the Areopagite, and again in the daring speculations of
Erigena, the father of mediaeval philosophy, to pass under more diluted
forms into the teaching of the later Schoolmen, until the time arrived
for its renewed study in the original sources as an element of the
Platonic revival in the fifteenth century. All this popularity proves,
as we say, that Plotinus suited his own age and other ages which
reproduced the same general intellectual tendencies. But the important
thing was that he made Plato and Aristotle more interesting, and thus
led men to study their writings more eagerly than before. The true
reign of those philosophers does not begin until we reach the Middle
Ages, and the commanding position which they then enjoyed was due, in
great measure, to the revolution effected by Plotinus.

But when Neo-Platonism, as a literature and a system, had given way
to the original authorities from which it was derived, its influence
did not, on that account, cease to be felt. In particular, Plotinus
gave currency to a certain interpretation of Plato’s teaching which
has been universally accepted until a comparatively recent period,
perhaps one may say until the time of Schleiermacher. We have seen how
many elements of Platonism he left out of sight; and, thanks to his
example, followed as it naturally was by Catholic theologians, the
world was content to leave them out of sight as well. The charming
disciple of Socrates whom we all know and love—the literary and
dramatic artist, the brilliant parodist, the sceptical _railleur_ from
the shafts of whose irony even his own theories are not safe, the
penetrating observer of human life, the far-seeing critic and reformer
of social institutions—is a discovery of modern scholarship. Not as
such did the master of idealism appear to Marsilio Ficino and Michael
Angelo, to Lady Jane Grey and Cudworth and Henry More, to Berkeley and
Hume and Thomas Taylor, to all the great English poets from Spenser
to Shelley; not as such does he now appear to popular imagination;
but as a mystical enthusiast, a dreamer of dreams which, whether they
be realised or not in some far-off sphere, are, at any rate, out of
relation to the world of sensuous experience and everyday life. So
absolute, indeed, is the reaction from this view that we are in danger
of rushing to the contrary extreme, of forgetting what elements of
truth the Plotinian interpretation contained, and substituting for
it an interpretation still more one-sided, still more inadequate to
express the scope and splendour of Plato’s thoughts. Plato believed
in truth and right and purity, believed in them still more profoundly
than Plotinus; and his was a more effectual faith precisely because he
did not share the sterile optimism of his Alexandrian disciple, but
worked and watched for the realisation of what, as yet, had never been
realised.[523]

Finally, by the form which he gave to Platonism, Plotinus has had
a large share in determining the direction of modern metaphysics.
Although, as we have seen, not, properly speaking, a pantheist himself,
he showed how the ideal theory could be transformed into a pantheistic
system, and pantheism it immediately became when the peculiar
limitations and subtleties of Greek thought had ceased to dominate
over the western mind, and when the restraints of Catholic orthodoxy
had been removed or relaxed. The stream of tendency in this direction
runs all through the Middle Ages, and acquires new volume and momentum
at the Renaissance, until, by a process which will be analysed in the
next chapter, it reaches its supreme expansion in the philosophy of
Spinoza. Then, after a long pause, it is taken up by Kant’s successors,
and combined with the subjective idealism of modern psychology, finally
passing, through the intervention of Victor Cousin and Sir William
Hamilton, into the philosophy of Mr. Herbert Spencer.

The last-named thinker would, no doubt, repudiate the title of
pantheist; and it is certain that, under his treatment, pantheism has
reverted, by a curious sort of atavism, to something much more nearly
resembling the original doctrine of the Neo-Platonic school. Mr.
Spencer tells us that the world is the manifestation of an unknowable
Power. Plotinus said nearly the same, although not in such absolutely
self-contradictory terms.[524] Mr. Spencer constantly assumes, by
speaking of it in the singular number, that the creative Power of
which we know nothing is one; having, apparently, convinced himself
of its unity by two methods of reasoning. First, he identifies the
transcendent cause of phenomena with the absolute, which is involved
in our consciousness of relation; leaving it to be inferred that as
relativity implies plurality, absoluteness must imply unity. And,
secondly, from the mutual convertibility of the physical forces, he
infers the unity of that which underlies force. Plotinus also arrives
at the same result by two lines of argument, one _à posteriori_, and
derived from the unity pervading all Nature; the other _à priori_, and
derived from the fancied dependence of the Many on the One. Even in his
use of the predicate Unknowable without a subject, Mr. Spencer has been
anticipated by Damascius, one of the last Neo-Platonists, who speaks
of the supreme principle as τὸ ἄγνωστον.[525] And the same philosopher
anticipates the late Father Dalgairns in suggesting the very pertinent
question, how, if we know nothing about the Unknowable, we know that it
is unknowable.

Nor is this all. Besides the arguments from relativity and causation,
Mr. Spencer has a third method for arriving at his absolute. He thinks
away all the determinations imposed by consciousness on its objects,
and identifies the residual substance with the ultimate reality of
things. Now, this residue, as we have seen, exactly corresponds to the
Matter, whether intelligible or sensible, of Aristotle and Plotinus.
As such, it stands in extreme antithesis to the One, and yet there
is a near kinship between them. Probably, according to Plotinus, and
certainly according to Proclus,[526] Matter is a direct product of the
One, whose infinite power it reflects. All existence is formed by the
union, in varying proportions, of these two principles. Above all, both
are unknowable. Thus it was natural that in the hands of less subtle
analysts than the Greeks they should coalesce into a single substance.
And, as a matter of fact, they have so coalesced in the systems of
Giordano Bruno, of Spinoza, and finally of Mr. Spencer.

Here we imagine an impatient reader exclaiming, ‘How can Mr. Herbert
Spencer, who knows, if possible, even less of Greek philosophy than
of his own Unknowable, have derived that principle from the Greeks?’
Well, we have already traced the genealogy by which the two systems of
agnosticism are connected. And some additional light will be thrown on
the question if we consider that the form of Neo-Platonism was largely
determined by the manner in which Plotinus brought the spiritualistic
conceptualism of Plato and Aristotle into contact with the dynamic
materialism of the Stoics; and that the form of Mr. Spencer’s
philosophy has been similarly determined by bringing the idealism of
modern German thought into contact with the mechanical evolutionism
of modern science. Thus, under the influence of old associations, has
pantheism been metamorphosed into a crude agnosticism, which faithfully
reproduces the likeness of its original ancestors, the Plotinian Matter
and the Plotinian One.


XII.[527]

The history of Neo-Platonism, subsequently to the death of Plotinus,
decomposes itself into several distinct tendencies, pursuing more
or less divergent lines of direction. First of all, it was drawn
into the supernaturalist movement against which it had originally
been, in part at least, a reaction and a protest. One sees from the
life of its founder how far his two favourite disciples, Amelius and
Porphyry, were from sharing his superiority to the superstitions of
the age. Both had been educated under Pythagorean influences, which
were fostered rather than repressed by the new philosophy. With
Porphyry, theoretical interests are, to a great extent, superseded
by practical interests; and, in practice, the religious and ascetic
predominates over the purely ethical element. Still, however great
may have been his aberrations, they never went beyond the limits
of Hellenic tradition. Although of Syrian extraction, his attitude
towards Oriental superstition was one of uncompromising hostility; and
in writing against Christianity, his criticism of the Old Testament
seems to have closely resembled that of modern rationalism. But with
Porphyry’s disciple, Iamblichus, every restraint is thrown aside, the
wildest Oriental fancies are accepted as articles of belief, and the
most senseless devotional practices are inculcated as means towards the
attainment of a truly spiritual life.

Besides the general religious movement which had long been in action,
and was daily gaining strength from the increasing barbarisation of
the empire, there was, at this juncture, a particular cause tending to
bring Greek philosophy into close alliance with the mythology which it
had formerly rejected and denounced. This was the rapid rise and spread
of Christianity. St Augustine has said that of all heathen philosophers
none came nearer to the Christian faith than the Neo-Platonists.[528]
Nevertheless, it was in them that the old religion found its only
apologists and the new religion its most active assailants. We have
already alluded to the elaborate polemic of Porphyry. Half a century
later, the same principles could boast of a still more illustrious
champion. The emperor Julian was imbued with the doctrines of
Neo-Platonism, and was won back to the ancient faith by the teaching of
its professors.

What seems to us the reactionary attitude of the spiritualist school
was dictated by the circumstances of its origin. A product of the
great classical revival, its cause was necessarily linked with the
civilisation of ancient Greece, and of that civilisation the worship
of the old gods seemed to form an integral element. One need only
think of the Italian Renaissance, with its predilection for the old
mythology, to understand how much stronger and more passionate this
feeling must have been among those to whom Greek literature still spoke
in a living language, whose eyes, wherever they turned, still rested
on the monuments, unrivalled, undesecrated, unfallen, unfaded, of
Greek religious art. Nor was polytheism what some have imagined it to
have been at this period, merely a tradition, an association, a dream,
drawing shadowy sustenance from the human works and human thoughts
which it had once inspired. To Plotinus and Proclus, as formerly to
Socrates and Plato and Aristotle, the luminaries of day and night
blazed down from heaven as animated and immortal witnesses of its
truth. It was not simply that the heavens declared the glory of God; to
the pious beholder, they were visibly inhabited by glorious gods, and
their constellated fires were, as Plotinus said, a scripture in which
the secrets of destiny might be read. The same philosopher scornfully
asks the Gnostics, who, in this respect, were indistinguishable from
the Christians, whether they were so infatuated as to call the worst
men their brothers, while refusing that title to the sun; and at a
much later period, notwithstanding the heavy penalties attached to it,
the worship of the heavenly bodies continued to be practised by the
profoundest thinkers and scholars of the Neo-Platonic school.[529]
Moreover, polytheism, by the very weakness and unfixity of its dogmas,
gave a much wider scope to independent speculation than could be
permitted within the limits of the Catholic Church, just because
Catholicism itself constituted a philosophical system in which all
the great problems of existence were provided with definite and
authoritative solutions.

The final defeat of polytheism proved, in some respects, an advantage
to Neo-Platonism, by compelling it to exchange theological controversy
for studies which could be prosecuted, at least for a time, without
giving umbrage to the dominant religion. At Alexandria the new
spiritualism was associated, on genuinely Platonic principles, with
the teaching of geometry by the noble and ill-fated Hypatia. In
all the Neo-Platonic schools, whether at Rome, at Alexandria, at
Constantinople, or at Athens, the writings of Plato and Aristotle were
attentively studied, and made the subject of numerous commentaries,
many of which are still extant. This return to the two great masters
of idealism was, as we have already said, the most valuable result of
the metaphysical revival, and probably contributed more than any other
cause to the preservation of their works amidst the general wreck of
ancient philosophical literature. Finally, efforts were made to present
the doctrine of Plotinus under a more popular or a more scientific
form, and to develope it into systematic completeness.

Driven by Christian intolerance from every other centre of
civilisation, Greek philosophy found a last refuge in Athens, where
it continued to be taught through the whole of the fifth century and
the first quarter of the sixth. During that period, all the tendencies
already indicated as characteristic of Neo-Platonism exhibited
themselves once more, and contributed in about equal degrees to the
versatile activity of its last original representative, Proclus
(410-485). This remarkable man offers one of the most melancholy
examples of wasted power to be found in the history of thought. Endowed
with an enormous faculty for acquiring knowledge, a rare subtlety in
the analysis of ideas, and an unsurpassed genius for their systematic
arrangement, he might, under more favourable auspices, have been the
Laplace or Cuvier of his age. As it was, his immense energies were
devoted to the task of bringing a series of lifeless abstractions into
harmony with a series of equally lifeless superstitions. A commentator
both on Euclid and on Plato, he aspired to present transcendental
dialectic under the form of mathematical demonstration. In his
_Institutes of Theology_, he offers proofs equally elaborate and
futile of much that had been taken for granted in the philosophy of
Plotinus. Again, where there seems to be a gap in the system of his
master, he fills it up by inserting new figments of his own. Thus,
between the super-essential One and the absolute Nous, he interposes
a series of henads or unities, answering to the multiplicity of
intelligences or self-conscious Ideas which Plotinus had placed within
the supreme Reason, or to the partial souls which he had placed after
the world-soul. In this manner, Proclus, following the usual method of
Greek thought, supplies a transition from the creative One to the Being
which had hitherto been regarded as its immediate product; while, at
the same time, providing a counterpart to the many lesser gods with
which polytheism had surrounded its supreme divinity. Finally, as
Plotinus had arranged all things on the threefold scheme of a first
principle, a departure from that principle, and a subsequent reunion
with it, Proclus divides the whole series of created substances into
a succession of triads, each reproducing, on a small scale, the
fundamental system of an origin, a departure, and a return. And he
even multiplies the triads still further by decomposing each separate
moment into a secondary process of the same description. For example,
Intelligence as a whole is divided into Being, Life, and Thought,
and the first of these, again, into the Limit, the Unlimited, and
the absolute Existence (οὐσία), which is the synthesis of both. The
Hegelian system is, as is well known, constructed on a similar plan;
but while with Hegel the logical evolution is a progress from lower to
higher and richer life, with Proclus, as with the whole Neo-Platonic
school, and, indeed, with almost every school of Greek thought, each
step forward is also a step downward, involving a proportionate loss of
reality and power.

Thus Proclus was to Plotinus what Plotinus himself had been to Plato
and Aristotle: that is to say, he stood one degree further removed
from the actual truth of things and from the spontaneity of original
reflection. And what we have said about the philosophic position of the
master may be applied, with some modification, to the claims of his
most eminent disciple. From a scientific point of view, the system, of
Proclus is a mere mass of wearisome rubbish; from an aesthetic point
of view it merits our admiration as the most comprehensive, the most
coherent, and the most symmetrical work of the kind that antiquity
has to show. It would seem that just as the architectural skill of
the Romans survived all their other great gifts, and even continued
to improve until the very last—the so-called temple of Minerva Medica
being the most technically perfect of all their monuments—so also did
the Greek power of concatenating ideas go on developing itself as long
as Greece was permitted to have any ideas of her own.

The time arrived when this last liberty was to be taken away. In the
year 529, Justinian issued his famous decree prohibiting the public
teaching of philosophy in Athens, and confiscating the endowments
devoted to the maintenance of its professors. It is probable that
this measure formed part of a comprehensive scheme for completing
the extirpation of paganism throughout the empire. For some two
centuries past, the triumph of Christianity had been secured by an
unsparing exercise of the imperial authority, as the triumph of
Catholicism over heresy was next to be secured with the aid of the
Frankish sword. A few years afterwards, the principal representatives
of the Neo-Platonic school, including the Damascius of whom we have
already spoken, and Simplicius, the famous Aristotelian commentator,
repaired to the court of Khosru Nuschirvan, the King of Persia,
with the intention of settling in his country for the rest of their
lives. They were soon heartily sick of their adopted home. Khosru was
unquestionably an enlightened monarch, greatly interested in Hellenic
culture, and sincerely desirous of diffusing it among his people. It
is also certain that Agathias, our only authority on this subject,
was violently prejudiced against him. But it may very well be, as
stated by that historian[530] that Khosru by no means came up to the
exaggerated expectations formed of him by the exiled professors. He
had been described to them as the ideal of a Platonic ruler, and,
like inexperienced bookmen, they accepted the report in good faith.
They found that he cared a great deal more for scientific questions
about the cause of the tides and the modifications superinduced on
plants and animals by transference to a new environment, than about
the metaphysics of the One.[531] Moreover, the immorality of Oriental
society and the corruption of Oriental government were something
for which they were totally unprepared. Better, they thought, to
die at once, so that it were but on Roman soil, than to live on any
conditions in such a country as Persia. Khosru was most unwilling to
lose his guests, but on finding that they were determined to leave
him, he permitted them to depart, and even made it a matter of express
stipulation with the imperial government that they should be allowed to
live in their old homes without suffering any molestation on account of
their religious opinions.[532]

Simplicius continued to write commentaries on Aristotle after his
return, and was even succeeded by a younger generation of Platonic
expositors; but before the end of the sixth century paganism was
extinct, and Neo-Platonism, as a separate school of philosophy, shared
its fate. It will be the object of our next and concluding chapter to
show that the disappearance of the old religion and the old methods of
teaching did not involve any real break in the continuity of thought,
and that modern speculation has been, through the greater part of its
history, a reproduction of Greek ideas in new combinations and under
altered names.




CHAPTER VI.

GREEK PHILOSOPHY AND MODERN THOUGHT.


I.

Adequately to exhibit the relation of Greek philosophy to modern
thought would require a volume. The object of the present discussion
is merely to show in what ways that relation has been most clearly
manifested, and what assistance it may afford us in solving some
important problems connected with the development of metaphysical and
moral speculation.

Historians often speak as if philosophy took an entirely fresh start
at different epochs of its existence. One such break is variously
associated with Descartes, or Bacon, or some one of their Italian
predecessors. In like manner, the introduction of Christianity,
coupled with the closing of the Athenian schools by Justinian, is
considered, as once was the suppression of the West-Roman Caesarate
by Odoacer, to mark the beginning of a new régime. But there can be
no more a real break in the continuity of intellectual than in the
continuity of political history, beyond what sleep or inactivity may
simulate in the life of the organic aggregate no less than in the
life of the organic individual. In each instance, the thread is taken
up where it was dropped. If the rest of the world has been advancing
meanwhile, new tendencies will come into play, but only by first
attaching themselves to older lines of movement. Sometimes, again,
what seems to be a revolution is, in truth, the revival or liberation
of an earlier movement, through the decay or destruction of beliefs
which have hitherto checked its growth. Thus the systems of Plato and
Aristotle, after carrying all before them for a brief period, were
found unsuitable, from their vast comprehension and high spirituality,
to the undeveloped consciousness of their age, and were replaced by
popularised versions of the sceptical or naturalistic philosophies
which they had endeavoured to suppress. And when these were at length
left behind by the forward movement of the human mind, speculative
reformers spontaneously reverted to the two great Socratic thinkers
for a better solution of the problems in debate. After many abortive
efforts, a teacher appeared possessing sufficient genius to fuse their
principles into a seemingly coherent and comprehensive whole. By
combining the Platonic and Aristotelian spiritualism with a dynamic
element borrowed from Stoicism, Plotinus did for an age of intellectual
decadence what his models had done in vain for an age of intellectual
growth. The relation in which he stood to Stoicism, Epicureanism, and
Scepticism, reproduced the relation in which they stood to the various
physical and sophistic schools of their time; but the silent experience
of six centuries won for him a much more enduring success.

Neo-Platonism was the form under which Greek philosophy passed
into Christian teaching; and the transition was effected with less
difficulty because Christianity had already absorbed some of its most
essential elements from the original system of Plato himself. Meanwhile
the revival of spiritualism had given an immense impulse to the study
of the classic writings whence it was drawn; and the more they were
studied the more prominently did their antagonism on certain important
questions come into view. Hence, no sooner did the two systems between
which Plotinus had established a provisional compromise come out
victorious from their struggle with materialism, than they began to
separate and draw off into opposing camps. The principal subject of
dispute was the form under which ideas exist. The conflicting theories
of Realism and Nominalism are already set forth with perfect clearness
by Porphyry in his introduction to the _Organon_; and his statement
of the case, as Victor Cousin has pointed out, gave the signal for a
controversy forming the central interest of Scholasticism during the
entire period of its duration.

Now, it is a remarkable fact, and one as yet not sufficiently attended
to, that a metaphysical issue first raised between the Platonists
and Aristotle, and regarded, at least by the latter, as of supreme
importance for philosophy, should have been totally neglected at a time
when abundant documents on both sides were open to consultation, and
taken up with passionate eagerness at a time when not more than one or
two dialogues of Plato and two or three tracts of Aristotle continued
to be read in the western world. Various explanations of this singular
anomaly may be offered. It may be said, for instance, that after every
moral and religious question on which the schools of Athens were
divided had been closed by the authoritative ruling of Catholicism,
nothing remained to quarrel over but points too remote or too obscure
for the Church to interfere in their decision; and that these were
accordingly seized upon as the only field where human intelligence
could exercise itself with any approach to freedom. The truth, however,
seems to be that to take any interest in the controversy between
Realism and Nominalism, it was first necessary that European thought
as a whole should rise to a level with the common standpoint of their
first supporters. This revolution was effected by the general adoption
of a monotheistic faith.

Moreover, the Platonic ideas were something more than figments of an
imaginative dialectic. They were now beginning to appear in their
true light, and as what Plato had always understood them to be—no
mere abstractions from experience, but spiritual forces by which
sensuous reality was to be reconstituted and reformed. The Church
herself seemed something more than a collection of individuals holding
common convictions and obeying a common discipline; she was, like
Plato’s own Republic, the visible embodiment of an archetype laid up
in Heaven.[533] And the Church’s teaching seemed also to assume the
independent reality of abstract ideas. Does not the Trinity involve
belief in a God distinct from any of the Divine Persons taken alone?
Do not the Fall, the Incarnation, and the Atonement become more
intelligible if we imagine an ideal humanity sinning with the first
Adam and purified by becoming united with the second Adam? Such, at
least, seems to have been the dimly conceived metaphysics of St. Paul,
whatever may now be the official doctrine of Rome. It was, therefore,
in order that, during the first half of the Middle Ages, from
Charlemagne to the Crusades, Realism should have been the prevailing
doctrine; the more so because Plato’s _Timaeus_, which was studied in
the schools through that entire period, furnishes its readers with
a complete theory of the universe; while only the formal side of
Aristotle’s philosophy is represented by such of his logical treatises
as were then known to western Christendom.

Yet Realism concealed a danger to orthodoxy which was not long
in making itself felt. Just as the substantiality of individuals
disappeared in that of their containing species, so also did every
subordinate species tend to vanish in the _summum genus_ of absolute
Being. Now such a conclusion was nothing less than full-blown
pantheism; and pantheism was, in fact, the system of the first great
Schoolman, John Scotus Erigena; while other Realists were only
prevented from reaching the same goal by the restraint either of
Christian faith or of ecclesiastical authority. But if they failed to
draw the logical consequences of their premises, it was drawn for them
by others; and Abélard did not fail to twit his opponents with the
formidable heresy implied in their realistic principles.[534] As yet,
however, the weight of authority inclined towards Plato’s side; and the
persecution suffered by Abélard himself, as compared with the very mild
treatment accorded to his contemporary, Gilbert de la Porrée, when each
was arraigned on a charge of heresy, shows that while the Nominalism of
the one was an aggravation, the Realism of the other was an extenuation
of his offence.[535]

So matters stood when the introduction of Aristotle’s entire system
into western Europe brought about a revolution comparable to that
effected two centuries later by the complete recovery of ancient
literature. It was through Latin translations from the Arabic,
accompanied by Arabic commentaries, that the Peripatetic philosophy
was first revealed in its entirety; and even Albertus Magnus, living
in the thirteenth century, seems to have derived his knowledge of the
subject from these exclusively. But a few years after the capture
of Constantinople by the Crusaders in 1204, the Greek manuscripts
of Aristotle were brought to Paris; and, towards the middle of the
century, a new Latin version was made from these under the supervision
of St. Thomas Aquinas.[536] The triumph of Aristotle was now, at least
for a time, secured. For, while in the first period of the Middle
Ages we find only a single great name, that of Abélard, among the
Nominalists, against a strong array of Realists, in the second period
the proportions are reversed, and Realism has only a single worthy
champion, Duns Scotus, to pit against Albertus, Aquinas, and William
of Ockham, each of them representing one of the principal European
nations.[537] The human intellect, hitherto confined within the narrow
bounds of logic, now ranged over physics, metaphysics, psychology,
and ethics; and although all these subjects were studied only at
second-hand, and with very limited opportunities for criticism, still
the benefit received must have been immense. The priceless service of
the later Schoolmen is to have appropriated and successfully upheld,
against Platonism on the one hand and theological mysticism on the
other, a philosophy which, however superficial, took in the whole range
of natural phenomena, derived all knowledge from external observation,
and set an example of admirable precision in the systematic exposition
of its results. If no positive addition was made to that vast
storehouse of facts and ideas, the blame does not lie with Aristotle’s
method, but with the forcible suppression of free mental activity by
the Church, or its diversion to more profitable fields by the study
of Roman jurisprudence. Even as it was, Aristotle contributed largely
to the downfall of ecclesiastical authority in two ways: directly by
accustoming men to use their reason, and indirectly by throwing back
mysticism on its proper office—the restoration of a purely personal
religion.

But before the dissolving action of Nominalism had become fully
manifest, its ascendency was once more challenged; and this time,
also, the philosophical impulse came from Constantinople. Greek
scholars, seeking help in the West, brought with them to Florence the
complete works of Plato; and these were shortly made accessible to a
wider public through the Latin translation of Ficino. Their influence
seems at first to have told in favour of mysticism, for this was the
contemporary tendency to which they could be most readily affiliated;
and, besides, in swinging back from Aristotle’s philosophy to the
rival form of spiritualism, men’s minds naturally reverted, in the
first instance, to what had once linked them together—the system of
Plotinus. Thus Platonism was studied through an Alexandrian medium,
and as the Alexandrians had looked at it, that is to say, chiefly
under its theological and metaphysical aspects. As such, it became
the accepted philosophy of the Renaissance; and much of what we
most admire in the literature—at least the English literature—of
that period, is directly traceable to Platonic influence. That the
_Utopia_ of Sir Thomas More was inspired by the _Republic_ and the
_Critias_ is, of course, obvious; and the great part played by the
ideal theory in Spenser’s _Faery Queen_, though less evident, is
still sufficiently clear. As Mr. Green observes in his _History of
the English People_ (II., p. 413), ‘Spenser borrows, in fact, the
delicate and refined forms of the Platonic philosophy to express his
own moral enthusiasm.... Justice, Temperance, Truth are no mere names
to him, but real existences to which his whole nature clings with a
rapturous affection.’ Now it deserves observation, as illustrating a
great revolution in European thought, that the relation of Plato to
the epic of the English Renaissance is precisely paralleled by the
relation of Aristotle to the epic of mediaeval Italy. Dante borrows
more than his cosmography from the Stagirite. The successive circles
of Hell, the spirals of Purgatory, and the spheres of Paradise, are a
framework in which the characters of the poem are exhibited, not as
individual actors whom we trace through a life’s history, but as types
of a class and representatives of a single mental quality, whether
vicious or virtuous. In other words, the historical arrangement of
all previous poems is abandoned in favour of a logical arrangement.
For the order of contiguity in time is substituted the order of
resemblance and difference in idea. How thoroughly Aristotelian,
indeed, were the lines within which mediaeval imagination moved is
proved by the possibility of tracing them in a work utterly different
from Dante’s—the _Decameron_ of Boccaccio. The tales constituting this
collection are so arranged that each day illustrates some one special
class of adventures; only, to make good Aristotle’s principle that
earthly affairs are not subject to invariable rules, a single departure
from the prescribed subject is allowed in each decade; while during
one entire day the story-tellers are left free to choose a subject at
their own discretion.

Now what distinguishes Spenser from Dante is that, while he also
disposes his inventions according to an extremely artificial and
abstract schematism, with him, as with Plato, abstractions acquire a
separate individual existence, being, in fact, embodied as so many
persons; while Dante, following Aristotle, never separates his from
the concrete data of experience. And it may be noted that, in this
respect at least, English literature has not deserted the philosophy
which presided over its second birth. It has ever since been more
prone to realise abstractions than any other literature, whether under
the form of allegories, parables, or mere casual illustrations drawn
from material objects. Even at this day, English writers crowd their
pages with dazzling metaphors, which to Continental readers must have
sometimes a rather barbaric effect.

Another and profounder characteristic of Plato, as distinguished from
Aristotle, is his thorough-going opposition of reality to appearance;
his distrust of sensuous perception, imagination, and opinion; his
continual appeal to a hidden world of absolute truth and justice. We
find this profounder principle also grasped and applied to poetical
purposes in our Elizabethan literature, not only by Spenser, but by
a still greater master—Shakespeare. It is by no means unlikely that
Shakespeare may have looked into a translation of the _Dialogues_; at
any rate, the intellectual atmosphere he breathed was so saturated
with their spirit that he could easily absorb enough of it to inspire
him with the theory of existence which alone gives consistency to his
dramatic work from first to last. For the essence of his comedies
is that they represent the ordinary world of sensible experience as
a scene of bewilderment and delusion, where there is nothing fixed,
nothing satisfying, nothing true; as something which, because of its
very unreality, is best represented by the drama, but a drama that is
not without mysterious intimations of a reality behind the veil. In
them we have the

    Fallings from us, vanishings,
    Blank misgivings of a creature
    Moving about in worlds not realised;

while in his tragedies we have the realisation of those worlds—the
workings of an eternal justice which alone remains faithful to one
purpose through the infinite flux of passion and of sense.

Besides the revival of Platonism, three causes had conspired to
overthrow the supremacy of Aristotle. The literary Renaissance with
its adoration for beauty of form was alienated by the barbarous
dialect of Scholasticism; the mystical theology of Luther saw in it
an ally both of ecclesiastical authority and of human reason; and the
new spirit of passionate revolt against all tradition attacked the
accepted philosophy in common with every other branch of the official
university curriculum. Before long, however, a reaction set in. The
innovators discredited themselves by an extravagance, an ignorance, a
credulity, and an intolerance worse than anything in the teaching which
they decried. No sooner was the Reformation organised as a positive
doctrine than it fell back for support on the only model of systematic
thinking at that time to be found. The Humanists were conciliated by
having the original text of Aristotle placed before them; and they
readily believed, what was not true, that it contained a wisdom which
had eluded mediaeval research. But the great scientific movement of the
sixteenth century contributed, more than any other impulse, to bring
about an Aristotelian reaction. After winning immortal triumphs in
every branch of art and literature, the Italian intellect threw itself
with equal vigour into the investigation of physical phenomena. Here
Plato could give little help, whereas Aristotle supplied a methodised
description of the whole field to be explored, and contributions of
extraordinary value towards the understanding of some, at least, among
its infinite details. And we may measure the renewed popularity of his
system not only by the fact that Cesalpino, the greatest naturalist of
the age, professed himself its adherent, but also by the bitterness of
the criticisms directed against it, and the involuntary homage offered
by rival systems which were little more than meagre excerpts from the
Peripatetic ontology and logic.


II.

Of all testimonies to the restored supremacy of Aristotelianism, there
is none so remarkable as that afforded by the thinker who, more than
any other, has enjoyed the credit of its overthrow. To call Francis
Bacon an Aristotelian will seem to most readers a paradox. Such an
appellation would, however, be much nearer the truth than were the
titles formerly bestowed on the author of the _Novum Organum_. The
notion, indeed, that he was in any sense the father of modern science
is rapidly disappearing from the creed of educated persons. Its long
continuance was due to a coalition of literary men who knew nothing
about physics and of physicists who knew nothing about philosophy
or its history. It is certain that the great discoveries made both
before and during Bacon’s lifetime were the starting-point of all
future progress in the same direction. It is equally certain that
Bacon himself had either not heard of those discoveries or that he
persistently rejected them. But it might still be contended that he
divined and formulated the only method by which these and all other
great additions to human knowledge have been made, had not the delusion
been dispelled by recent investigations, more especially those of his
own editors, Messrs. Ellis and Spedding. Mr. Spedding has shown that
Bacon’s method never was applied to physical science at all. Mr. Ellis
has shown that it was incapable of application, being founded on a
complete misconception of the problem to be solved. The facts could in
truth, hardly have been other than what they are. Had Bacon succeeded
in laying down the lines of future investigation, it would have been
a telling argument against his own implied belief that all knowledge
is derived from experience. For, granting the validity of that belief,
a true theory of discovery can only be reached by an induction from
the observed facts of scientific practice, and such facts did not,
at that time, exist in sufficient numbers to warrant an induction.
It would have been still more extraordinary had he furnished a clue
to the labyrinth of Nature without ever having explored its mazes on
his own account. Even as it is, from Bacon’s own point of view the
contradiction remains. If ever any system was constructed _à priori_
the _Instauratio Magna_ was. But there is really no such thing as _à
priori_ speculation. Apart from observation, the keenest and boldest
intellect can do no more than rearrange the materials supplied by
tradition, or give a higher generalisation to the principles of
other philosophers. This was precisely what Bacon did. The wealth of
aphoristic wisdom and ingenious illustration scattered through his
writings belongs entirely to himself; but his dream of using science as
an instrument for acquiring unlimited power over Nature is inherited
from the astrologers, alchemists, and magicians of the Middle Ages;
and his philosophical system, with which alone we are here concerned,
is partly a modification, partly an extension, of Aristotle’s. An
examination of its leading features will at once make this clear.

Bacon begins by demanding that throughout the whole range of experience
new facts should be collected on the largest scale, in order to supply
materials for scientific generalisation. There can be no doubt that he
is here guided by the example of Aristotle, and of Aristotle alone.
Such a storehouse of materials is still extant in the _History of
Animals_, which evidently suggested the use of the word ‘History’ in
this sense to Bacon, and which, by the way, is immensely superior
to anything that he ever attempted in the same line. The facts on
which Aristotle’s _Politics_ is based were contained in another
vast descriptive work of the same kind, now unhappily lost. Even
the Stagirite’s more systematic treatises comprise a multitude of
observations, catalogued according to a certain order, but not reduced
to scientific principles. What Bacon did was to carry out, or to bid
others carry out, the plan so suggested in every department of enquiry.
But if we ask by what method he was guided in his survey of the whole
field to be explored, how he came by a complete enumeration of the
sciences, arranged according to their logical order,—the answer is
still that he borrowed it from the Peripatetic encyclopaedia.

One need only compare the catalogue of particular histories subjoined
to the _Parasceve_,[538] with a table of Aristotle’s works, to
understand how closely Bacon follows in the footsteps of his
predecessor. We do, indeed, find sundry subjects enumerated on which
the elder student had not touched; but they are only such as would
naturally suggest themselves to a man of comprehensive intelligence,
coming nearly two thousand years after his original; while they are
mostly of no philosophical value whatever. Bacon’s merit was to bring
the distinction between the descriptive sciences and the theoretical
sciences into clearer consciousness, and to give a view of the former
corresponding in completeness to that already obtained of the latter.

The methodical distinction between the materials for generalisation and
generalisation itself, is derived from the metaphysical distinction
between Matter and Form in Nature.[539] This distinction is the
next great feature of Bacon’s philosophy, and it is taken, still
more obviously than the first, from Aristotle, the most manifest
blots of the original being faithfully reproduced in the copy. The
Forms of simple substances were, according to the Stagirite, their
sensible qualities. The Forms of aggregates were the whole complex
of their differential characteristics. And although the formal cause
or idea of a thing was carefully discriminated from its efficient
and final causes, it was found impossible, in practice, to keep the
three from running into one. Again, the distinction between single
concepts and the judgments created by putting two concepts together,
although clearly conveyed by the logical distinction between terms and
propositions, was no sooner perceived than lost sight of, thanks to
the unfortunate theory of essential predication. For it was thought
that the import of universal propositions consisted either in stating
the total concept to which a given mark belonged, or in annexing a
new mark to a given concept. Hence, in Aristotle’s system, the study
of natural law means nothing but the definition and classification
of natural types; and, in harmony with this idea, the whole universe
is conceived as an arrangement of concentric spheres, each receiving
its impulse from that immediately above it. Precisely the same
confusion of Form, Cause, and Law reigns throughout Bacon’s theory
of Nature. We do, indeed, find mention made of _axiomata_ or general
propositions to a greater extent than in the _Organon_, but they are
never clearly distinguished from Forms, nor Forms from functions.[540]
And although efficient and material causes are assigned to physics,
while formal and final causes are reserved for metaphysics—an apparent
recognition of the wide difference between the forces which bring a
thing into existence and the actual conditions of its stability,—this
arrangement is a departure from the letter rather than from the spirit
of Aristotle’s philosophy. For the efficient causes of the _De
Augmentis_ answer roughly to the various kinds of motion discussed in
the _Physics_ and in the treatise _On Generation and Corruption_; while
its Forms are, as we have seen, identified with natural causes or laws
in the most general sense.

According to Bacon, the object of science is to analyse the complex of
Forms making up an individual aggregate into its separate constituents;
the object of art, to superinduce one or more such Forms on a given
material. Hence his manner of regarding them differs in one important
respect from Aristotle’s. The Greek naturalist was, before all things,
a biologist. His interest lay with the distinguishing characteristics
of animal species. These are easily discovered by the unassisted
eye; but while they are comparatively superficial, they are also
comparatively unalterable. The English experimenter, being primarily
concerned with inorganic bodies, whose properties he desired to utilise
for industrial purposes, was led to consider the attributes of an
object as at once penetrating its inmost texture, and yet capable
of being separated from it, like heat and colour for instance. But,
like every other thinker of the age, if he escapes from the control
of Aristotle it is only to fall under the dominion of another Greek
master—in this instance, Democritus. Bacon had a great admiration for
the Atomists, and although his inveterate Peripatetic proclivities
prevented him from embracing their theory as a whole, he went along
with it so far as to admit the dependence of the secondary on the
primary qualities of matter; and on the strength of this he concluded
that the way to alter the properties of an object was to alter the
arrangement of its component particles.

The next step was to create a method for determining the particular
configuration on which any given property of matter depends. If such
a problem could be solved at all, it would be by some new system of
practical analysis. Bacon did not see this because he was a Schoolman,
emancipated, indeed, from ecclesiastical authority, but retaining a
blind faith in the power of logic. Aristotle’s _Organon_ had been the
great storehouse of aids to verbal disputation; it should now be turned
into an instrument for the more successful prosecution of physical
researches. What definitions were to the one, that Forms should be to
the other; and both were to be determined by much the same process.
Now Aristotle himself had emphatically declared that the concepts out
of which propositions are constructed were discoverable by induction
and by induction alone. With him, induction meant comparing a number
of instances, and abstracting the one circumstance, if any, in which
they agreed. When the object is to establish a proposition inductively,
he has recourse to a method of elimination, and bids us search for
instances which, differing in everything else, agree in the association
of two particular marks.[541] In the _Topics_ he goes still further
and supplies us with a variety of tests for ascertaining the relation
between a given predicate and a given subject. Among these, Mill’s
Methods of Difference, Residues, and Concomitant Variations are very
clearly stated.[542] But he does not call such modes of reasoning
Induction. So far as he has any general name for them at all, it is
Dialectic, that is, Syllogism of which the premises are not absolutely
certain; and, as a matter of nomenclature, he seems to be right. There
is, undoubtedly, a process by which we arrive at general conclusions
from the comparison of particular instances; but this process in its
purity is nothing more nor less than induction by simple enumeration.
All other reasoning requires the aid of universal propositions, and
is therefore, to that extent, deductive. The methods of elimination
or, as they are now called, of experiment, involve at every step
the assumption of general principles duly specified in the chapter
of Mill’s _Logic_ where they are analysed. And wherever we can rise
immediately from, a single instance to a general law, it is because the
examination of that single instance has been preceded by a chain of
deductive reasoning.

The confusion of Induction, properly so called, and Elimination under a
single name, is largely due to the bad example set by Bacon. He found
it stated in the _Analytics_ that all concepts and general propositions
are established either by syllogism or by induction; and he found some
very useful rules laid down in the _Topics_, not answering to what he
understood by the former method; he therefore summarily dubbed them
with the name of Induction, which they have kept ever since, to the
incalculable confusion of thought.

In working out his theory of logic, the point on which Bacon lays
most stress is the use of negative instances. He seems to think that
their application to reasoning is an original discovery of his own.
But, on examination, no more seems to be meant by it than that,
before accepting any particular theory, we should consider what
other explanations of the same fact might conceivably be offered. In
other words, we should follow the example already set by Aristotle
and nearly every other Greek philosopher after Socrates. But this is
not induction; it is reasoning down from a disjunctive proposition,
generally assumed without any close scrutiny, with the help of sundry
conditional propositions, until we reach our conclusion by a sort of
exhaustive process. Either this, that, or the other is the explanation
of something. But if it were either that or the other, so and so would
follow, which is impossible; therefore it must be this. No other
logic is possible in the infancy of enquiry; but one great advantage
of experiment and mathematical analysis is to relieve us from the
necessity of employing it.

The value of experimentation as such had, however, scarcely dawned on
Bacon. His famous Prerogative Instances are, in the main, a guide
to simple observation, supplemented rather than replaced by direct
interference with the phenomena under examination, comparable to that
moderate use of the rack which he would have countenanced in criminal
procedure. There was, perhaps, a deeper meaning in Harvey’s remark
that Bacon wrote about Nature like a Lord Chancellor than the great
physiologist himself suspected. To Bacon the statesman, science was
something to be largely endowed out of the public treasury in the sure
hope that it would far more than repay the expenditure incurred, by
inventions of priceless advantage to human life. To Bacon the lawyer,
Nature was a person in possession of important secrets to be wrested
from her by employing every artifice of the spy, the detective, the
cross-examiner, and the inquisitorial judge; to Bacon the courtier,
she was a sovereign whose policy might be discovered, and, if need be,
controlled, by paying judicious attention to her humours and caprices.
And, for this very reason, he would feel drawn by a secret affinity
to the Aristotelian dialectic, derived as it was through Socrates and
Plato from the practice of the Athenian law-courts and the debates of
the Athenian assembly. No doubt the _Topics_ was intended primarily for
a manual of debate rather than of scientific enquiry; and the English
Chancellor showed true philosophic genius in his attempt to utilise it
for the latter purpose. Nevertheless the adaptation proved a mistake.
It was not without good grounds that the Socratic dialectic had been
reserved exclusively by its great founder, and almost exclusively
by his successors, for those human interests from the discussion of
which it was first derived. And the discoverers, who in Bacon’s own
lifetime were laying the foundations of physical science, employed a
method totally different from his, because they started with a totally
different conception of the universe. To them it was not a living
whole, a Form of Forms, but a sum of forces to be analysed, isolated,
and recombined, in fact or in idea, with a sublime disregard for the
conditions under which they were presented to ordinary experience. That
very extension of human power anticipated by Bacon came in a manner of
which he had never dreamed. It was gained by studying, not the Forms to
which he attached so much importance, but the modes of motion which he
had relegated to a subordinate place in his classification of natural
causes.[543]

It has been said that, whatever may be the value of his logic, Bacon
recalled men from the construction of baseless theories to the study
of facts. But, here also, he merely echoes Aristotle, who said the
same thing long before him, with much greater terseness, and with the
superior authority of one who teaches by example as well as by precept;
while the merit of reviving Aristotle’s advice when it had fallen into
oblivion belongs to another Bacon, the author of the _Opus Majus_; the
merit of acting on it, to the _savants_ of the Renaissance, to such men
as Vesalius, Cesalpino, and Tycho Brahe.

But, towards the close of the sixteenth century, the time for amassing
observations was past, no further progress being possible until the
observations already recorded were interpreted aright. The just
instinct of science perceived this; and for nearly a century after
Cesalpino no addition of any magnitude was made to what Bacon called
‘History,’ while men’s conceptions of natural law were undergoing a
radical transformation.[544] To choose such a time for developing the
Aristotelian philosophy was peculiarly unfortunate; for that philosophy
had become, both on its good and on its bad side, an obstacle to
progress, by encouraging studies which were not wanted, and by
fostering a spirit of opposition to the Copernican astronomy.

The mere fact that Aristotle himself had pronounced in favour of the
geocentric system did not count for much. The misfortune was that he
had constructed an entire physical philosophy in harmony with it; that
he had linked this to his metaphysics; and that the sensible experience
on whose authority he laid so much stress, seemed to testify in its
behalf. The consequence was that those thinkers who, without being
professed Aristotelian partisans, still remained profoundly affected
by the Peripatetic spirit, could not see their way to accepting a
theory with which all the hopes of intellectual progress were bound
up. These considerations will enable us to understand the attitude of
Bacon towards the new astronomy; while, conversely, his position in
this respect will serve to confirm the view of his character set forth
in the preceding pages. The theory, shared by him with Aristotle, that
Nature is throughout composed of Form and Matter reached its climax in
the supposition that the great elementary bodies are massed together in
a series of concentric spheres disposed according to some principle of
graduation, symmetry, or contrast; and this seemed incompatible with
any but a geocentric arrangement. It is true that Bacon quarrelled
with the particular system maintained by Aristotle, and, under the
guidance of Telesio, fell back on a much cruder form of cosmography;
but his mind still remained dominated by the fancied necessity of
conceiving the universe under the form of a stratified sphere; and
those who persist in looking on him as the apostle of experience will
be surprised to find that he treated the subject entirely from an _à
priori_ point of view. The truth is that Bacon exemplified, in his own
intellectual character, every one of the fundamental fallacies which he
has so picturesquely described. The unwillingness to analyse sensible
appearances into their ideal elements was his Idol of the Tribe; the
thirst for material utilities was his Idol of the Den: the uncritical
acceptance of Aristotle’s metaphysics, his Idol of the Theatre; and the
undefined notions associated with induction, his Idol of the Market.


III.

We may consider it a fortunate circumstance that the philosophy of
Form,—that is to say, of description, definition, classification,
and sensuous perception, as distinguished from mathematical analysis
and deductive reasoning,—was associated with a demonstrably false
cosmology, as it thus became much more thoroughly discredited than
would otherwise have been possible. At this juncture, the first to
perceive and point out how profoundly an acceptance of the Copernican
theory must affect men’s beliefs about Nature and the whole universe,
was Giordano Bruno; and this alone would entitle him to a great place
in the history of philosophy. The conception of a single finite world
surrounded by a series of eternal and unchangeable crystal spheres
must, he said, be exchanged for the conception of infinite worlds
dispersed through illimitable space. Once grant that the earth has a
double movement round its own axis and round the sun, and Aristotle’s
whole system of finite existence collapses at once, leaving the ground
clear for an entirely different order of ideas.[545] But, in this
respect, whatever was established by the new science had already been
divined by a still older philosophy than Aristotle’s, as Bruno himself
gladly acknowledged,[546] and the immediate effect of his reasoning was
to revive the Atomic theory. The assumption of infinite space, formerly
considered an insuperable objection to that theory, now became one of
its chief recommendations; the arguments of Lucretius regained their
full force, while his fallacies were let drop; Atomism seemed not only
possible but necessary; and the materialism once associated with it was
equally revived. But Aristotelianism, as we have seen, was not alone
in the field, and on the first symptoms of a successful revolt, its
old rival stood in readiness to seize the vacant throne. The question
was how far its claim would be supported, and how far disputed by
the new invaders. It might be supposed that the older forms of Greek
philosophy, thus restored to light after an eclipse of more than a
thousand years, would be no less hostile to the poetic Platonism than
to the scientific Aristotelianism of the Renaissance. Such, however,
was not the case; and we have to show how an alliance was established
between these apparently opposite lines of thought, eventually giving
birth to the highest speculation of the following century.

Bruno himself acted as a mediator between the two philosophies. His
sympathies with Platonism were strongly pronounced, he looked with
admiration on its mediaeval supporters, especially David of Dinan;
and regretted the time when Oxford was a focus of realistic teaching,
instead of being what he found her, devoted to the pedantic humanism
of the Renaissance.[547] He fully accepted the pantheistic conclusions
towards which Platonism always tended; but in proclaiming an absolute
principle whence all specific differences are evolved, he is careful to
show that, while it is neither Form nor Matter in the ordinary sense,
it may be called Matter in the more refined signification attached to
that term by Plotinus and, indeed, by Aristotle himself. There is a
common substance underlying all abstract essences, just as there is a
common substance left behind when the sensible qualities of different
bodies are stripped off; and both are, at bottom, the same. Thus monism
became the banner round which the older forms of Greek speculation
rallied in their assault on Aristotle’s philosophy, though what monism
implied was as yet very imperfectly understood.

Meanwhile a new and powerful agency was about to interpose with
decisive effect in the doubtful struggle. This was the study of
mathematics. Revived by the Arabians and never wholly neglected
during the Middle Ages, it had profited by the general movement of
the Renaissance, and was finally applied to the cosmical problem by
Galileo. In this connexion, two points of profound philosophical
interest must be noted. The first is that, even in its fall, the
Aristotelian influence survived, to some extent, both for good and
for evil. To Aristotle belongs the merit of having been the first
to base astronomy on physics. He maintains the earth’s immobility
on experimental no less than on speculative grounds. A stone thrown
straight up in the air returns to its starting-point instead of falling
to the west of it; and the absence of stellar parallax seems to show
that there is no change in our position relatively to the heavenly
bodies. After satisfying himself, on empirical considerations, that the
popular astronomy is true, he proceeds to show that it must be true,
by considerations on the nature of matter and motion, which, although
mistaken, are conceived in a genuinely scientific spirit. Now Galileo
saw that, to establish the Copernican system, he must first grapple
with the Peripatetic physics, and replace it by a new dynamical theory.
This, which he could hardly have effected by the ordinary mathematical
methods, he did by borrowing the analytical method of Atomism and
applying it to the measurement of motion. The law of falling bodies
was ascertained by resolving their descent into a series of moments,
and determining its rate of velocity at successive intervals; and
curvilinear motions were similarly resolved into the combination of an
impulsive with an accelerating force, a method diametrically opposed
to that of Bacon, who would not even accept the rough analysis of the
apparent celestial motions proposed by Greek astronomers.

It seems strange that Galileo, having gone so far, did not go a step
further, and perceive that the planetary orbits, being curvilinear,
must result from the combination of a centripetal with a tangential
force. But the truth is that he never seems to have grasped his own
law of inertia in its full generality. He understood that the planets
could not have been set in motion without a rectilinear impulse; but
his idea was that this impulse continued only so long as was necessary
in order to give them their present velocity, instead of acting on
them for ever as a tangential force. The explanation of this strange
inconsequence must be sought in a survival of Aristotelian conceptions,
in the persistent belief that rectilinear motion was necessarily
limited and temporary, while circular motion was natural, perfect, and
eternal.[548] Now such conceptions as Nature, perfection, and eternity
always rebel against an analysis of the phenomena wherein they are
supposed to reside. The same prejudice will explain why Galileo should
have so persistently ignored Kepler’s Laws, for we can hardly imagine
that they were not brought under his notice.

The philosophical affinities of the new science were not exhausted
by the atomistic analysis of Democritus and the regulative method of
Aristotle. Platonism could hardly fail to benefit by the great impulse
given to mathematical studies in the latter half of the sixteenth
century. The passionate love of its founder for geometry must have
recommended him as much to the most advanced minds of the period as
his religious mysticism had recommended him to the theologians of the
earlier Renaissance. And the increasing ascendency of the heliocentric
astronomy, with its splendid defiance of sense and opinion, was
indirectly a triumph for the philosophy which, more than any other, had
asserted the claims of pure reason against both. We see this distinctly
in Galileo. In express adhesion to Platonism, he throws his teaching
into a conversational form, endeavouring to extract the truth from his
opponents rather than convey it into their minds from without; and the
theory of reminiscence as the source of demonstrative knowledge seems
to meet with his approval.[549] He is always ready with proofs drawn
from observation and experiment; but nothing can be more in Plato’s
spirit, nothing more unlike Aristotle and Bacon, than his encomium on
the sublime genius of Aristarchus and Copernicus for having maintained
a rational hypothesis against what seemed to be the evidence of their
senses.[550] And he elsewhere observes how much less would have been
the glory of Copernicus had he known the experimental verification of
his theory.[551]

The Platonic influence told even more efficaciously on Galileo’s
still greater contemporary, Kepler. With him as with the author of
the _Republic_, mysticism took the direction of seeking everywhere
for evidence of mathematical proportions. With what brilliant success
the search was attended, it is needless to relate. What interests us
here is the fact, vouched for by Arago, that the German astronomer was
guided by an idea of Plato’s, that the world must have been created on
geometrical principles.[552] Had Bacon known anything about the work on
which his adventurous contemporary was engaged, we may be sure that it
would have afforded him another illustration for his Idôla, the only
difficulty being whether it should be referred to the illusions of the
Tribe, the Den, or the Theatre.

Meanwhile Atomism continued to exercise a powerful influence on the
method even more than on the doctrines of science. The analytical
mode of treatment, applied by Galileo to dynamics, was applied, with
equal success, by other mathematicians, to the study of discrete and
continuous quantity. It is to the division of numbers and figures into
infinitesimal parts—a direct contravention of Aristotle’s teaching—that
we owe logarithms, algebraic geometry, and the differential calculus.
Thus was established a connexion between spiritualism and materialism,
the philosophy of Plato and the philosophy of Democritus. Out of these
elements, together with what still survived of Aristotelianism, was
constructed the system of Descartes.


IV.

To understand Descartes aright, we must provisionally disregard the
account given in his work on Method of the process by which he arrived
at a new theory of the world; for, in truth, there was nothing new
about it except the proportion in which fragments taken from older
systems were selected and recombined. As we have already noticed,
there is no such thing as spinning philosophies out of one’s own head;
and, in the case of Descartes, even the belief that he was so doing
came to him from Plato; for, along with Aristotle’s dogmatic errors,
his sound teaching with regard to the derivation of knowledge had
fallen into oblivion. The initial doubt of the _Discourse on Method_
and the _Meditations_ is also Platonic; only it is manifested under
an individual and subjective, instead of a universal and objective
form. But to find the real starting-point of Descartes’ enquiries we
must look for it in his mathematical studies. A geometrician naturally
conceives the visible world under the aspect of figured extension; and
if he thinks the figures away, nothing will remain but extension as
the ultimate material out of which all determinate bodies are shaped.
Such was the result reached by Plato in his _Timaeus_. He identified
matter with space, viewing this as the receptacle for his eternal
and self-existent Ideas, or rather the plastic medium on which their
images are impressed. The simplest spatial elements are triangles;
accordingly it is with these that he constructs his solid bodies.
The theory of triangular elements was probably suggested by Atomism;
it is, in fact, a compromise between the purely mathematical and
the materialistic methods. Like all Plato’s fancies, this theory of
matter was attacked with such convincing arguments by Aristotle that,
so long as his physics remained in the ascendent, it did not find a
single supporter; although, as we saw in the last chapter, Plotinus
very nearly worked his way back to it from the Peripatetic definition.
Even now, at the moment of Aristotle’s fall, it might have failed to
attract attention, had not the conditions under which it first arose
been almost exactly repeated. Geometrical demonstration had again
become the type of all reasoning; there was again a sceptical spirit
abroad, forcing men to fall back on the most elementary and universal
conceptions; an atomistic materialism again threatened to claim at
least the whole field of physical enquiry for its own. That Descartes
followed the _Timaeus_ in identifying matter with extension cannot be
doubted; especially when we see that he adopts Plato’s analysis of
body into elementary triangles; but the theory agreed so well with his
intellectual predispositions that he may easily have imagined it to be
a necessary deduction from his own _à priori_ ideas. Moreover, after
the first two steps, he parts company with Plato, and gives himself
up, so far as his rejection of a vacuum will permit, to the mechanical
physics of Democritus. Much praise has recently been bestowed on his
attempt to interpret all physical phenomena in terms of matter and
motion, and to deduce them from the unaided operation of natural
causes; but this is no more than had been done by the early Greek
thinkers, from whom, we may observe, his hypothesis of an initial
vortex was also derived. His cosmogony is better than theirs, only in
so far as it is adapted to scientific discoveries in astronomy and
physiology not made by Descartes himself; for where his conjectures go
beyond these they are entirely at fault.

Descartes’ theory of the universe included, however, something more
than extension (or matter) and motion. This was Thought. If we ask
whence came the notion of Thought, our philosopher will answer that
it was obtained by looking into himself. It was, in reality, obtained
by looking into Aristotle, or into some text-book reproducing his
metaphysics. But the Platonic element in his system enabled Descartes
to isolate Thought much more completely than it had been isolated by
Aristotle. To understand this, we must turn once more to the _Timaeus_.
Plato made up his universe from space and Ideas. But the Ideas were too
vague or too unintelligible for scientific purposes. Even mediaeval
Realists were content to replace them by Aristotle’s much clearer
doctrine of Forms. On the other hand, Aristotle’s First Matter was
anything but a satisfactory conception. It was a mere abstraction;
the unknowable residuum left behind when bodies were stripped,
in imagination, of all their sensible and cogitable qualities. In
other words, there was no Matter actually existing without Form;
whereas Form was never so truly itself, never so absolutely existent,
as when completely separated from Matter: it then became simple
self-consciousness, as in God, or in the reasonable part of the human
soul. The revolution wrought by substituting space for Aristotle’s
First Matter will now become apparent. Corporeal substance could at
once be conceived as existing without the co-operation of Form; and
at the same stroke, Form, liberated from its material bonds, sprang
back into the subjective sphere, to live henceforward only as pure
self-conscious thought.

This absolute separation of Form and Matter, under their new names of
Thought and Extension, once grasped, various principles of Cartesianism
will follow from it by logical necessity. First comes the exclusion of
final causes from philosophy, or rather from Nature. There was not,
as with Epicurus, any anti-theological feeling concerned in their
rejection. With Aristotle, against whom Descartes is always protesting,
the final cause was not a mark of designing intelligence imposed on
Matter from without; it was only a particular aspect of Form, the
realisation of what Matter was always striving after by virtue of its
inherent potentiality. When Form was conceived only as pure thought,
there could be no question of such a process; the most highly organised
bodies being only modes of figured extension. The revival of Atomism
had, no doubt, a great deal to do with the preference for a mechanical
interpretation of life. Aristotle had himself shown with masterly
clearness the difference between his view of Nature and that taken
by Democritus; thus indicating beforehand the direction in which an
alternative to his own teaching might be sought; and Bacon had, in
fact, already referred with approval to the example set by Democritus
in dealing with teleological enquiries.

Nevertheless Bacon’s own attitude towards final causes differs
essentially from Descartes’. The French mathematician, had he
spoken his whole mind, would probably have denied their existence
altogether. The English reformer fully admits their reality, as, with
his Aristotelian theory of Forms, he could hardly avoid doing; and
we find that he actually associates the study of final with that of
formal causes, assigning both to metaphysics as its peculiar province.
This being so, his comparative neglect of the former is most easily
explained by the famous comparison of teleological enquiries to vestal
virgins, dedicated to the service of God and bearing no offspring; for
Mr. Ellis has made it perfectly clear that the barrenness alluded to is
not scientific but industrial. Our knowledge is extended when we trace
the workings of a divine purpose in Nature; but this is not a kind of
knowledge which bears fruit in useful mechanical inventions.[553] Bacon
probably felt that men would not be very forward to improve on Nature
if they believed in the perfection of her works and in their beneficent
adaptation to our wants. The teleological spirit was as strong with
him as with Aristotle, but it took a different direction. Instead of
studying the adaptation of means to ends where it already existed, he
wished men to create it for themselves. But the utilitarian tendency,
which predominated with Bacon, was quite exceptional with Descartes.
Speaking generally, he desired knowledge for its own sake, not as an
instrument for the gratification of other wants; and this intellectual
disinterestedness was, perhaps, another aspect of the severance
effected between thought and matter.

The celebrated Cartesian paradox, that animals are unconscious
automata, is another consequence of the same principle. In Aristotle’s
philosophy, the doctrine of potentiality developing itself into
act through a series of ascending manifestations, supplied a link
connecting the highest rational with the lowest vegetal life. The
identification of Form with pure thought put an end to the conception
of any such intermediate gradations. Brutes must either have a mind
like ours or none at all. The former alternative was not even taken
into consideration; probably, among other reasons, because it was not
easily reconcilable with Christianity; so that nothing remained but to
deny sensibility where thought was believed not to exist.

Finally, in man himself, thought is not distinguished from feeling;
it is, in fact, the essence of mind, just as extension is the essence
of body; and all spiritual phenomena are modes of thought in the
same sense that all physical phenomena are modes of space. It was,
then, rather a happy chance than genuine physiological insight which
led Descartes to make brain the organ of feeling no less than of
intellection; a view, as Prof. Huxley has observed, much in advance
of that held by Bichat a hundred and fifty years later. For whoever
deduced all the mental manifestations from a common essence was
bound in consistency to locate them in the same bodily organ; what
the metaphysician had joined the physiologist could not possibly put
asunder.

We are now in a position to understand the full force of Descartes’
_Cogito ergo sum_. It expresses the substantiality of self-conscious
Form, the equal claim of thought with extension to be recognised as an
element of the universe. This recognition of self-consciousness as the
surest reality was, indeed, far from being new. The Greek Sceptics had
never gone to the length of doubting their own personal existence. On
the contrary, they professed a sort of subjective idealism. Refusing
to go beyond their own consciousness, they found in its undisturbed
self-possession the only absolute satisfaction that life could afford.
But knowledge and reality had become so intimately associated with
something independent of mind, and mind itself with a mere reflection
of reality, that the denial of an external world seemed to the vulgar
a denial of existence itself. And although Aristotle had found the
highest, if not the sole absolute actuality in self-thinking thought,
he projected it to such a distance from human personality that its
bearing on the sceptical controversy had passed unperceived. Descartes
began his demonstration at the point where all the ancient systems had
converged, but failed to discover in what direction the conditions of
the problem required that they should be prolonged. No mistake can
be greater than to regard him as the precursor of German philosophy.
The latter originated quite independently of his teaching, though
not perhaps of his example, in the combination of a much profounder
scepticism with a much wider knowledge of dogmatic metaphysics. His
method is the very reverse of true idealism. The _Cogito ergo sum_ is
not a taking up of existence into thought, but rather a conversion of
thought into one particular type of existence. Now, as we have seen,
all other existence was conceived as extension, and however carefully
thought might be distinguished from this as absolutely indivisible,
it was speedily reduced to the same general pattern of inclusion,
limitation, and expansion. Whereas Kant, Fichte, and Hegel afterwards
dwelt on the form of thought, Descartes attended only to its content,
or to that in which it was contained. In other words, he began by
considering not _how_ he thought but _what_ he thought and _whence_
it came—his ideas and their supposed derivation from a higher sphere.
Take, for example, his two great methods for proving the existence
of God. We have in our minds the idea of a perfect being—at least
Descartes professed to have such an idea in his mind,—and we, as
imperfect beings, could not have originated it for ourselves. It must,
therefore, have been placed there by a perfect being acting on us from
without. It is here taken for granted that the mechanical equivalence
between material effects and their causes must obtain in a world where
spatial relations, and therefore measurement, are presumably unknown.
And, secondly, existence, as a perfection, is involved in the idea
of a perfect being; therefore such a being can only be conceived as
existing. Here there seems to be a confused notion that because the
properties of a geometrical figure can be deduced from its definition,
therefore the existence of something more than a simple idea can be
deduced from the definition of that idea itself. But besides the
mathematical influence, there was evidently a Platonic influence at
work; and one is reminded of Plato’s argument that the soul cannot
die because it participates in the idea of life. Such fallacies were
impossible so long as Aristotle’s logic continued to be carefully
studied, and they gradually disappeared with its revival. Meanwhile the
cat was away, and the mice used their opportunity.

That the absolute disjunction of thought from matter involved the
impossibility of their interaction, was a consequence not drawn by
Descartes himself, but by his immediate followers. Here also, Greek
philosophy played its part in hastening the development of modern
ideas. The fall of Aristotle had incidentally the effect of reviving
not only the systems which preceded, but also those which followed his.
Chief among these were Stoicism and Epicureanism. Differing widely in
most other respects, they agreed in teaching that body is acted on
by body alone. The Cartesians accepted this principle to the fullest
extent so far as human perceptions and volitions were concerned; and
to a great extent in dealing with the problems of physical science.
But instead of arguing from the laws of mechanical causation to the
materiality of mind, they argued from its immateriality to the total
absence of communication between consciousness and motion. There was,
however, one thinker of that age who went all lengths with the later
Greek materialists. This was Thomas Hobbes, the founder of modern
ethics, the first Englishman to grasp and develope still further
Galileo’s method of mathematical deduction and mechanical analysis.


V.

The author of the _Leviathan_ has sometimes been represented as one
who carried the Baconian method into politics, and prepared the way
for its more thorough application to psychology by Locke. But this
view, which regards the three great leaders of English philosophy in
the seventeenth century as successive links in a connected series, is
a misapprehension of history, which could only have arisen through
leaving out of account the contemporary development of Continental
speculation, and through the inveterate habit of looking on the modern
distinction between empiricism and transcendentalism as a fundamental
antithesis dividing the philosophers of every epoch into two opposing
schools. The truth is that, if the three writers just mentioned agree
in deriving knowledge solely from experience, they agree in nothing
else; and that their unanimity on this one point does not amount to
much, will be evident if we consider what each understood by the notion
in question.

With Bacon, experience was the negation of mere authority, whether
taking the form of natural prejudice, of individual prepossession,
of hollow phrases, or of established systems. The question how we
come by that knowledge which all agree to be the most certain, is
left untouched in his logic; either of the current answers would have
suited his system equally well; nor is there any reason for believing
that he would have sided with Mill rather than with Kant respecting
the origin of mathematical axioms. With Locke, experience meant the
analysis of notions and judgments into the simple data of sense and
self-consciousness; and the experientialists of the present day are
beyond all doubt his disciples; but the parentage of his philosophy,
so far as it is simply a denial of innate ideas, must be sought, not
in the _Novum Organum_, nor in any other modern work, but in the
old _Organon_ of Aristotle, or in the comments of the Schoolmen
who followed Aristotle in protesting against the Platonism of their
time, just as Locke protested against the Platonism of Descartes and
Malebranche.

The experience of Hobbes differs both in origin and application from
either of these. With him, sensible impressions are not a court of
appeal against traditional judgments, nor yet are they the ultimate
elements into which all ideas may be analysed; they are the channels
through which pulsating movements are conveyed into the mind; and
these movements, again, represent the action of mechanical forces
or the will of a paramount authority. And he holds this doctrine,
partly as a logical consequence of his materialism, partly as a
safeguard against the theological pretensions which, in his opinion,
are a constant threat to social order. The authority of the political
sovereign is menaced on the one hand by Papal infallibility, and on the
other by rebellious subjects putting forward a claim to supernatural
inspiration. To the Pope, Hobbes says: ‘You are violating the law of
Nature by professing to derive from God what is really given only by
the consent of men, and can only be given by them to their temporal
head,—the right to impose a particular religion.‘ To the Puritan, he
says: ‘Your inward illumination is a superstitious dream, and you have
no right to use it as a pretext for breaking the king’s peace. Religion
has really nothing to do with the supernatural; it is only a particular
way of inculcating obedience to the natural conditions of social union.’

Again, Hobbes differs wholly from Bacon in the deductive character of
his method. His logic is the old syllogistic system reorganised on
the model of mathematical analysis. Like all the great thinkers of
his time, he was a geometrician and a mechanical physicist, reasoning
from general to particular propositions and descending from causes to
effects.[554] His famous theory of a social contract is a rational
construction, not a historical narrative. But though a mathematician,
he shows no traces of Platonic influence. He is, therefore, all the
more governed by Atomist and Stoic modes of thought. He treats human
nature, single and associated, as Galileo and Descartes had treated
motion and space. Like them, too, he finds himself in constant
antagonism to Aristotle. The description of man as a social animal
is disdainfully rejected, and the political union resolved into an
equilibrium of many opposing wills maintained by violent pressure from
without. In ethics, no less than in physics, we find attractive forces
replaced by mechanical impacts.

While the analysis of Hobbes goes much deeper than Aristotle’s, the
grasp of his reconstructive synthesis is wider and stronger in at
least an equal proportion. Recognising the good of the whole as the
supreme rule of conduct,[555] he gives a new interpretation to the
particular virtues, and disposes of the theory which made them a mean
between two extremes no less effectually than his contemporaries had
disposed of the same theory in its application to the elementary
constitution of matter. And just as they were aided in their revolt
against Aristotle by the revival of other Greek systems, so also was
he. The identification of justice with public interest, though commonly
attributed to Epicurus alone, was, like materialism, an idea shared by
him with Stoicism, and was probably impressed on modern thought by the
weight of their united authority. And when we find the philosopher of
Malmesbury making public happiness consist in order and tranquillity,
we cannot but think that this was a generalisation from the Stoic and
Epicurean conceptions of individual happiness; for it reproduces, under
a social form, the same ideal of passionless repose.

On the other hand, this substitution of the social for the personal
integer involves a corresponding change in the valuation of individual
happiness. What the passions had been to later Greek philosophy,
that the individual soul became to Hobbes, something essentially
infinite and insatiable, whose desires grow as they are gratified,
whose happiness, if such it can be called, is not a condition of
stable repose but of perpetual movement and unrest.[556] Here, again,
the analogy between physics and ethics obtains. In both, there was
an original opposition between the idea of a limit and the idea
of infinite expansion. Just as, among the earlier Greek thinkers,
there was a physical philosophy of the infinite or, as its impugners
called it, the indefinite, so also there was, corresponding to it,
a philosophy of the infinite or indefinite in ethics, represented,
not indeed by professional moralists, but by rhetoricians and men of
the world. Their ideal was not the contented man, but the popular
orator or the despot who revels in the consciousness of power—the
ability to satisfy his desires, whatever they may be. And the extreme
consequence of this principle is drawn by Plato’s Callicles when he
declares that true happiness consists in nursing one’s desires up to
the highest point at which they can be freely indulged; while his ideal
of character is the superior individual who sets at naught whatever
restraints have been devised by a weak and timid majority to protect
themselves against him.

The Greek love of balanced antithesis and circumscribing form triumphed
over the infinite in both fields. While the two great masters of
idealism imprisoned the formless and turbulent terrestrial elements
within a uniform and eternal sphere of crystal, they imposed a similar
restraint on the desires and emotions, confining them within a barrier
of reason which, when once erected, could never be broken through. And
although the ground won in physics was lost again for a time through a
revival of old theories, this was because true Hellenism found its only
congenial sphere in ethics, and there the philosophy of the finite
continued to reign supreme. If the successors of Aristotle fell back on
cosmologies of ampler scope than his, they retained his limiting method
in their speculations on man.

With Christianity, there came a certain inversion of parts. The
external universe again became subjected to narrow limitations, and
the _flammantia moenia mundi_ beyond which Epicurus had dared to
penetrate, were raised up once more and guarded by new terrors as
an impassable barrier to thought. But infinity took refuge within
the soul; and, while in this life a sterner self-control than even
that of Stoicism was enjoined, perspectives of illimitable delight
in another life were disclosed. Finally, at the Renaissance, every
barrier was simultaneously overthrown, and the accumulated energies
of western civilisation expatiated over a field which, if it was vast
in reality, was absolutely unbounded in imagination. Great as were
the achievements of that age, its dreams were greater still; and what
most excites our wonder in the works of its heroes is but the fragment
of an unfinished whole. The ideal of life set up by Aristotle was,
like his conception of the world, contradicted in every particular;
and the relative positions assigned by him to act and power were
precisely reversed. It has been shown how Shakespeare reflected the
Platonism of his contemporaries: he reflected also the fierce outburst
of their ambition; and in describing what they would dare, to possess
solely sovereign sway and masterdom, or wear without corrival all
the dignities of honour, he borrowed almost the very words used by
Euripides to express the feelings encouraged by some teachers of his
time. The same spirit is exhibited a generation later in the dramas
of Calderon and Corneille, before their thoughts were forced into a
different channel by the stress of the Catholic reaction; while its
last and highest manifestation is the sentiment of Milton’s ruined
archangel, that to reign in hell is better than to serve in heaven.
Thus, when Hobbes reduces all the passions to modes of the fundamental
desire for power,[557] he does but give the scientific theory of that
which stands proclaimed in more thrilling accents by the noblest poetry
of his age.

Where no danger could deter from the pursuit of power, no balancing
of pain with pleasure availed to quench the ardour of desire. With
full knowledge that violent delights have violent ends and in their
triumph die, the fateful condition was accepted. Not only did Giordano
Bruno, in conscious parallelism with his theory of matter, declare that
without mutation, variety, and vicissitude nothing would be agreeable,
nothing good, nothing delightful, that enjoyment consists solely in
transition and movement, and that all pleasure lies midway between the
painful longing of fresh appetite and the sadness of its satiation and
extinction;[558] but the sedater wisdom of Bacon, in touching on the
controversy between Callicles and Socrates, seems to incline towards
the side of the former; and, in all cases, warns men not to make too
much of the inconveniences attendent on pleasure, but ‘so to procure
serenity as they destroy not magnanimity.’[559]

These, then, were the principal elements of the philosophical
Renaissance. First, there was a certain survival of Aristotelianism
as a method of comprehensive and logical arrangement. Then there
was the new Platonism, bringing along with it a revival of either
Alexandrian or mediaeval pantheism, and closely associated with
geometrical studies. Thirdly, there was the old Greek Atomism, as
originally set forth by Democritus or as re-edited by Epicurus,
traditionally unfavourable to theology, potent alike for decomposition
and reconstruction, confirmed by the new astronomy, and lending
its method to the reformation of mathematics; next the later Greek
ethical systems; and finally the formless idea of infinite power which
all Greek systems had, as such, conspired to suppress, but which,
nevertheless, had played a great part in the earlier stages of Greek
speculation both physical and moral.

On these foundations the lofty edifice of Spinozism was reared; out
of these materials its composite structure was built; and without a
previous study of them it cannot be understood.


VI.

Whether Spinoza ever read Plato is doubtful. One hardly sees why he
should have neglected a writer whose works were easily accessible,
and at that time very popular with thinking minds. But whether he was
acquainted with the _Dialogues_ at first hand or not, Plato will help
us to understand Spinoza, for it was through the door of geometry that
he entered philosophy, and under the guidance of one who was saturated
with the Platonic spirit; so far as Christianity influenced him, it
was through elements derived from Plato; and his metaphysical method
was one which, more than any other, would have been welcomed with
delight by the author of the _Meno_ and the _Republic_, as an attempt
to realise his own dialectical ideal. For Spinozism is, on the face
of it, an application of geometrical reasoning to philosophy, and
especially to ethics. It is also an attempt to prove transcendentally
what geometricians only assume—the necessity of space. Now, Plato
looked on geometrical demonstration as the great type of certainty, the
scientific completion of what Socrates had begun by his interrogative
method, the one means of carrying irrefragable conviction into every
department of knowledge, and more particularly into the study of our
highest good. On the other hand, he saw that geometricians assume
what itself requires to be demonstrated; and he confidently expected
that the deficiency would be supplied by his own projected method of
transcendent dialectics. Such at least seems to be the drift of the
following passage:

 When I speak of the division of the intellectual, you will also
 understand me to speak of that knowledge which reason herself
 attains by the power of dialectic, using the hypotheses not as first
 principles, but only as hypotheses—that is to say as steps and points
 of departure into a region which is above hypotheses, in order that
 she may soar beyond them to the first principle of the whole; and
 clinging to this and then to that which depends on this, by successive
 steps she descends again without the aid of any sensible object,
 beginning and ending in ideas.[560]

The problem, then, which Spinoza set himself was, first, to account for
the fundamental assumptions of all science, and more particularly of
geometry, by deducing them from a single self-evident principle; and
then to use that principle for the solution of whatever problems seemed
to stand most in need of its application. And, as usually happens
in such adventurous enterprises, the supposed answer of pure reason
was obtained by combining or expanding conceptions borrowed without
criticism from pre-existing systems of philosophy.

Descartes had already accomplished a great simplification of the
speculative problem by summing up all existence under the two heads of
extension and thought. It remained to account for these, and to reduce
them to a single idea. As we have seen, they were derived from Greek
philosophy, and the bond which was to unite them must be sought for in
the same direction. It will be remembered that the systems of Plato
and Aristotle were bounded at either extremity by a determinate and
by an indeterminate principle. With the one, existence ranged between
the Idea of Good at the upper end of the scale and empty space at the
lower; with the other, between absolute Thought and First Matter.
It was by combining the two definite terms, space and thought, that
Descartes had constructed his system; and after subtracting these the
two indefinite terms remained. In one respect they were even more
opposed to each other than were the terms with which they had been
respectively associated. The Idea of Good represented unity, identity,
and constancy, as against plurality, difference, and change; while
Aristotle’s Matter was, by its very definition, multiform, fluctuating,
and indeterminate. Nevertheless, there were equally important analogies
traceable between them. No very clear account could be given of either,
and both were customarily described by negatives. If Matter fell short
of complete existence, the Good transcended all existence. If the one
was a universal capacity for assuming Forms, the other was the source
whence all Forms proceeded. When the distinctive characteristics of an
individual were thought away, the question might well be mooted into
which principle it would return. The ambiguous use of the word Power
contributed still further to their identification, for it was not less
applicable to the receptive than to the productive faculty. Now we have
just seen into what importance the idea of Power suddenly sprang at the
Renaissance: with Bruno it was the only abiding reality of Nature; with
Hobbes it was the only object of human desire.

Another term occupying a very large place in Aristotle’s philosophy
was well adapted to mediate between and eventually to unite the two
speculative extremes. This was Substance; in logic the subject of
predication, in metaphysics the substratum of qualities, the οὐσία or
Being of the Ten Categories. Now First Matter might fairly claim the
position of a universal subject or substance, since it was invested
with every sensible quality in turn, and even, as the common element of
all Forms, with every thinkable quality as well. Aristotle himself had
finally pronounced for the individual compound of Form and Matter as
the true substance. Yet he also speaks as if the essential definition
of a thing constituted the thing itself; in which case Form alone could
be the true subject; and a similar claim might be put forward on behalf
of the Plotinian One.[561]

Such were the _à priori_ elements which a historical synthesis had
prepared to satisfy the want of a metaphysical Absolute. Let us now
see what result would follow when the newly-recovered idea of space
was subjected to a metaphysical analysis. Extension is both one and
infinite. No particular area can be conceived apart from the whole
which both contains and explains it. Again, extension is absolutely
homogeneous; to whatever distance we may travel in imagination there
will still be the same repetition of similar parts. But space, with the
Cartesians, meant more than a simple juxtaposition of parts; having
been made the essence of matter, it was invested with mechanical as
well as with geometrical properties. The bodies into which it resolved
itself were conceived as moving, and as communicating their movement
to one another through an unbroken chain of causation in which each
constituted a single link, determining and determined by the rest; so
that, here also, each part was explained by reference to an infinite
whole, reproducing its essence, while exempt from the condition of
circumscribed existence. We can understand, then, that when the
necessity of accounting for extension itself once became felt, the
natural solution would be to conceive it as holding the same relation
to some greater whole which its own subdivisions held to their sum
total; in other words it should be at once a part, an emanation, and
an image of the ultimate reality. This is, in fact, very nearly the
relation which Matter holds to the One in the Neo-Platonic system.
And we know that with Plotinus Matter is almost the same as infinite
Extension.

Corresponding to the universal space which contains all particular
spaces, there was, in the Neo-Platonic system, a universal Thought
which contained all particular thoughts,—the Nous about which we heard
so much in studying Plotinus. Such a conception is utterly strange
to the modern mind, but it was familiar enough to Spinoza; and we can
see how it would be suggested by the common forms of reasoning. The
tendency of syllogism is either to subsume lower under higher notions
until a _summum genus_ is reached, or to resolve all subjects into a
single predicate, or to connect all predicates with a single subject.
The analogies of space, too, would tell in the same direction, bringing
nearer the idea of a vast thought-sea in which all particular thoughts,
or what to a Cartesian meant the same thing, all particular minds, were
contained. And Neo-Platonism showed how this universal Mind or Thought
could, like the space which it so much resembled, be interpreted as
the product of a still higher principle. To complete the parallelism,
it remained to show that Thought, which before had seemed essentially
finite, is, on the contrary, co-infinite with Extension. How this was
done will appear a little further on.

Spinoza gathered up all the threads of speculation thus made ready for
his grasp, when he defined God as a substance consisting of infinite
attributes, each of which expresses his infinite and eternal essence;
subsequently adding that the essence here spoken of is Power, and that
two of the infinite attributes are Extension and Thought, whereof the
particular things known to us are modes. Platonism had decomposed the
world into two ideal principles, and had re-created it by combining
them over again in various proportions, but they were not entirely
reabsorbed and worked up into the concrete reality which resulted from
their union; they were, so to speak, knotted together, but the ends
continued to hang loose. Above and below the finite sphere of existence
there remained as an unemployed surplus the infinite causal energy
of the One and the infinite passive potentiality of Matter. Spinoza
combined and identified the two opposing elements in the notion of a
single substance as infinite in actuality as they had been in power. He
thus gave its highest metaphysical expression to that common tendency
which we traced through the prospects opened out by the Copernican
astronomy, the revival of Atomism, the dynamical psychology of Hobbes,
and the illimitable passion of the Renaissance, while, at the same
time, preserving the unity of Plato’s idealism, and even making it more
concentrated than before.

It has been shown how universal space and universal thought at once
contain and explain each particular space and each particular concept.
In like manner, the infinite substance contains and explains space and
thought themselves. Contains them, yes, as attributes; but explains
them, how? As two among an infinity of attributes. In other words,
if we ask why there should be such an existence as space, the answer
is because existence, being infinite, must necessarily include every
conceivable thing. The argument is strikingly like a principle of
the Epicurean philosophy, and may well have been suggested by it.
According to Lucretius, the appearance of design in our world need not
be attributed to creative intelligence, because infinite atoms moving
in infinite manners through infinite time, must at length arrive,
after a comprehensive series of experiments, at the present frame of
things;[562] and the same principle is invoked on a smaller scale to
account for the origin of organised beings, of memory, and of civil
society.[563] In both systems, infinite space is the root-conception;
but what Lucretius had legitimately used to explain becoming, Spinoza
illegitimately applies to the elucidation of being. At one stroke all
empirical knowledge is placed on an _à priori_ foundation. By assuming
unlimited credit at the bank of the universe we entitle ourselves to
draw a cheque for any particular amount. Thus the idea of infinite
attributes is no mere collateral speculation, but forms an essential
element of Spinozism. The known varieties of existence are, so to
speak, surrounded, supported, and fixed in their places by the endless
multitude of the unknown. And this conception of being as absolutely
infinite, is another proof of Spinoza’s Platonic tendencies, for it
involves the realisation of an abstract idea, that is to say, of Being,
which the philosopher treats as something more comprehensive than the
facts of consciousness whence it is derived.

Or, again, we may say that two principles,—the Nominalistic as well
as the Realistic,—are here at work. By virtue of the one, Spinoza
makes Being something beyond and above the facts of experience.
By virtue of the other he reinvests it with concrete reality, but
a reality altogether transcending our powers of imagination. Very
much, also, that Plotinus says about his One might be applied to
Spinoza’s Substance, but with a new and positive meaning. The First
Cause is above existence, but only existence as restricted within the
very narrow limits of our experience, and only as infinite reality
transcends the parts which it includes.

It is well known that Spinoza draws a sharp line of demarcation
between the two attributes of Extension and Thought, which, with him,
correspond to what are usually called body and mind. Neither attribute
can act on the other. Mind receives no impressions from body, nor
does body receive any impulses from mind. This proposition follows by
rigorous logical necessity from the Platonic principle that mind is
independent of body, combined with the Stoic principle that nothing
but body can act on body, generalised into the wider principle that
interaction implies homogeneity of nature. According to some critics,
Spinoza’s teaching on this point constitutes a fatal flaw in his
philosophy. How, it is asked, can we know that there is any such thing
as body (or extension) if body cannot be perceived,—for perceived it
certainly cannot be without acting on our minds? The idea of infinite
substance suggests a way out of the difficulty. ‘I find in myself,’
Spinoza might say, ‘the idea of extension. In fact, my mind _is_
nothing but the idea of extension, or the idea of that idea, and so
on through as many self-reflections as you please. At the same time,
mind, or thought, is not itself extended. Descartes and the Platonists
before him have proved thus much. Consequently I can conceive extension
as existing independently of myself, and, more generally, of all
thought. But how can I be sure that it actually does so exist? In this
wise. An examination of thought leads me to the notion of something in
which it resides—a substance whose attribute it is. But having once
conceived such a substance, I cannot limit it to a single attribute,
nor to two, nor to any finite number. Limitation implies a boundary,
and there can be no boundary assigned to existence, for existence
by its very definition includes everything that is. Accordingly,
whatever can be conceived, in other words whatever can be thought
without involving a contradiction,—an important reservation which I
beg you to observe,—must necessarily exist. Now extension involves
no contradiction, therefore it exists,—exists, that is to say, as an
attribute of the infinite substance. And, by parity of reasoning,
there must be an idea of extension; for this also can exist without
involving a contradiction, as the simplest introspection suffices to
show. You ask me why then I do not believe in gorgons and chimaeras. I
answer that since, in point of fact, they do not exist, I presume that
their notion involves a contradiction, although my knowledge of natural
law is not sufficiently extended to show me where the contradiction
lies. But perhaps science will some day be able to point out in every
instance of a non-existing thing, where the contradiction lies, no
less surely than it can now be pointed out in the case of impossible
geometrical figures.’ In short, while other people travel straight from
their sensations to an external world, Spinoza travels round to it by
the idea of an infinite substance.[564]

The relation of Spinoza’s Substance to its attributes is ambiguous. It
is at once their cause, their totality, and their unity. The highly
elastic and indefinite term Power helped these various aspects to play
into and replace one another according to the requirements of the
system. It is associated with the subjective possibility of multiplying
imaginary existences to any amount; with the causal energy in which
existence originates; and with the expansiveness characteristic alike
of Extension and of Thought. For the two known attributes of the
universal substance are not simply related to it as co-predicates of
a common subject; they severally express its essential Power, and
are, to that extent, identical with one another. But when we ask,
How do they express Power? the same ambiguity recurs. Substance is
revealed through its attributes, as a cause through its effects; as an
aggregate through its constituents; and as an abstract notion through
its concrete embodiments. Thus Extension and Thought are identical
through their very differences, since these illustrate the versatility
of their common source, and at the same time jointly contribute to the
realisation of its perfection. But, for all practical purposes, Spinoza
deals only with the parallelism and resemblance of the attributes. We
have to see how he establishes it, and how far he was helped in so
doing by the traditions of Greek philosophy.


VII.

It has been already shown how Extension, having become identified
with matter, took on its mechanical qualities, and was conceived as
a connected series of causes or modes of motion. The parallel found
by Spinoza for this series in Thought is the chain of reasons and
consequents forming a demonstrative argument; and here he is obviously
following Aristotle, who although ostensibly distinguishing between
formal and efficient causes, hopelessly confounds them in the second
book of his _Posterior Analytics_.[565] We are said to understand a
thing when we bring it under a general rule, and also when we discover
the mechanical agency which produces it. For instance, we may know
that a particular man will die, either from the fact that all men
are mortal, or from the fact that he has received a fatal wound. The
general rule, however, is not the cause of what will happen, but only
the cause of our knowing that it will happen; and knowledge of the rule
by no means carries with it a knowledge of the efficient cause; as we
see in the case of gravitation and other natural forces whose _modus
operandi_ is still a complete mystery. What deceived Aristotle was
partly his false analysis of the syllogism, which he interpreted as
the connexion of two terms by the interposition of a middle answering
to the causal nexus of two phenomena; and partly his conception of the
universe as a series of concentric spheres, through which movement is
transmitted from without, thus combining the two ideas of notional
comprehension and mechanical causation.

Be this as it may, Spinoza takes up the Aristotelian identification
of logical with dynamical connexion, and gives it the widest possible
development. For the Stagirite would not, at any rate, have dreamed of
attributing any but a subjective existence to the demonstrative series,
nor of extending it beyond the limits of our actual knowledge. Spinoza,
on the other hand, assumes that the whole infinite chain of material
causes is represented by a corresponding chain of eternal ideas; and
this chain he calls the infinite intellect of God.[566] Here, besides
the necessities of systematisation, the influence of mediaeval
realism is plainly evident. For, when the absolute self-existence
of Plato’s Ideas had been surrendered in deference to Aristotle’s
criticism, a home was still found for them by Plotinus in the eternal
Nous, and by the Christian Schoolmen in the mind of God; nor did such
a belief present any difficulties so long as the divine personality
was respected. The pantheism of Spinoza, however, was absolute, and
excluded the notion of any but a finite subjectivity. Thus the infinite
intellect of God is an unsupported chain of ideas recalling the theory
at one time imagined by Plato.[567] Or its existence may be merely what
Aristotle would have called potential; in other words, Spinoza may
mean that reasons will go on evolving themselves so long as we choose
to study the dialectic of existence, always in strict parallelism with
the natural series of material movements constituting the external
universe; and just as this is determined through all its parts by the
totality of extension, or of all matter (whether moving or motionless)
taken together, so also at the summit of the logical series stands the
idea of God, from whose definition the demonstration of every lesser
idea necessarily follows. It is true that in a chain of connected
energies the antecedent, as such, must be always precisely equal to the
consequent; but, apparently, this difficulty did not present itself to
Spinoza, nor need we be surprised at this; for Kant, coming a century
later, was still so imbued with Aristotelian traditions as, similarly,
to derive the category of Cause and Effect from the relation between
Reason and Consequent in hypothetical propositions.[568]

Meanwhile the parallelism between Thought and Extension was not
exhausted by the identification just analysed. Extension was not only a
series of movements; it still remained an expression for co-existence
and adjacency. Spinoza, therefore, felt himself obliged to supply
Thought with a correspondingly continuous quality. It is here that his
chief originality lies, here that he has been most closely followed
by the philosophy of our own time. Mind, he declares, is an attribute
everywhere accompanying matter, co-extensive and co-infinite with
space. Our own animation is the sum or the resultant of an animation
clinging to every particle that enters into the composition of our
bodies. When our thoughts are affected by an external impulse, to
suppose that this impulse proceeds from anything material is a
delusion; it is produced by the mind belonging to the body which acts
on our body; although in what sense this process is to be understood
remains a mystery. Spinoza has clearly explained the doctrine of
animal automatism, and shown it to be perfectly conceivable;[569] but
he has entirely omitted to explain how the parallel influence of one
thought (or feeling) on another is to be understood; for although this
too is spoken of as a causal relation, it seems to be quite different
from the logical concatenation described as the infinite intellect of
God; and to suppose that idea follows from idea like movement from
movement would amount to a complete materialisation of mind; while our
philosopher would certainly have repudiated Mr. Shadworth Hodgson’s
theory, that states of consciousness are only connected through their
extended substratum, as the segments of a mosaic picture are held
together by the underlying surface of masonry. Nor can we admit that
Spinoza entertained the theory, now so popular, according to which
extension and consciousness are merely different aspects of a single
reality. For this would imply that the substance which they manifest
had an existence of its own apart from its attributes; whereas Spinoza
makes it consist of the attributes, that is to say, identifies it with
their totality. We are forced, then, to conclude that the proposition
declaring thought and extension to be the same thing[570] has no other
meaning than that they are connected by the double analogy which we
have endeavoured to explain.

The analogy between Thought and Extension under the two aspects of
necessary connexion and mere contingent relation in co-existence or
succession, was, in truth, more interesting to its author as a basis
for his ethical than as a development of his metaphysical speculations.
The two orders of relations represent, in their distinction, the
opposition of science to opinion or imagination, the opposition of
dutiful conviction to blind or selfish impulse. Spinoza borrows from
the Stoics their identification of volition with belief; but in working
out the consequences of this principle it is of Plato rather than of
the Stoics that he reminds us. The passions are in his system what
sense, imagination, and opinion were in that of the Athenian idealist;
and his ethics may almost be called the metaphysics of the _Republic_
turned outside in. Joy, grief and desire are more or less imperfect
perceptions of reality—a reality not belonging to the external world
but to the conscious subject itself.[571] When Spinoza traces them to a
consciousness or expectation of raised or lowered power, we recognise
the influence of Hobbes; but when, here as elsewhere, he identifies
power with existence, we detect a return to Greek forms of thought. The
great conflict between illusion and reality is fought out once more;
only, this time, it is about our own essence that we are first deceived
and then enlightened. If the nature and origin of outward things are
half revealed, half concealed by sense and imagination, our emotions
are in like manner the obscuring and distorting medium through which
we apprehend our inmost selves, and whatever adds to or takes away
from the plenitude of our existence; and what science is to the one,
morality and religion are to the other.

It is remarkable that while Spinoza was giving a new application to
the Platonic method, another Cartesian, Malebranche, was working
it out more strictly on the old lines of speculative research. The
_Recherche de la Vérité_ of this unjustly neglected thinker is a
methodical account of the various subjective obstacles which impede
our apprehension of things as they really exist, and of the means by
which it may be facilitated. Here also, attention is concentrated on
the subjective side of philosophy; and if the mental processes selected
for study are of theoretical rather than practical interest, we may
probably attribute this to the circumstance that every ethical question
was already decided for Malebranche by the Church whose orders he had
assumed.

But it was not merely in the writings of professed philosophers that
the new aspect of Platonism found expression. All great art embodies
in one form or another the leading conceptions of its age; and the
latter half of the seventeenth century found such a manifestation
in the comedies of Molière. If these works stand at the head of
French literature, they owe their position not more to their author’s
brilliant wit than to his profound philosophy of life; or rather, we
should say that with him wit and philosophy are one. The comic power
of Shakespeare was shown by resolving the outward appearances of
this world into a series of dissolving illusions. Like Spinoza and
Malebranche, Molière turns the illusion in, showing what perverted
opinions men form of themselves and others, through misconceptions
and passions either of spontaneous growth or sedulously fostered by
designing hands. Society, with him, seems almost entirely made up of
pretenders and their dupes, both characters being not unfrequently
combined in the same person, who is made a victim through his desire
to pass for what he is not and cannot be. And this is what essentially
distinguishes the art of Molière from the New Comedy of Athens, which
he, like other moderns, had at first felt inclined to imitate until
the success of the _Précieuses Ridicules_ showed him where his true
opportunities lay. For the New Comedy was Aristotelian where it was
not simply humanist; that is to say, it was an exhibition of types
like those sketched by Aristotle’s disciple, Theophrastus, and already
prefigured in the master’s own _Ethics_. These were the perennial
forms in a world of infinite and perishing individual existences, not
concealed behind phenomena, but incorporated in them and constituting
their essential truth. The Old Comedy is something different again; it
is pre-philosophic, and may be characterised as an attempt to describe
great political interests and tendencies through the medium of myths
and fables and familiar domesticities, just as the old theories of
Nature, the old lessons of practical wisdom, and the first great
national chronicles had been thrown into the same homely form.[572]

The purely intellectual view of human nature, the definition of mind
in terms of cognition, is one more fallacy from which Aristotle’s
teaching, had it not fallen into neglect or contempt, might have
guarded Spinoza. Nevertheless, his parallelism between passion and
sensuous perception saves him from the worst extravagances of his Greek
predecessors. For the senses, however much they might be maligned,
never were nor could be altogether rejected; while the passions met
with little mercy from Plato and with none from the Stoics, who
considered them not only unnecessary but even unnatural. Spinoza
more wisely sees in them assertions, however obscure and confused,
of the will to be and grow which constitutes individual existence.
And he sees that they can no more be removed by pointing out their
evil consequences than sense-impressions can be abolished by proving
their fallaciousness. On the other hand, when Spinoza speaks as if
one emotion could only be conquered or expelled by another emotion,
we must not allow his peculiar phraseology to conceal from us the
purely intellectual character of his whole ethical system. What he
really holds is that emotion can be overcome by reason or better
knowledge, because it is itself an imperfect cognition. Point by point,
an analogy—or something more than an analogy—is made out between the
errors of sensuous perception joined to imagination, and the errors of
our spontaneous efforts after happiness or self-realisation. Both are
imposed on us from without, and neither can be got rid of by a simple
act of volition. Both are affected by illusions of perspective: the
nearer object of desire, like the nearer object of perception, assuming
a disproportionate place in the field of view. In both, accidental
contiguity is habitually confounded with causation; while in both the
assignment of causes to effects, instead of being traced back through
an infinite series of antecedents, stops short with the antecedent
nearest to ourselves. If objects are classified according to their
superficial resemblances or the usages of common language, so also
are the desires sustained and intensified by imitation and rivalry.
By parity of reasoning, moral education must be conducted on the same
lines as intellectual education. First, it is shown how our individual
existence, depending as it does on forces infinitely exceeding our
own, is to be maintained. This is chiefly done by cultivating friendly
relations with other men; probably, although Spinoza does not himself
make the comparison, on the same principle as that observed in the
mutual assistance and rectification of the senses, together with their
preservation by means of verbal signs. The misleading passions are to
be overcome by discovering their origin; by referring the pleasures and
pains which produce them to the right causes; by calling in thought to
redress the balance of imagination; by dividing the attention among
an infinite number of causes; finally, by demonstrating the absolute
necessity of whatever actions excite them, and classifying them
according to their relations, in the same way that the phenomena of the
material world are dealt with when subjected to scientific analysis.

So far Spinoza, following the example of Stoicism, has only studied
the means by which reason conquers passion. He now proceeds to show,
in the spirit of Plato or of Platonic Christianity, how immensely
superior to the pleasures of sense and opinion are those afforded by
true religion—by the love of God and the possession of eternal life.
But, here also, as in the Greek system, logic does duty for emotion.
The love of God means no more than viewing ourselves as filling a place
in the infinite framework of existence, and as determined to be what we
are by the totality of forces composing it. And eternal life is merely
the adjustment of our thoughts to the logical order by which all modes
of existence are deducible from the idea of infinite power.

Thus, while Spinoza draws to a head all the tendencies inherited
from Greek philosophy, borrowing from the early physicists their
necessarianism; from the Atomists, their exclusion of final causes,
their denial of the supernatural, and their infinite worlds; from the
Athenian school, their distinction between mind and body and between
reason and sense; from Aristotle, his parallelism between causation
and syllogism; from the Epicureans, their vindication of pleasure; and
from the Stoics, their identification of belief with action, their
conquest of passion and their devotion to humanity;—it is to the
dominant Platonism of the seventeenth century that his system owes its
foundation, its development, and its crown; for he begins by realising
the abstract conception of being, and infers its absolute infinity from
the misleading analogy of space, which is not an abstraction at all;
deduces his conclusions according to the geometrical method recommended
by Plato; and ends, like Plato, by translating dialectic formulas into
the emotional language of religious faith.[573]


VIII.

From this grand synthesis, however, a single element was omitted; and,
like the uninvited guest of fairy tradition, it proved strong enough
singly to destroy what had been constructed by the united efforts of
all the rest. This was the sceptical principle, the critical analysis
of ideas, first exercised by Protagoras, made a new starting-point by
Socrates, carried to perfection by Plato, supplementing experience with
Aristotle, and finally proclaimed in its purity as the sole function of
philosophy by an entire school of Greek thought.

Notwithstanding the sterility commonly associated with mere negation,
it was this which, of all the later Greek schools, possessed the
greatest powers of growth. Besides passing through more than one
stage of development on its own account, Scepticism imposed serious
modifications on Stoicism, gave birth to Eclecticism, and contributed
to the establishment of Neo-Platonism. The explanation is not far to
seek. The more highly organised a system is, the more resistance does
it offer to change, the more does its transmission tend to assume
a rigidly scholastic form. To such dogmatism the Sceptics were, on
principle, opposed; and by keeping the problems of philosophy open,
they facilitated the task of all who had a new solution to offer;
while mind and its activities being, to some extent, safe from
the universal doubt, the sceptical principle spontaneously threw
back thought on a subjective instead of an objective synthesis of
knowledge—in other words, on that psychological idealism the pregnancy
and comprehensiveness of which are every day becoming more clearly
recognised. And we shall now see how the same fertilising power of
criticism has been manifested in modern times as well.

The sceptical philosophy, already advocated in the Middle Ages by John
of Salisbury, was, like every other form of ancient thought, revived
at the Renaissance, but only under the very superficial form which
infers from the co-existence of many divergent opinions that none
of them can be true. Even so, however, it led Montaigne to sounder
notions of toleration and humanity than were entertained by any of his
contemporaries. With Bacon, and still more with Descartes, it also
appears as the necessary preparation for a remodelling of all belief;
but the great dogmatic systems still exercised such a potent influence
on both those thinkers that their professed demand for a new method
merely leads up to an altered statement of the old unproved assumptions.

Meanwhile the old principle of universal doubt could no longer be
maintained in presence of the certainties already won by modern
science. Man, in the time of Newton, had, as Pope tersely puts it,
‘too much knowledge for the sceptic side.’ The problem was not how to
establish the reality, but how to ascertain the origin and possible
extent of that knowledge. The first to perceive this, the first to
evolve criticism out of scepticism, and therefore the real founder
of modern philosophy, was Locke. Nevertheless, even with him, the
advantage of studying the more recent in close connexion with the
earlier developments of thought does not cease; it only enters on a new
phase. If he cannot, like his predecessors, be directly affiliated to
one or more of the Greek schools, his position can be illustrated by a
parallel derived from the history of those schools. What Arcesilaus and
Carneades had been to Socrates and his successors, that Locke was, in a
large measure, to Bacon and the Cartesians. He went back to the initial
doubt which with them had been overborne by the dogmatic reaction,
and insisted on making it a reality. The spirit of the _Apologia_ is
absent from Plato’s later dialogues, only to reappear with even more
than its original power in the teaching of the New Academy. And, in
like manner, Descartes’ introspective method, with its demand for
clear ideas, becomes, in the _Essay concerning Human Understanding_,
an irresistible solvent for the psychologyy and physics of its first
propounder. The doctrine of innate ideas, the doctrine that extension
is the essence of matter, the doctrine that thought is the essence of
mind, the more general doctrine, held also by Bacon, that things have
a discoverable essence whence all their properties may be deduced by a
process analogous to mathematical reasoning,—all collapsed when brought
to the test of definite and concrete experience.

We have here, indeed, something comparable not only to the scepticism
of the New Academy, but also to the Aristotelian criticism of Plato’s
metaphysics; and, at first sight, it might seem as if the Peripatetic
philosophy was destined once more to regain the position taken from it
by the resuscitation of its ancient foe. But Locke was not inclined
to substitute one form of scholasticism for another. By applying the
analytical method of Atomism to knowledge itself, he created a weapon
equally fatal to the two competing systems. Under his dissection, the
concrete individual substance of the one vanished no less completely
than the universal ideas of the other. Nothing remained but a bundle of
qualities held together by a subjective bond.

Similarly, in political science, the analytical method of assuming
civil government to result from a concurrence of individual wills,
which with Hobbes had served only to destroy ecclesiastical authority,
while leaving intact and even strengthening the authority of secular
rulers, was reinterpreted by Locke as a negation of all absolutism
whatever.

It is interesting to observe how, here also, the positive science of
the age had a large share in determining its philosophic character.
Founded on the discovery of the earth’s true shape, Aristotle’s
metaphysics had been overthrown by the discovery of the earth’s
motion. And now the claims of Cartesianism to have furnished an exact
knowledge of matter and a definition of it whence all the facts of
observation could be deduced _à priori_, were summarily refuted by the
discovery of universal gravitation. The Cartesians complained that
Newton was bringing back the occult qualities of the Schoolmen; but
the tendency of bodies to move towards one another proved as certain
as it was inexplicably mysterious. For a time, the study of causes was
superseded by the study of laws; and the new method of physical science
moved in perfect harmony with the phenomenism of Locke. One most
important consequence of this revolution was to place the new Critical
philosophy on a footing quite different from that occupied by the
ancient sceptics. Both restricted certain knowledge to our own states
of consciousness; but it now appeared that this might be done without
impeaching the value of accepted scientific conclusions, which was
more than the Academic philosophy would have admitted. In other words,
granting that we were limited to phenomena, it was shown that science
consisted in ascertaining the relations of these phenomena to one
another, instead of to a problematic reality lying behind them; while,
that such relations existed and were, in fact, part of the phenomena
themselves, was what no sceptic could easily deny.

Nevertheless, in each case, subjective idealism had the effect of
concentrating speculation, properly so called, on ethical and practical
interests. Locke struck the keynote of eighteenth century philosophy
when he pronounced morality to be ‘the proper science and business
of mankind in general.’[574] And no sooner had morality come to the
front than the significance of ancient thought again made itself
apparent. Whether through conscious imitation, or because the same
causes brought about the same effects, ethical enquiries moved along
the lines originally laid down in the schools of Athens. When rules of
conduct were not directly referred to a divine revelation, they were
based either on a supposed law of Nature, or on the necessities of
human happiness, or on some combination of the two. Nothing is more
characteristic of the eighteenth century than its worship of Nature.
Even the theology of the age is deeply coloured by it; and with the
majority of those who rejected theology it became a new religion.
But this sentiment is demonstrably of Greek origin, and found its
most elaborate, though not its most absolute, expression in Stoicism.
The Stoics had inherited it from the Cynics, who held the faith in
greater purity; and these, again, so far as we can judge, from a
certain Sophistic school, some fragments of whose teaching have been
preserved by Xenophon and Plato; while the first who gave wide currency
to this famous abstraction was, in all probability, Heracleitus. To
the Stoics, however, is due that intimate association of naturalism
with teleology which meets us again in the philosophy of the last
century, and even now wherever the doctrine of evolution has not been
thoroughly accepted. It was assumed, in the teeth of all evidence, that
Nature bears the marks of a uniformly beneficent design, that evil is
exclusively of human origin, and that even human nature is essentially
good when unspoiled by artificial restrictions.

Yet if teleology was, in some respects, a falling-off from the rigid
mechanicism first taught by the pre-Socratic schools and then again by
the Cartesian school, in at least one respect it marked a comparative
progress. For the first attempts made both by ancient and modern
philosophy to explain vital phenomena on purely mechanical principles
were altogether premature; and the immense extension of biological
knowledge which took place subsequently to both, could not but bring
about an irresistible movement in the opposite direction. The first
to revive teleology was Leibniz, who furnished a transition from the
seventeenth to the eighteenth century by his monadology. In this,
Atomism is combined with Aristotelian ideas, just as it had previously
been combined with Platonic ideas by Descartes. The movement of the
atoms is explained by their aspiration after a more perfect state
instead of by mechanical pressure. But while Leibniz still relies on
the ontological argument of Descartes to prove the existence of God,
this was soon abandoned, along with the cosmological argument, for the
argument from design, which was also that used by the Stoics; while in
ethics the fitness of things was substituted for the more mechanical
law of self-preservation, as the rule of conduct; and the subjection of
all impulse to reason was replaced by the milder principle of a control
exercised by the benevolent over the malevolent instincts. This was a
very distinct departure from the Stoic method, yet those who made it
were more faithful to teleology than Stoicism had been; for to condemn
human feeling altogether was implicitly to condemn the work of Nature
or of God.

The other great ethical method of the eighteenth century, its hedonism,
was closely connected with the sceptical movement in speculative
philosophy, and, like that, received an entirely new significance by
becoming associated with the idea of law. Those who isolate man from
the universe are necessarily led to seek in his interests as such the
sole regulator of his actions, and their sole sanction in the opinion
of his fellows. Protagoras went already so far, notwithstanding his
unwillingness to recognise pleasure as the supreme end; and in the
system of his true successor, Aristippus, the most extreme hedonism
goes hand in hand with the most extreme idealism; while with Epicurus,
again, both are tempered by the influence of naturalism, imposing on
him its conceptions of objective law alike in science and in practice.
Still his system leaned heavily to the side of self-gratification
pure and simple; and it was reserved for modern thought to establish
a complete equilibrium between the two competing tendencies of Greek
ethics. This has been effected in Utilitarianism; and those critics
are entirely mistaken who, like M. Guyau, regard that system as a
mere reproduction of Epicureanism. It might with full as much reason
be called a modern version of Stoicism. The idea of humanity is
essentially Stoic; to work for the good of humanity was a Stoic
precept; and to sacrifice one’s own pleasure for that higher good is
a virtue which would have satisfied the most rigorous demands of a
Cleanthes, an Epictêtus, or an Aurelius.

Utilitarianism agrees with the ancient hedonism in holding pleasure to
be the sole good and pain the sole evil. Its adherents also, for the
most part, admit that the desire of the one and the dread of the other
are the sole motives to action; but, while making the end absolutely
universal and impersonal, they make the motive into a momentary
impulse, without any necessary relation to the future happiness of
the agent himself. The good man does his duty because doing it gives
him pleasure, or because the failure to do it would give him pain, at
the moment; although he knows that a contrary course would save him
from greater pain or win him greater pleasure hereafter. No accurate
thinker would call this acting from a selfish or interested motive; nor
does it agree with the teaching of Epicurus. Were all sensitive beings
to be united in a single organism, then, on utilitarian principles,
self-interest, interpreted in the sense of seeking its own preservation
and pleasure, would be the only law that the individualised aggregate
could rationally obey. But the good of each part would be rigorously
subordinated to the good of the whole; and utilitarian morality desires
that we should act as if this hypothesis were realised, at least in
reference to our own particular interests. Now, the idea of humanity
as forming such a consolidated whole is not Epicurean. It belongs to
the philosophy which always reprobated pleasure, precisely because its
pursuit is associated with the dereliction of public duty and with
bitter rivalry for the possession of what, by its very nature, exists
only in limited quantities, while the demand for it is unlimited or, at
any rate, far exceeds the supply. According to the Stoics, there was
only one way in which the individual could study his private interest
without abandoning his position as a social being, and this was to find
it exclusively in the practice of virtue.[575] But virtue and public
interest remained mere forms scantily supplemented by appeals to the
traditional morality, until the idea of generalised happiness, of
pleasure diffused through the whole community, came to fill them with
substance and life.

It has also to be observed that the idea of utility as a test of moral
goodness is quite distinct from hedonism. Plato proclaims, in the most
unequivocal terms, that actions must be estimated by their consequences
instead of by the feelings of sympathy or antipathy which they excite;
yet no one could object more strongly to making pleasure the end of
action. Thus, three distinct doctrines seem to converge in modern
English ethics, of which all are traceable to Greek philosophy, but
only one to Epicureanism in particular, and not ultimately to that but
to the older systems whence it sprang.

And here we unexpectedly find ourselves confronted by a new relation
between ancient and modern thought. Each acts as a powerful precipitant
on the other, dissolving what might otherwise have passed for
inseparable associations, and combining elements which a less complete
experience might have led us to regard as necessarily incompatible with
one another. The instance just analysed is highly significant; nor
does it stand alone. Modern spiritualists often talk as if morality
was impossible apart from their peculiar metaphysics. But the Stoics,
confessedly the purest moralists of antiquity, were uncompromising
materialists; while the spiritualist Aristotle taught what is not
easily distinguishable from a very refined sort of egoism. Again, the
doctrine of free-will is now commonly connected with a belief in the
separability of consciousness from matter, and, like that, is declared
to be an indispensable condition of morality. Among the Greeks,
however, it was held by the materialist Epicureans more distinctly
than by any other school; while the Stoics did not find necessarianism
inconsistent with self-sacrificing virtue. The partial derivation
of knowledge from an activity in our own minds is another supposed
concomitant of spiritualism; although Aristotle traces every idea to
an external source, while at the same time holding some cognitions to
be necessarily true—a theory repudiated by modern experientialists. To
Plato, the spirituality of the soul seemed to involve its pre-existence
no less than its immortality, a consequence not accepted by his modern
imitators. Teleology is now commonly opposed to pantheism; the two were
closely combined in Stoicism; while Aristotle, although he believed
in a personal God, attributed the marks of design in Nature to purely
unconscious agencies.


IX.

The naturalism and utilitarianism of the eighteenth century are the
last conceptions directly inherited from ancient philosophy by modern
thought. Henceforward, whatever light the study of the former can
throw on the vicissitudes of the latter is due either to their partial
parallelism, or to an influence becoming every day fainter and more
difficult to trace amid the multitude of factors involved. The progress
of analytical criticism was continually deflected or arrested by the
still powerful resistance of scholasticism, just as the sceptical
tendencies of the New Academy had been before, though happily with
less permanent success; and as, in antiquity, this had happened within
no less than without the critical school, so also do we find Locke
clinging to the theology of Descartes; Berkeley lapsing into Platonism;
Hume playing fast and loose with his own principles; and Kant leaving
it doubtful to which side he belongs, so evenly are the two opposing
tendencies balanced in his mind, so dexterously does he adapt the new
criticism to the framework of scholastic logic and metaphysics.

Meanwhile the strength of the analytical method was doubled by its
extension to the phenomena of growth and change; for, as applied to
these, it became the famous theory of Development or Evolution. No
idea belongs so completely to modern philosophy; for even the ancient
thinkers who threw their cosmology into a historical form had never
attempted to explain the present by the past. If anything, they
explained the past by the present, assuming a rough analogy to exist
between the formation of the universe as a whole and the genesis of
those natural or artificial bodies which were continually growing or
being built up before their eyes. Their cosmology was, in fact, nothing
but the old mythology stripped of its personal or conscious element;
and, like it, was a hypothesis unsupported by any external evidence;—a
criticism not inconsistent with the admission that to eliminate the
supernatural element from speculation was, even in the absence of any
solid addition to human knowledge, an achievement of inestimable value.
The evolutionary method is also an elimination of the supernatural, but
it is a great deal more. By tracing the history of compound structures
to their first origin, and noting the successive increments to which
their gradual growth is due, it reveals, as no statical analysis ever
could, the actual order of synthesis, and the meaning of the separate
constituents by whose joint action their movements are determined;
while, conversely, their dissolution supplies us with a number of
ready-made experiments in which the influence of each particular factor
in the sum total may be detected by watching the changes that ensue
on its removal. In a word, the method of evolution is the atomistic
method, extended from matter to motion, and viewed under the form of
succession instead of under the form of co-existence.

As a universal philosophy, the theory of Development, like every other
modern idea, has only been permitted to manifest itself in combination
with different forms of the old scholasticism. The whole speculative
movement of our century is made up of such hybrid systems; and three,
in particular, still divide the suffrages of many thinking men who
have not been able entirely to shake off the influence of reactionary
ideas. These are the systems of Hegel, of Comte, and of Mr. Herbert
Spencer. In each, the logic and metaphysics inherited from Greek
thought are variously compounded with the new science. And each, for
that very reason, serves to facilitate the transition from one to the
other; a part analogous to that played among the Greeks themselves by
the vast constructions of Plato and Aristotle, or, in an age of less
productivity, by the Stoic and Alexandrian philosophies.

The influence of Aristotle has, indeed, continued to make itself
felt not only through the teaching of his modern imitators, but more
directly as a living tradition in literature, or through the renewed
study of his writings at first hand. Even in the pure sciences, it
survived until a comparatively recent period, and, so far as the French
intellect goes, it is not yet entirely extinct. From Abélard on, Paris
was the headquarters of that soberer scholasticism which took its cue
from the Peripatetic logic; and the resulting direction of thought,
deeply impressed as it became on the French character and the French
language, was interrupted rather than permanently altered by the
Cartesian revolution, and, with the fall of Cartesianism, gradually
recovered its old predominance. The Aristotelian philosophy is
remarkable above all others for clear definitions, full descriptions,
comprehensive classifications, lucid reasoning, encyclopaedic science,
and disinterested love of knowledge; along with a certain incapacity
for ethical speculation,[576] strong conservative leanings, and
a general tendency towards the rigid demarcation rather than the
fruitful commingling of ideas. And it will probably be admitted that
these are also traits characteristic of French thinking as opposed
to English or German thinking. For instance, widely different as is
the _Mécanique Céleste_ from the astronomy of Aristotle’s treatise
_On the Heavens_, both agree in being attempts to prove the eternal
stability of the celestial system.[577] The destructive deluges by
which Aristotle supposes civilisation to be periodically interrupted,
reappear on a larger scale in the theory of catastrophes still held by
French geologists. Another Aristotelian dogma, the fixity of organic
species, though vigorously assailed by eminent French naturalists, has,
on the whole, triumphed over the opposite doctrine of transformism in
France, and now impedes the acceptance of Darwin’s teaching even in
circles where theological prepossessions are extinct. The accepted
classifications in botany and zoology are the work of Frenchmen
following in the footsteps of Aristotle, whose genius for methodical
arrangement was signally exemplified in at least one of these
departments; the division of animals into vertebrate and invertebrate
being originally due to him. Bichat’s distinction between the animal
and the vegetable functions recalls Aristotle’s distinction between
the sensitive and nutritive souls; while his method of studying the
tissues before the organs is prefigured in the treatise on the _Parts
of Animals_. For a long time, the ruling of Aristotle’s _Poetics_
was undisputed in French criticism; and if anything could disentitle
Montesquieu’s _Esprit des Lois_ to the proud motto, _Prolem sine matre
creatam_, it would be its close relationship to the _Politics_ of the
same universal master. Finally, if it be granted that the enthusiasm
for knowledge, irrespective of its utilitarian applications, exists
to a greater degree among the educated classes of France than in any
other modern society, we may plausibly attribute this honourable
characteristic to the fostering influence of one who has proclaimed
more eloquently than any other philosopher that theoretical activity is
the highest good of human life, the ideal of all Nature, and the sole
beatitude of God.

It remains to add a few words on the position which ancient and modern
philosophy respectively occupy towards theology. Here their relation is
one of contrast rather than of resemblance. The Greek thinkers start at
an immense distance from religious belief, and their first allusions
to it are marked by a scornful denial of its validity. Gradually, with
the transition from physical to ethical enquiries, an approximation
between the two is brought about, though not without occasional returns
to their former attitude of hostility. Finally, in presence of a common
danger they become interwoven and almost identified with one another;
while the new religion against which they make common cause, itself
presents the same spectacle of metaphysical and moral ideas entering
into combination with the spontaneous products of popular mythology.
And be it observed that throughout the whole of this process action
and reaction were equal and contrary. The decline and corruption of
philosophy was the price paid for the elevation and purification
of religion. While the one was constantly sinking, the other was
constantly rising, until they converged on the plane of dogmatic
theology. By the very circumstances of the case, an opposite course has
been imposed on the development of modern philosophy. Starting from
an intimate union with religion, it slowly disengages itself from the
compromising alliance; and, although, here also, the normal course of
ideas has been interrupted by frequent reactions, the general movement
of European thought has been no less decidedly towards a complete
emancipation from the popular beliefs than the movement of Greek
thought had been towards their conciliation and support.


_Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London._




FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Vol. I., pp. 78-83.

[2] Aristotle, _Metaph._, VIII., iii., 1043, b, 25.

[3] Zeller, _Phil. d. Gr._, II., a, 277.

[4] Diog. L., VI., 3.

[5] According to the very probable conjecture of Zeller, _l. c._

[6] Zeller, _l. c._; Diog. L., VI., 12.

[7] Diog., VI., 3.

[8] For the authorities, see Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 263.

[9] Diog., IX., 62.

[10] _Metaph._, IV., iv., 1008, b, 12 ff.

[11] _Diss._, III., xxii.

[12] Diog., VIII., i. ff.

[13] Diog., VI., 96.

[14] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, 29.

[15] Diog., VII., 5.

[16] Diog., VII., 183.

[17] _Ibid._, 179.

[18] _Ibid._, 25.

[19] _Ibid._, 180 L.

[20] Plutarch, _De Stoic. Repug._, iii., 2.

[21] It is significant that the only Stoic who fell back on pure
Cynicism should have been Aristo of Chios, a genuine Greek, while
the only one who, like Aristotle, identified good with knowledge was
Herillus, a Carthaginian.

[22] _Op. cit._, p. 18, cf. p. 362.

[23] Diog., VII., 144 ff.

[24] Posidonius estimated the sun’s distance from the earth at
500,000,000 stades, and the moon’s distance at 2,000,000 stades, which,
counting the stade at 200 yards, gives about 57,000,000 and 227,000
miles respectively. The sun’s diameter he reckoned, according to one
account, at 440,000 miles, about half the real amount; according to
another account at a quarter less. Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 190, Note 2.

[25] For the authorities, see Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 139, Note 1.

[26] Zeller, p. 155.

[27] The Stoic necessarianism gave occasion to a repartee which has
remained classical ever since, although its original authorship is
known to few. A slave of Zeno’s, on receiving chastisement for a theft,
tried to excuse himself by quoting his master’s principle that he was
fated to steal. ‘And to be flogged for it,’ replied the philosopher,
calmly continuing his predestined task. (Diog., VII., 23.)

[28] _Soph._, 247, D.

[29] Plutarch, _De Comm. Notit._, xxx., 2; Cicero, _Acad._, I., xi.,
39; Diog., VII., 150; Zeller, p. 117.

[30] Plutarch, _De Stoic. Repug._, xliii., 4.

[31] Zeller, p. 201, ff.

[32] Cicero, _De Nat. Deor._, II., xv., 39.

[33] Sextus Empiricus, _Adv. Math._, IX., 18.

[34] Cicero, _De Nat. Deor._, I., xiii., 32.

[35] Zeller, p. 309 ff.

[36] See Cicero, _De Divinatione_, I., _passim_.

[37] Plutarch, _De Placit. Phil._, IV., xi.

[38] This seems the best explanation of the various statements on the
subject made by our authorities, for which see Zeller, pp. 71-86.

[39] Sextus Emp., _Adv. Math._, VIII., 375.

[40] Zeller, p. 109.

[41] Zeller, p. 93.

[42] Stobaeus, _Eclog._, II., p. 132, quoted by Ritter and Preller, p.
394; Diog., VII., 89.

[43] ‘Quid est sapientia? Semper idem velle atque idem nolle. Licet
illam exceptiunculam non adicias ut rectum sit quod velis. Non potest
cuiquam semper idem placere nisi rectum.’ Seneca, _Epist._, xx., 4.

[44] Cicero, _De Fin._, I., ix., 30. In this he followed the Cyrenaics;
see Diog., II., 87.

[45] Sextus Emp., _Adv. Math._, XI., 73.

[46] ‘Das platonische Gedicht vom himmlischen Gottesstaat hatte durch
diestoische Auffassung der Welt als eines vom Göttlichen durchdrungenen
und beseelten Körpers einen Leib bekommen, in dessen zwingenden
Organismus der Einzelne als Glied beschlossen ist und sich fügen muss.’
Bruno Bauer, _Christus u. d. Cäsaren_, p. 328.

[47] Zeller, p. 168, Note 2.

[48] Diog., VII., vii., 85.

[49] Gellius, _Noct. Att._, XII., v., 7, quoted by Ritter and Preller,
p. 395.

[50] _Dissert._, I., xix., II.

[51] _Ibid._, xxii., 9, ff.

[52] Cicero, _Tusc. Disput._, IV., xix. ff.

[53] Cic., _Tusc. Disput._, IV., vi.

[54] Zeller, p. 229.

[55] See the _Dissertations_ of Epictêtus throughout.

[56] Plutarch, _De Communibus Notitiis_, cap. xxxiii., p. 1076 B.

[57] Cf. Zeller, p. 583.

[58] Zeller, pp. 260-1.

[59] _Ibid._, pp. 267-8.

[60] _Ibid._, p. 270.

[61] Cicero, _De Fin._, III., xvii., 58; _Acad._, I., x., 37; _De
Off._, I., iii., 8.

[62] _De Off._, I., vi.

[63] I., viii.

[64] I., xviii-xxiii.

[65] _Pyrrh. Hyp._, III., 201.

[66] Cic., _De Off._, III., xxiii., 91.

[67] Cic., _De Off._, III., xii., 51.

[68] _Ibid._, xxiii., 89.

[69] Plutarch, _De Comm. Notit._, xi., 8.

[70] Cf. Zeller, pp. 263-4, 278-84.

[71] Diog., VII., 130; Cic., _De Fin._, III., xviii., 60; Zeller, pp.
305-9.

[72] Diog., VII., 31, 176.

[73] Plutarch, _De Stoic. Repug._, xviii., 5.

[74] ‘Omnia scelera, etiam ante effectum operis, quantum culpae satis
est, perfecta sunt.’—Seneca, _De Const. Sap._, vii., 4. Cf. Zeno _apud_
Sext. Emp., _Adv. Math._, XI., 190.

[75] ‘Prope est a te Deus, tecum est, intus est ... sacer intra
nos spiritus sedet bonorum malorumque nostrorum observator et
custos.’—Seneca, _Epp._, xli., 1. Cf. Horace, _Epp._, I., i., 61;
Lucan, IX., 573; Persius, III., 43; Juvenal, XIII., 192-235.

[76] It may be desirable to give some reasons in support of this
opinion, as the contrary has been stated by scholars writing within a
comparatively recent period. Thus Welcker says: ‘Das Gewissen ward bei
den Griechen als ein göttliches Wesen, Erinys, gescheut und wie wir es
sonst nicht finden, zur Gottheit erhoben’ (_Griechische Götterlehre_,
I., 233); and again (p. 699) ‘Ἐρινύς ... ist das Gewissen.’ Similarly,
M. Alfred Maury observes that, ‘les remords se personnifiaient sous
la forme de déesses Erinnyies, chargées de punir tous les forfaits’
(_Histoire des Religions de la Grèce Antique_, I., 342). And Preller,
while entertaining sounder views respecting their origin, contents
himself with the caution that, ‘Man sich hüten muss die Furien blos
fur die subjectiven Mächte des menschlichen Gewissen zu halten’
(_Griechische Mythologie_, I., 686, 3rd ed.). Now, in the first place,
the Erinyes did not punish all crime, as they ought to have done had
they represented conscience. According to Aeschylus (_Eumen._, 604-5),
they considered that the murder of her husband by Clytaemnestra was no
affair of theirs, there being no blood relationship between the parties
concerned. They did not persecute Electra, who, short of striking the
fatal blow, had as much hand in her mother’s death as Orestes. And
even when a father was killed by his son, they do not always seem
to have taken up the matter; for in the _Odyssey_ it is not by the
Erinyes of Laius, but by those of Epicastê that Oedipus is pursued—a
conception very unlike that of Sophocles, who makes him feel as much
remorse for the parricide as for the incest and its consequences. In
the next place, the Erinyes are let loose not by the action itself but
by the curses of the injured or offended blood-relation, as we see
by Homer, _Il._, IX., 454 and 566; which seems to show that if they
personified anything human it was the imprecations of the victim, not
the self-reproach of the aggressor. Thirdly, the Orestes of Aeschylus,
so far from feeling conscience-smitten, disclaims all responsibility
for his mother’s death, inflicted as it was in consequence of a
direct command from the higher gods, accompanied by threats of heavy
punishment in case of disobedience. (_Eumen._, 443 ff.). And, finally,
the office assigned to the Erinyes of seeing that the laws of nature
are not broken (vol. I., 67) shows that the Greeks conceived their
existence as something altogether objective and physical. [There
is a short but very sensible account of the Erinyes in Keightley’s
_Mythology_, p. 175, 4th ed.]

[77] Cicero, _De Off._, I., xxxi.; Epictêtus, _Man._, 17, _b._, 30;
_Diss._, I., ii., 33; xvi., 20; xxix., 39; II., v., 10; _ib._, 21; x.,
4, xiv., 8; xxiii., 38; xxv., 22; Antoninus, _Comm._, VI., 39, 43; IX.,
29; cf. Seneca, _Epp._, lxxxv., 34, and the saying of Marcus Aurelius
quoted by Dion Cassius (_Epit._, LXXI., xxxiv., 4), that we cannot make
men what we wish them to be; we can only turn what faculties they have
to the best account in working for the public good.

[78] For the references to these and other similar passages, see the
last note.

[79] Plutarch, _De Alex. Virt._, I., vi.; Diog., VII., 33.

[80] It need hardly be observed that here also the morality of natural
law has attained its highest artistic development under the hand of
George Eliot—sometimes even to the neglect of purely artistic effect,
as in _Daniel Deronda_ and the _Spanish Gypsy_.

[81] Zeller, p. 297, followed by Mr. Capes, in his excellent little
work on Stoicism (p. 51).

[82] Seneca, _De Irâ_, I., v., 2 ff.; II., xxxi., 7; _De Clem._, I.,
iii., 2; De _Benef._, IV., xxvi., I, _Epp._, xcv., 51 ff.; Epictêtus,
_Diss._, IV., v., 10; Antoninus, VII., 13; together with the additional
references given by Zeller, p. 286 ff. It is to be observed that the
mutual love attributed to human beings by the Stoic philosophers
stands, not for an empirical characteristic, but for an unrealised
idea of human nature. The actual feelings of men towards one another
are described by Seneca in language recalling that of Schopenhauer and
Leopardi. ‘Erras,’ he exclaims, ‘si istorum tibi qui occurrunt vultibus
credis: hominum effigies habent, animos ferarum: nisi quod illarum
perniciosior est primus incursus. Nunquam enim illas ad nocendum nisi
necessitas inicit: aut fame aut timore coguntur ad pugnam: homini
perdere hominem libet.’—_Epp._, ciii., 2.

[83] Plato, _Protagoras_, 337, D.

[84] ‘He [Charles Austin] presented the Benthamic doctrines in the
most startling form of which they were susceptible, exaggerating
everything in them which tended to consequences offensive to any one’s
preconceived feelings.’—Mill’s _Autobiography_, p. 78.

[85] Zeller, p. 281.

[86] ‘Homo sacra res homini jam per lusum et jocum occiditur ...
satisque spectaculi ex homine mors est.’—Seneca, _Epp._, xcv., 33.
‘Servi sunt? Immo homines. Servi sunt? Immo contubernales. Servi sunt?
Immo humiles amici. Servi sunt? Immo conservi.’—_Ibid._, xlvii., 1.
Compare the treatise _De Irâ_, _passim_.

[87] Seneca once lets falls the words, ‘fortuna aequo jure genitos
alium alii donavit.’—_Consol. ad Marciam_, xx, 2; but this is the only
expression of the kind that we have been able to discover in a Stoic
writer of the empire.

[88] Seneca, _Epp._, lxxx.

[89] ‘L’empereur avait pour principe de maintenir les anciennes maximes
romaines dans leur intégrité.’ (Renan’s _Marc-Aurèle_, p. 54.) The
authority given by M. Renan is Dion Cass., LXXI., xxxiv.; where,
however, there is nothing of the kind stated. Capitolinus says (_Anton.
Phil._, cap. xi.): ‘Jus autem magis vetus restituit quam novum fecit.’

[90] Renan, p. 30; Capitolinus, _Anton. Phil._, xii.; Dion Cass.,
_Epit._, LXXI., xxix., 3.

[91] Antoninus, _Comm._, VI., 46; X., 8.

[92] The expressions used by M. Ernest Renan when treating of
this subject are somewhat conflicting. In reference to the penal
enactments against Christianity under Marcus Aurelius, he first
states that, however objectionable they may have been, ‘en tout cas
dans l’application la mansuétude du bon empereur fut à l’abri de tout
reproche’ (_Marc-Aurèle_, p. 58.) Further on, however we are told that
when the martyrs of Lyons appealed to Rome, ‘la réponse impériale
arriva en fin. Elle était dure et cruelle.’ (p. 329.) And subsequently
M. Renan makes the Emperor personally responsible for the atrocities
practised on that occasion by observing, ‘Si Marc-Aurèle, au lieu
d’employer les lions et la chaise rougie,’ &c. (p. 345.) But perhaps
such inconsistencies are to be expected in a writer who has elevated
the necessity of perpetual self-contradiction into a principle.

[93] Epictêtus, _Diss._, III., xxiv.

[94] Seneca, _De Irâ_, I., xiv., 2; _De Clement._, I., vi., 2.

[95] Diog., VII., 91. Ziegler (_Gesch. d. Ethik_, Bonn, 1882, I.,
174) holds, in opposition to Zeller, that originally every Stoic, as
such, was assumed to be a perfect sage, and that the question was only
whether the ideal had ever been realised outside the school. This,
however, goes against the evidence of Plutarch, who tells as (_De
Stoic. Repug._, xxxi., 5) that Chrysippus neither professed to be good
himself nor supposed that any of his friends or teachers or disciples
was good.

[96] Seneca, _Epp._, cxvi., 4. It must be borne in mind that Panaetius
was speaking at a time when the object of passion would at best be
either another man’s wife or a member of the _demi-monde_.

[97] _Comm._, VII., 26; XII., 16.

[98] See especially Antoninus, _Comm._, IX., 1.

[99] Friedländer, _Römische Sittengeschichte_, I., 463; Duruy,
_Histoire des Romains_, V., 349 ff., 370; cf. Gaston Boissier, _La
Religion Romaine_, II., 152 ff., 212 ff.

[100] This idea is most distinctly expressed by Marcus Aurelius, II.,
1, and VII., 13.

[101] For the authorities, see Zeller, p. 176.

[102] See especially Seneca, _Epp._, lxiv., and the whole treatise _De
Providentiâ_.

[103] See, _inter alia_, _Comm._, IV., 3; VI., 15, 37; VII., 21, 49;
XI., 1; XII., 7, 21, 23, 24, 26, 31, 32.

[104] _Comm._, XI., 28, xii. 14. A modern disciple of Aurelius has
expressed himself to the same purpose in slightly different language:—

        ‘Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man,
        How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare!
        “Christ,” some one says, “was human as we are.
        No judge eyes us from heaven our sin to scan;
        We live no more, when we have done our span.”
        “Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, “who can care?
        From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear?
        Live we, like brutes, our life without a plan!”
        So answerest thou; but why not rather say:
        “Hath man no second life?—_Pitch this one high!_
        Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see?
        _More strictly, then, the inward judge obey!_
        Was Christ a man like us?—_Ah! let us try
        If we then, too, can be such men as he!_”’

        —_The Better Part_, by Mr. Matthew Arnold.
                  The italics are in the original.

    [105] _First Principles_, § 177.

    [106] See an article entitled ‘Pantheism and Cosmic Emotion,’ by
    Frederic Harrison, in the _Nineteenth Century_ for August, 1881.

    [107] From the Hymn of Cleanthes, translated by Mr. Francis Newman in
    _The Soul_, p. 73, fifth edition.

    [108] _Epicureanism_, p. 1.

    [109] _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, p. 380.

    [110] _Op. cit._, p. 72.

    [111] _Short Studies_, III., p. 246.

    [112] _Gesch. des Mater._, I., p. 92.

    [113] Pollock’s _Spinoza_, p. 64.

    [114] _Epicuro e l’Epicurismo_, Florence, 1877, p. 29.

    [115] _Lucretii Philosophia cum fontibus comparata_, Groningen, 1877,
    p. 137.

    [116] _Dialogues Philosophiques_, p. 54, quoted by Woltjer, _loc. cit._

    [117] Diog. L., X., 142.

    [118] _Ibid._, 113.

    [119] Diog. L., X., 134.

    [120] Cicero, _Acad._, II., xxxiii., 106.

    [121] Cicero, _De Fin._, II., xxx., 96; _Diog._, X., 22. Cicero
    translates the words διαλογισμῶν μνήμῃ, ‘memoria rationum inventorumque
    nostrorum.’ They may refer merely to the pleasure derived from
    intellectual conversation.

    [122] The authorities for the life of Epicurus are given by Zeller,
    _op. cit._, p. 363 ff.

    [123] Diog., II., 92.

    [124] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, II., a, 294.

    [125] Cf. Plato, _Protag._, 353, C, ff., with Epicurus in the letter to
    Menoeceus, quoted by Diog., X., 129.

    [126] _Morale d’Épicure_, p. 20.

    [127] Wallace’s _Épicureanism_, p. 154; Guyau, _Morale d’Épicure_, p.
    34.

    [128] Cicero, _Tusc. Disput._, III., xviii., 41; Zeller, III., a, p.
    444.

    [129] Zeller, p. 460.

    [130] _Ibid._, p. 581.

    [131] Diog., II., 72.

    [132] Diog., X., 131.

    [133] Guyau, _Morale d’Épicure_, p. 55.

    [134] Diog., X., 118.

    [135] Lucret., IV., 1057-66.

    [136] Diog., X., 117, 118.

    [137] Cicero, _De Fin._, V., xxvii., 80; Diog., X., 118.

    [138] That is, if we assume what Aristotle says on the subject to be
    derived from common usage (_Eth. Nic._, III., ix., p. 1115, a, 33).

    [139] Cicero, _Tusc. Disp._, II., xii., 28.

    [140] Cicero, _De Fin._, I., xv.; _Tusc._, V., xxviii.

    [141] Diog., X., 150 ff.

    [142] Wallace, p. 162; Diog., X., 150.

    [143] _Epicureanism_, pp. 162-3.

    [144] Cicero, _De Fin._, II., vii., 20; _De Nat. Deor._, I., xvii., 45,
    xxx., 85.

    [145] Diog., X., 150-1.

    [146] V., 1145-59.

    [147] Cicero, _De Fin._, II., xvii., 57.

    [148] _Op. cit._, p. 163.

    [149] The lamented Prof. T. H. Green may be mentioned as another
    example of a high-minded thinker who was also an ardent and active
    politician. With regard to antiquity, see the splendid roll of
    public-spirited philosophers enumerated by Plutarch, _Adv. Col._,
    xxxii.

    [150] _Op. cit._, p. 164.

    [151] J. S. Mill observed, in a conversation with Mr. John Morley,
    reported by the latter, that ‘in his youth mere negation of religion
    was a firm bond of union, social and otherwise, between men who agreed
    in nothing else.’—_Fortnightly Review_, vol. XIII., p. 675.

    [152] Cicero, _De Nat. Deor._, L., 18-24.

    [153] Woltjer, _Lucret. Ph._, p. 74.

    [154] ‘Das Staatsgesetz oder das dem Gesetz gleichkommende väterliche
    Herkommen bildet einen Gegensatz gegen ein abgeschlossenes Priesterthum
    und dessen natürlichen Einfluss.’ Welcker, _Gr. Götterlehre_, II.,
    p. 45. ‘La religion romaine, comme toutes celles où domine l’esprit
    laïque, diminue le rôle du prêtre.’ Gaston Boissier, _La Religion
    Romaine_, I., p. 16.

    [155] This reminds one of the ‘pèlerinages,’ which figure along with
    ‘pigeon-shooting’ among the attractions offered by French country
    hotels to idle visitors.

    [156] _Republic_, II., 364, C, ff; Jowett’s transl., III., 234-5.
    Elsewhere Plato proposes that these ‘bestial persons’ who persuade
    others that the gods can be induced by magical incantations to pardon
    crime, should be punished by imprisonment for life (_Legg_, X., 909, A,
    f.).

    [157] Villemain, _Life of Gregory VII._, Engl, transl., I., p. 305. As
    a further illustration of the same subject, it may be mentioned that
    there is a cemetery near Innsbruck (and probably many more like it
    throughout the Tyrol) freely adorned with rude representations of souls
    in purgatory, stretching out their hands for help from amid the flames.
    The help is of course to be obtained by purchase from the priesthood.

    [158] Lucret., I., 108-12.

    [159] _Agamemnon_, 369 (Dindorf).

    [160] Zeller, pp. 428-9.

    [161] Prof. Sellar observes, as we think, with perfect truth,
    that ‘there is no necessary connexion between the atomic theory
    of philosophy and that view of the ends and objects of life which
    Lucretius derived from Epicurus.’—_Roman Poets of the Republic_, p.
    348, 2nd ed.

    [162] Lucret., I., 1020 ff.; V., 835 ff; IV., 780 ff.; V., 1023; V.,
    1307 ff.

    [163] That Democritus attributed weight to his atoms has been proved,
    in opposition to Lewes and others, by Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, I., p. 713
    (3rd ed.)

    [164] Woltjer, _Lucr. Phil._, p. 38.

    [165] Arist., _Phys._, IV., viii., 216, a, 20.

    [166] II., 257 ff.

    [167] Lucret., IV., 875 ff.

    [168] Lucret., V., 437 ff.

    [169] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, pp. 397-8. Reichel’s transl., pp.
    412-3 (1st ed.)

    [170] Woltjer (_Lucret. Ph._, p. 126) charges Lucretius with having
    misunderstood his master on this point. As the sun and moon appear
    larger when near the horizon than at other times, Epicurus thought
    that we then see them either as they really are or a little larger.
    This, Lucretius, according to Woltjer, took to mean that their general
    apparent size may be a little over or under their real size.

    [171] Zeller, p. 413.

    [172] See, for instance, Woltjer, _op. cit._, p. 88.

    [173] Zeller, p. 443, note 3.

    [174] Zeller, pp. 417-8.

    [175] Diog., X., 125.

    [176] III., 922.

    [177] Cicero, _De Fin._, I., ix., 30.

    [178] ‘Aeque enim timent ne apud inferos sint, quam ne
    nusquam.’—Seneca, _Epp._, lxxxii., 16.

    [179] Cf. Plutarch, _Non posse suaviter vivi_, cap. xxvii.

    [180] Among other feelings consequent on the first experience of death
    among the posterity of Cain, the following are specified:—

        ‘It seemed the light was never loved before,
        Now each man said, “‘Twill go and come no more.”
        No budding branch, no pebble from the brook,
        No form, no shadow but new dearness took
        From the one thought that life must have an end;
        And the last parting now began to send
        Diffusive dread through love and wedded bliss,
        Thrilling them into finer tenderness.‘


[181] III., 59 ff.

[182] _Ethic._, Pars. IV., Prop. vii.

[183] _Ethic. Nic._, III., xii., 1117, b, 10 ff. Sir Alexander Grant,
in his note on the passage, appositely compares the character of
Wordsworth’s Happy Warrior, who is ‘More brave for this that he has
much to love.’

[184] For the authorities, see Zeller, p. 388.

[185] Lucret., IV., 354, 728, 761.

[186] Such at least seems to be the theory rather obscurely set forth
in Diog., X., 32.

[187] Diog., X., 33, Sextus Emp., _Adv. Math._, VII., 211-16; Zeller,
p. 391.

[188] For additional authorities see Zeller, pp. 385-95, and Wallace’s
_Epicureanism_, chap. x.

[189] See Woltjer, _Lucr. Ph._, p. 141 ff.

[190] _Morale d’Épicure_, p. 157.

[191] In a fragment quoted by Sextus Empiricus, _Adv. Math._, IX., 54.

[192] _Fragmenta Tragicorum_, Didot, p. 140.

[193] Zeller, p. 416, note 1.

[194] See the whole concluding portion of Lucr., bk. V.

[195] Chiefly by Ritter, _Gesch. d. Phil._, IV., p. 94, on which see
the clear and convincing reply of Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 47.

[196] For details we must refer to the masterly treatise of Dr.
Woltjer, already cited more than once in the course of this chapter.

[197] Cf. II., 18, with II., 172.

[198] The single exception to this rule that can be quoted is, we
believe, the argument against impassioned love derived from its
enslaving influence (_quod alterius sub nutu degitur aetas_, V., 1116).
But to live under another’s nod is a condition eminently unfavourable
to the mental tranquillity which an Epicurean prized before all things;
nor, in any case, does it seem to have counted for so much with
Lucretius as the ‘damnation of expenses’ which was no less formidable a
deterrent to him than to the ‘unco guid’ of Burns’s satire.

[199] V., 1153-4.

[200] V., 1125.

[201] Ziegler (_Gesch. a. Ethik_, I., p. 203) quotes Lucret., III.,
136, to prove that the poet recognised the existence of mental
pleasures as such. But Lucretius only says that the mind has pleasures
not derived from an immediate external stimulus. This would apply
perfectly to the imagination of sensual pleasure.

[202] Woltjer, _op. cit._, p. 5.

[203] IV., 966.

[204] Woltjer, _op. cit._, pp. 178 ff.

[205] There is an unquestionable coincidence between Lucretius, II., 69
ff. and Plato, _Legg._, 776 B, pointed out by Teichmüller, _Geschichte
der Begriffe_, p. 177. Both may have drawn from some older source.

[206] We think, however, that Prof. Sellar attributes more importance
to this element in the Lucretian philosophy than it will bear. His
words are: ‘The doctrine proclaimed by Lucretius was, that creation
was no result of a capricious or benevolent exercise of power, but of
certain processes extending through infinite time, by means of which
the atoms have at length been able to combine and work together in
accordance with their ultimate conditions. The conception of these
ultimate conditions and of their relations to one another involves
some more vital agency than that of blind chance or an iron fatalism.
The foedera Naturai are opposed to the foedera fati. The idea of law
in Nature as understood by Lucretius is not merely that of invariable
sequence or concomitance of phenomena. It implies at least the further
idea of a “secreta facultas” in the original elements.‘ (_Roman Poets
of the Republic_, p. 335, 2nd ed.) The expression _secreta facultas_
occurs, we believe, only once in the whole poem (I., 174), and is used
on that single occasion without any reference to the atoms, which do
not appear until a later stage of the exposition. Lucretius is proving
that whatever begins to exist must have a cause, and in support of
this principle he appeals to the fixed laws which govern the growth
of plants. Each plant springs from a particular kind of seed, and so,
he argues, each seed must have a distinct or specific virtue of its
own, which virtue he expresses by the words _secreta facultas_. But,
according to his subsequent teaching, this specific virtue depends on a
particular combination of the atoms, not on any spontaneous power which
they possess of grouping themselves together so as to form organic
compounds. With regard to the properties of the atoms themselves,
Lucretius enumerates them clearly enough. They are extension, figure,
resistance, and motion; the last mentioned being divided into downward
gravitation, lateral deflection, and the momenta produced by mutual
impact. Here we have nothing more than the two elements of ‘iron
fatalism’ and ‘blind chance’ which Prof. Sellar regards as insufficient
to account for the Lucretian scheme of creation; gravitation and
mutual impact give the one, lateral deflection gives the other. Any
faculty over and above these could only be conceived under the form of
conscious impulse, or of mutual attractions and repulsions exercised by
the atoms on one another. The first hypothesis is expressly rejected
by the poet, who tells us (I., 1020) that the primordial elements are
destitute of consciousness, and have fallen into their present places
through the agency of purely mechanical causes. The second hypothesis
is nowhere alluded to in the most distant manner, it is contrary to
the whole spirit of Epicurean physics, it never occurred to a single
thinker of antiquity, and to have conceived it at that time would
have needed more than the genius of a Newton. As a last escape it may
be urged that Lucretius believed in ‘a sort of a something’ which,
like the fourth element in the soul, he was not prepared to define.
But besides the utter want of evidence for such a supposition, what
necessity would there have been for the infinite chances which he
postulates in order to explain how the actual system of things came
to be evolved, had the elements been originally endowed with the
disposition to fall into such a system rather than into any other? For
Prof. Sellar’s vital agency must mean this disposition if it means
anything at all.

While on this subject we must also express our surprise to find
Prof. Sellar saying of Lucretius that ‘in no ancient writer’ is ‘the
certainty and universality of law more emphatically and unmistakably
expressed’ (p. 334). This would, we think, be much truer of the Stoics,
who recognised in its absolute universality that law of causation
on which all other laws depend, but which Lucretius expressly tells
us (II., 255) is broken through by the _clinamen_. A more accurate
statement of the case, we think, would be to say that the Epicurean
poet believed unreservedly in uniformities of co-existence, but not, to
the same extent, in uniformities of sequence; while apart from these
two classes neither he nor modern science knows of any laws at all.

[207] V., 695-73, 730-49.

[208] Cicero, _De Nat. Deor._, I., xxiv., 66.

[209] _Comm._, IX., 28.

[210] Coleridge’s _Friend_, Section II., Essay II., _sub in._

[211] ‘In the higher ranks of French society there are men who merit
to be called professors of the art of happiness; who have analysed
its ingredients with careful fingers and scrutinising eyes; who
have consummated their experience of means and ends; who, like able
doctors, can apply an immediate remedy to the daily difficulties of
home-life; whose practice is worthy of their theory, and who prove it
by maintaining in their wives’ hearts and in their own a perennial
never-weakening sentiment of gratitude and love.‘ (_French Home Life_,
p. 324.) Although Mr. Marshall’s observations are directly applicable
to the happiness of married life only, they tend to prove that all
happiness may be reduced to an art.

[212] Wallace’s _Epicureanism_, p. 37.

[213] Cicero, _De Rep._, III., vi.-xx.

[214] Plutarch, _Cato Major_, xxii. ff.

[215] Pindar, _Pyth._, III., 96.

[216] Vol. I., p. 46.

[217] It is said that the same ironical attitude continues to
characterise the Greeks of our time. Col. Leake (quoted by Welcker,
_Gr. Götterl._, II., p. 127) informs us that travellers in Greece
are continually entertained with local fables which are everywhere
repeated, but believed by nobody, least of all by the inhabitants
of the district where they first originated. And Welcker adds, from
his own experience, that the young Greeks who act as guides in the
religious houses related the miraculous legends of the place with an
enthusiasm and an eloquence which left him in doubt whether or not they
themselves believed what they expected him to believe.

[218] _Il._, II., 80; XII., 238; XVI., 859; _Od._, I., 215; XI., 363;
XXIII., 166; _Agamem._, 477 ff.

[219] Sextus Empiricus, _Adv. Math._, VII., 89 ff; Zeller, _Ph. d.
Gr._, I., pp. 464, 652, 743, 828. (3rd ed.)

[220] For the theses of Gorgias see Sextus Empiricus, _Adv. Math._,
VII., 65 ff.

[221] Sext. Emp., _Adv. Math._, VII., 170 ff.

[222] Xen., _Mem._, IV., iii., 14.

[223] _Timaeus_, 37, B, 43, D ff.

[224] Examples of these questions are: ‘Have you lost your horns?’ and,
‘Did Electra know that Orestes was her brother?’ Stated in words, she
knew that he was; but she did not recognise him as her brother when he
came to her in disguise.

[225] Plutarch, _Adv. Col._, xxii.-xxiii.; Seneca, _Epp._, ix.

[226] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, 481; Diog. L., IX., xi.

[227] Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 484; Ritter and Preller, _Hist. Ph._, p.
336.

[228] ὡς χαλεπὸν εἴη ὁλοσχερῶς ἐκδῦναι ἄνθρωπον. For this and the other
stories, see Diog. L., IX., 66-8.

[229] _Pyrrh. Hyp._, I., 28 ff.

[230] Diog. L., VII., 171.

[231] Cicero, _Acad._, II., xxiv., 77; Sext. Emp., _Adv. Math._, VII.,
150-7; Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, pp. 492 ff.

[232] Plutarch, _De Comm. Notit._, i., 4; Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 81
(where, however, the reference to Plutarch is wrongly given).

[233] Εἰ μὴ γὰρ ἦν Χρύσιππος οὐκ ἂν ἦν ἐγώ. (Diog. L., IV., 62.) The
original line ran, εἰ μὴ γὰρ ἦν Χρύσιππος οὐκ ἂν ἦν στοά.

[234] Sext. Emp., _Adv. Math._, VII., 159-65.

[235] That Carneades was the first to start this difficulty cannot be
directly proved, but is conjectured with great probability by Zeller
(_op. cit._, p. 504).

[236] Sext. _Pyrrh. Hyp._, II., 186. _Adv. Math._, VIII., 463.

[237] _Pyrrh. Hyp._, II., 195, 204.

[238] Cicero, _De Nat. Deor._, I., xxiii., 62; III., iv., 11; xvi., 42;
xxi., 53.

[239] Sext., _Adv. Math._, IX., 182-3.

[240] Cic., _De Nat. Deor._, III., xviii., 47.

[241] Cic., _Acad._, II., xxxviii., 120; Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 506.

[242] Cic., _Acad._, _ibid._, 121; Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 507.

[243] Cic., _De Nat. Deor._, III., x., 24.

[244] _ibid._, III., xi., 27.

[245] _ibid._, ix., 21.

[246] _ibid._, III., xii., 29; I., xxxix., 109.

[247] Sext. _Adv. Math._, IX., 139-47.

[248] _ibid._, 152-77.

[249] Cic., _De Nat. Deor._, III., vi.; _De Divin._, II., _passim_; _De
Nat. Deor._, III., xxvi. ff.

[250] _Le Christianisme et ses Origines_, II., p. 3.

[251] Sext., _Pyrrh. Hyp._, III., 2.

[252] Sext., _Adv. Math._, VII., 166-89.

[253] Cic., _De Fin._, III., xii., 41; Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 519.

[254] According to Zeller’s interpretation of Cicero, _Acad._, II.,
xi., 34.

[255] Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 602.

[256] _ibid._, p. 603.

[257] For the authorities see Zeller, _op. cit._, pp. 599-601.

[258] Zeller, _op. cit._, pp. 603-8.

[259] Zeller, _op. cit._, pp. 554, 561 ff.

[260] Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 575.

[261] Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 621.

[262] Cic., _Acad._, II., xlv.

[263] The treatises entitled _De Stoicorum Repugnantiâ_ and _De
Communibus Notiliis_.

[264] Lucret., IV., 1154-64; Juven., VI., 186-95.

[265] Varro observes that for 170 years the ancient Romans worshipped
their gods without images; ‘quod si adhuc,’ inquit, ‘mansisset castius
Dii observarentur.’ And in the same passage, speaking of mythology, he
says, ‘hoc omnia Diis attribuuntur quae non modo in hominem, sed etiam
in contemtissimum hominem cadere possunt.’ Augustin., _De Civit. Dei_,
IV., iii., and xxxi., quoted by Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 674.

[266] Ritter and Preller, _Hist. Phil._, p. 426; Woltjer, _Lucretii
Philosophia_, p. 5.

[267] The services of Posidonius seem to have been overlooked by M.
Gaston Boissier when he implies in his work on Roman Religion (vol.
ii., p. 13) that Fabianus, a Roman declaimer under Augustus, was the
first to give an eloquent expression to Stoicism.

[268] Zeller, _op. cit._, pp. 597-8.

[269] _Acad._, II., xxii., 69.

[270] _ibid._, xxxi., 99.

[271] _De Fin._, V., xxi., 59.

[272] _Acad._, II., xxxix.

[273] For the literary studies of Socrates, see Xenoph., _Mem._, I.,
vi., 14; those of Cicero are too manifest to need any special reference.

[274] See the passages quoted by Zeller, _op. cit._, pp. 659-60.

[275] _Acad._, I., x.

[276] _De Fin._, IV., viii.

[277] _De Off._, III., iii., 11.

[278] The passage occurs near the beginning of his Essay on Bacon.

[279] See the _Somnium Scipionis, De Repub._, VI., xvii.

[280] _ibid._, xxvi.

[281] _De Divin._, II., lxxii., 148; Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 667.

[282] l. 724 ff.

[283] l. 5-7, and 34-36.

[284] I., 231-51.

[285] The very passage (_Georg._, II., 475-92) which is supposed
to refer to Lucretius contains a line (_frigidus obstiterit circum
praecordia sanguis_) embodying the Stoic theory that the soul has its
seat in the heart, and is nourished by a warm exhalation from the
blood. See Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, p. 197.

[286] Zeller does indeed call Seneca and Marcus Aurelius ‘Platonising
Stoics’ (_Ph. d. Gr._, III., b, p. 236, 3rd. ed.); but the evidence
adduced hardly seems to justify the epithet.

[287] _Metamorph._, XV., 60.

[288] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, p. 681.

[289] _Epp._, I., i., 18.

[290] M. Gaston Boissier (_Religion Romaine_, I., p. 206), on the
strength of a passage in one of Horace’s _Satires_ (II., iii., 11),
where the poet speaks of carrying Plato about with him on his travels,
infers that the study of the _Dialogues_ had a good deal to do with his
conversion. It is, however, more than probable that the Plato mentioned
is not the philosopher, but the comic poet, for we find that his
companions in Horace’s trunk were Menander, Eupolis, and Archilochus.

[291] Zeller is inclined to place Aenesidêmus a hundred years earlier
than the date here assigned to him (_Ph. d. Gr._, III., b, p. 9);
but two pieces of evidence which he himself quotes seem to militate
strongly against this view. One is a statement of Aristocles the
Peripatetic, who flourished 160-190 A.D., that Scepticism had been
revived not long before his time (ἐχθὲς καὶ πρώην; _apud_ Euseb.,
_Pr. Ev._, XIV., xviii., 22; Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 9); the other is
Seneca’s question, _Quis est qui tradat praecepta Pyrrhonis?_ (_Nat.
Quaest._, VII., xxxii. 2; Zeller, p. 11). On the other hand, Epictêtus,
lecturing towards the end of the first century, alludes to Scepticism
as something then living and active. The natural inference is that
Aenesidêmus flourished before his time and after Seneca, that is about
the period mentioned in the text; and we cannot make out that there are
any satisfactory data pointing to a different conclusion.

[292] Zeller, III., b, p. 18.

[293] Zeller, III., a, pp. 495 and 514; Cic., _Acad._, I., xii., 45;
_ibid._, II., ix., 28.

[294] With all deference to so great a scholar as Zeller, it seems
to us that he has misinterpreted a passage in which Sextus Empiricus
observes that a particular argument of his own against the possibility
of reaching truth either by sense or by reason, is virtually (δυνάμει)
contained in the difficulties raised by Aenesidêmus (_Adv. Math._,
VIII., 40). Zeller (_op. cit._, III., b, p. 20, note 5) translates
δυνάμει, ‘dem Sinne nach,’ ‘in substance,’ a meaning which it will
hardly bear. What Sextus says is that the untrustworthiness of reason
follows on the untrustworthiness of sense, for the notions supplied
by the latter must either be common to all the senses—which is
impossible, owing to their specialised character—or limited to some,
and therefore equally liable with them to dispute and contradiction.
Moreover, he argues, rational notions (τά νοητά) cannot all be true,
as they conflict both with each other and with sensation. And the
reference to Aenesidêmus means simply that this kind of argument
amounts to a further extension of his attack on the credibility of the
senses; it does not imply that Aenesidêmus had ever attacked reason
himself. The whole passage is quite in the usual style of exhaustive
alternation followed by Sextus, and its extreme awkwardness seems to
show that he is forcing his arguments into parallelism with those of
his predecessor. It is possible also that the different members of the
argument have been transposed; for the part connecting reason with
sense (44) ought logically to stand last, and that relating to the
discrepancy of different notions with one another (45-7), second. Cf.
_Adv. Math._, VII., 350, where Aenesidêmus is said to have identified
the understanding with the senses, quite in the style of Protagoras and
quite unlike the New Academy.

[295] Sext. Emp., _Pyrrh. Hyp._, I., 180 ff.

[296] _Adv. Math._, IX., 228.

[297] The ten Tropes were evidently suggested by the ten Categories
of Aristotle. The five grounded on differences of disposition, place,
quantity, relation, and habits, show at once by their names that they
are derived from κεῖσθαι, ποῦ, ποσόν, πρός τι, and ἔχειν. The Trope
of comparative frequency would be suggested by πότε; the disturbing
influence of bodies on one another combines ποιεῖν and πάσχειν;
the conflict of the special senses belongs, although somewhat more
remotely, to ποιόν; and, in order to make up the number ten, οὐσία,
which answers to the percipient in general, had to be divided into the
two Tropes taken respectively from the differences among animals and
among men,—an arrangement that would occur all the more readily as
οὐσία included the two notions of Genus and Species, of which the one
answers, in this instance, to animals, and the other to men.

[298] Zeller, III., b, p. 23.

[299] Zeller, _op. cit._ pp. 29-37.

[300] Sext. Emp., _Pyrrh. Hyp._, I., 164 and 178; Zeller, _op. cit._,
pp. 37 and 38.

[301] _Adv. Math._, V., 1.

[302] _ibid._, IX., 208.

[303] These are the four principles enumerated by Sextus, _Pyrrh.
Hyp._, I., 24.

[304] Diog. L., X., 9.

[305] The materials and, to a certain extent, the ideas of this
chapter are chiefly derived from Zeller’s _Philosophie der Griechen_,
Vol. III., Duruy’s _Histoire des Romains_, Vol. V., Gaston Boissier’s
_Religion Romaine_, and above all from Friedländer’s _Darstellungen aus
der Sittengeschichte Rom’s_, Part III., chapters iv. and vi.

[306] Friedländer, _Römische Sittengeschichte_, III., pp, 483, 681.

[307] As a striking instance of the solidarity which now connects all
forms of irrationalism, it may be mentioned that Livy’s fables are
accepted, in avowed defiance of modern criticism, by the clericalising
English students of archaeology in Rome.

[308] Using the word in its modern rather than in its ancient sense, so
as to include the whole empire outside the city of Rome.

[309] _Epp._, II., i., 20 ff.

[310] _Carm._, I., xi., and III., xxiii.

[311] _Carm._, III., vi., and the _Carmen Seculare_.

[312] Boissier, _Religion Romaine_, I., p. 336.

[313] Friedländer, III., p. 510.

[314] See the note on _Honestiores_ and _Humiliores_ appended to the
fifth volume of Duruy’s _Histoire des Romains_.

[315] Lucian, _Adversus Indoctum_.

[316] Juvenal, _Satt._, XVI., 14.

[317] Persius, _Satt._, III., 77.; cf. V., 189.

[318] Matth., viii., 9; Luke, vii., 8.

[319] Thucydides, II., iv. The other women alluded to are, the wife
of Admêtus, who tells Themistocles how he is to proceed in order to
conciliate her husband (I., cxxxvi.); Stratonice, the sister whom
Perdiccas gives in marriage to Seuthes (II., ci.); and Brauro, the
Edonian queen who murders her husband Pittacus (IV., cvii.). The wife
and daughter of Hippias the Peisistratid and the sister of Harmodius
are mentioned in bk. VI., lv. ff, but they take us back to an
earlier period of Greek history than that of which Thucydides treats
consecutively; while the names of Helen and Procne, which also occur,
belong, of course, to a much remoter past (I., ix., and II., xxix.)

[320] It has even been maintained that the condition of the Roman
matron was superior to that of the modern Frenchwoman. (Duruy,
_Histoire des Romains_, V., p. 41.)

[321] Boissier, _Religion Romaine_, II. p. 200.

[322] Boissier, _op. cit._, II., pp. 214 ff.

[323] Friedländer, _Romische Sittengeschichte_, I., pp. 441 ff.

[324] Lucian, _De Mercede Conductis_, xxvi.; Friedländer, I., p. 447.

[325] Epict., _Fragm._, 53 Dübner.

[326] Juvenal, V., and Lucian, _De Mercede Conductis_.

[327] Friedländer, III., p. 502.

[328] Friedländer, _ibid._

[329] Boissier, _op. cit._, I., p. 362.

[330] Havet, _Le Christianisme et ses Origines_, II., p. 150.

[331] Hor., _Satt._, I., ix., 67-72.

[332] _Ibid._, I., iv., 142.

[333] _Opera_, ed. Tauchnitz, V., p. 209.

[334] Philo, _Vita Mos._ p. 136, M.; Joseph., _Contr. Ap._, II.,
xxxix.; Friedländer, III., p. 583.

[335] Ovid., _Ars Am._, I., 415; _Rem. Am._, 219; Pers., V., 179; Juv.,
XIV., 97; Friedländer, _loc. cit._

[336] Havet, II., p. 328.

[337] Friedländer, I., p. 451.

[338] _Ars Am._, I., 76.

[339] Friedländer, III., pp. 518, 539 ff, 553 ff.

[340] Xenophon, _Mem._, I., i., 9.

[341] Friedländer, III., p. 523.

[342] _ibid._, pp. 524 ff.

[343] Friedländer, III., pp. 527 ff.

[344] Plutarch, _De Defect. Oracul._, cap. xlv., p. 434.

[345] Lucian, _Alexander_, 25, 47.

[346] According to Friedländer (III., p. 531), this happened between
167 and 169.

[347] Friedländer, p. 532.

[348] Friedländer, III., p. 533.

[349] _Ibid._, p. 534.

[350] For details see Friedländer, _loc. cit._

[351] Friedländer, pp. 535 ff. This form of superstition still
flourishes in great force among at least the lower class of Italians
at the present day; and the continual stimulation afforded to it by
the public lottery is not the least mischievous consequence of that
infamous institution.

[352] Aelian, _Fragm._, 98; Friedländer, p. 494.

[353] Friedländer, _loc. cit._

[354] Friedländer, p. 549.

[355] For the whole subject of Aristeides see Friedländer, pp. 496 ff.

[356] ‘Et parum sane fuit quod illi honores divinos, omnis aetas,
omnis sexus, omnis condicio ac dignitas dedit, nisi quod etiam
sacrilegus judicatus est qui ejus imaginem in suo domo non habuit qui
per fortunam vel potuit habere vel debuit. Denique hodieque in multis
domibus M. Aurelii statuae consistunt inter deos penates. Nec defuerunt
homines qui somniis eum multa praedixisse augurantes futura et vera
concinnerunt.’—_Vita M. Antonini Phil._, cap. xviii.

[357] Friedländer, p. 513.

[358] Friedländer, III., p. 683. Cp. Clifford’s epitaph: ‘I was nothing
and was conceived; I loved and did a little work; I am nothing and
grieve not.’

[359] _Comm._, IV., 21; XII., 5, 26.

[360] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, p. 798.

[361] Quoted by Friedländer, pp. 681 f.

[362] _Ibid._, p. 688.

[363] _Ibid._

[364] Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 828.

[365] See in particular, _Satt._, II, 149.

[366] Friedländer, I., p. 465 f.

[367] Duruy, _Hist. d. Rom._, V., p. 463.

[368] III., p. 692.

[369] Friedländer, III., p. 701.

[370] A mesure que le temps s’avance les traits par lesquels se
produit la croyance à une autre vie, d’abord vagues et confus, loin de
s’effacer, se prononcent et se précisent. On se fait de la destinée des
âmes des idées de plus en plus hautes; on rend aux morts des honneurs
de plus en plus grands. En outre, ces idées, ces pratiques s’étendent
de plus en plus au grand nombre. Au commencement il semble qu’on ne
s’inquiète que du sort des rois et des héros, enfants ou descendants
directs des dieux; avec le temps beaucoup d’autres ont part aux mêmes
préoccupations, puis tous ou presque tous. La félicité est réservée
a qui ressemble aux dieux; c’est une maxime antique qui subsiste
immuable. Avec le temps on se fait de la ressemblance avec les dieux
ou, ce qui revient au même, de la perfection, des idées qui permettent
à tous d’y prétendre.’ Ravaisson, _Le Monument de Myrrhine et les
bas-reliefs funéraires_, 1876, quoted by Duruy, _op. cit._, p. 463.

[371] See Vol. I., p. 68.

[372] For references see Friedländer, III., pp. 706 ff.

[373] _Epod._, xvii., 79.

[374] Friedländer, pp. 710 f.

[375] Sen., _Epp._, xvi., 5; xcv., 52; xli., 1 and 2.

[376] Perhaps, however, Zeller’s contention amounts to no more than
that Seneca follows Posidonius in his adoption of the Platonic
distinction between reason and passion, which were identified by the
older Stoics. But the object of the latter was apparently to save the
personality of man, which seemed to be threatened by Plato’s tripartite
division of mind; and as Seneca achieves the same result by including
the passions in the ἡγεμονικὸν[377] the difference between them and
him is after all little more than verbal. For the general attitude of
Seneca towards religion see Gaston Boissier, _Religion Romaine_, II.,
pp. 63-92.

[377] _Epp._, xcii., 1., (Zeller, by mistake refers to _Epp._, xciv.,
in _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, p. 711.)

[378] As ψυχάριον, σωμάτιον, σαρκίδιον.

[379] Epict., _Fragm._, 175; _Diss._, I., xvi., 1-8; II., xvi., 42;
III., xxii., 2; xxiv., 91-94. Zeller, III., a, p. 742.

[380] Zeller, p. 745.

[381] Friedländer, III., p. 493.

[382] _Comm._, VI., 30.

[383] _Oratt._, VI., p. 203.

[384] _Diss._, II., xxxvi.

[385] _Ph. d. Gr._, III., b, pp. 88 ff.

[386] Seneca, _Epp._, lxiv., 2; cviii., 17.

[387] Seneca, _De Irâ_, III., xxxvi., 1.

[388] Seneca, _Epp._, cviii., 22.

[389] For a detailed account of the Neo-Pythagorean school, see Zeller,
_op. cit._, III., b, pp. 79-158, from which the above summary is
entirely derived.

[390] _De Defect. Orac._, xvii., p. 419.

[391] _Diss._, I., xv., 2.

[392] Plutarch, _De Is. et Osir._, xxv. and xxvi; _De Fac. in Orbe
Lun._, xxx.

[393] _Op. et D._, 120.

[394] _Diss._, I., xv., 7.

[395] Zeller, III., b, pp. 189 ff.

[396] _De Superstit._, viii., p. 169.

[397] _Metamorph._, XI., xxv.

[398] Zeller, III., b, pp. 257 ff.

[399] For references, see Ritter and Preller, _Hist. Phil._, pp. 467-73.

[400] For references, see Zeller, III., b, pp. 148 f.

[401] Suidas, quoted by Ritter and Preller, p. 485.

[402] Vacherot, _Histoire de l’Ecole d’Alexandrie_, pp. 214-17; Zeller,
III., b, pp. 387 ff. The original authority is Irenaeus.

[403] _Politicus_, p. 270 ff.

[404] _Legg._, X., pp. 896, D ff, 898, C, 904, A.

[405] _De Isid. et Osir._, xlv. f.; _De Vir. Moral._, iii.; _De Anim.
Procr._, v., 5. Plutarch supposes that the irrational soul in man is
derived from the evil world-soul which he regards rather as senseless
than as Satanic. It would thus very closely resemble the delirious
Demiurgus of Valentinus and the ‘absolut Dumme’ of Eduard v. Hartmann.

[406] _Diss._, III., xxiii.

[407] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., a, pp. 807 ff.

[408] Porph., _Vita Plot._, cap. iii.

[409] _Ibid._, cap. vii.

[410] _Ibid._, cap. xiii.

[411] Not, as is commonly stated, on the model of Plato’s Republic,
which would have been a far more difficult enterprise, and one little
in accordance with the practical good sense shown on other occasions by
Plotinus.

[412] Porph., _Vita_, cap. xii.; Hegel, _Gesch. d. Ph._, III., p. 34.

[413] Porph., _Vita_, cap. ix.

[414] _Ibid._, xi. Leopardi has taken the incident referred to as
the subject of one of his dialogues; Plotinus, the great champion of
optimism, being chosen, with bitter irony, to represent the Italian
poet’s own pessimistic views of life. The difficulty was to show how
the Neo-Platonist philosopher could, consistently with the principles
thus fathered on him, still continue to dissuade his pupil from
committing suicide. Leopardi voluntarily faces the _argumentum ad
hominem_ by which common sense has in all ages summarily disposed of
pessimism: ‘Then why don’t you kill yourself?’ (‘Your philosophy or
your life,’ so to speak.) The answer is singularly lame. Porphyry is to
think of the distress which his death would cause to his friends. He
might have replied that if the general misery were so great as Plotinus
had maintained, a little more or less affliction would not make any
appreciable difference; that, considering the profound selfishness of
mankind, an accepted article of faith with pessimism, his friends would
in all probability easily resign themselves to his loss; that, at any
rate, the suffering inflicted on them would be a mere trifle compared
to what he would himself be getting rid of; and that, if the worst came
to the worst, they had but to follow his example and ease themselves
of all their troubles at a single stroke. A sincere pessimist would
probably say: ‘I do not kill myself because I am afraid: and my very
fear of death is a conclusive argument in favour of my creed. Nothing
proves the deep-rooted necessity of pain more strongly than that we
should refuse to profit by so obvious a means of escaping from it as
that offered by suicide.’ Of course where pessimism is associated with
a belief in metempsychosis, as among the Buddhists, there is the best
of reasons for not seeking a violent death, namely, that it would in
all probability transfer the suicide to another and inferior grade of
existence; whereas, by using the opportunities of self-mortification
which this world offers, he might succeed in extinguishing the vital
principle for good and all. And Schopenhauer does, in fact, adopt
the belief in metempsychosis just so far as is necessary to exclude
the desirability of suicide from his philosophy. But the truth is,
that while Asiatic pessimism is the logical consequence of a false
metaphysical system, the analogous systems of European pessimists are
simply an excuse for not pushing their disgust with life to its only
rational issue.

[415] Porph., _Vita_, cap. xviii.

[416] Porphyry says six, but there must be a mistake somewhere, as
Plotinus was fifty-nine when their friendship began, and died in his
sixty-sixth year; while Porphyry’s departure for Sicily took place two
years before that event, leaving, at most, five years during which
their personal intercourse can have lasted, if the other dates are to
be trusted.

[417] _Enn._, III., ii. and iii.

[418] _Plotini Opera_ recognovit Adolphus Kirchhoff, Lipsiae, 1856,
in Teubner’s series of Greek and Latin authors. H. F. Müller, the
latest editor of Plotinus, has returned to the original arrangement
by Enneads. His edition is accompanied by a very useful German
translation, only half of which, however, has as yet appeared. (Berlin,
1878.)

[419] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., b, p. 472. (Third edition.)

[420] Porph., _Vita_, iv. ff., xxiv. ff.

[421] _Ibid._, cap. x.

[422] _Ibid._

[423] _Ibid._, cap. xxii.

[424] _Ibid._, capp. i. and ii.

[425] Zeller, _op. cit._, pp. 451 ff.

[426] Porph., _Vita_, cap. xx.

[427] A single example will make our meaning clear. Plotinus is trying
to prove that there can be no Form without Matter. He first argues
that if the notes of a concept can be separated from one another, this
proves the presence of Matter, since divisibility is an affection
belonging only to it. He then goes on to say, εἰ δὲ πολλὰ ὂν ἀμέριστόν
ἐστι, τὰ πολλὰ ἐν ἑνὶ ὂντα ἐν ὕλῃ ἐστὶ τῷ ἑνὶ αὐτὰ μορφαὶ αῦτου ὂντα.
(_Enn._, II., iv., 4; Kirchhoff, I., p. 113, I. 7.) The meaning is,
that if the notes are inseparable, the unity in which they inhere is
related to them as Matter to Form.

[428] See the index to Kirchhoff’s edition.

[429] For references see Kirchner, _Die Philosophie des Plotin_, p.
185; Steinhart, _Meletemata Plotiniana_, pp. 9-23; Zeller, _Ph. d.
Gr._, III., b, pp. 430 f.

[430] Steinhart, _op. cit._, pp. 30 ff.; Kirchner, _op. cit._, pp. 186
ff.

[431] Porph., _Vita_, cap. xv.

[432] _Enn._, I., vi.

[433] _Meno_, 86, A. Compare Vol. I., p. 212.

[434] _Theaetêtus_, 176, A. _Phaedo_, 67, B ff.

[435] _Op. cit._, p. 427.

[436] _Enn._, IV., vii.

[437] _Enn._, III., i., 3.

[438] _Enn._, III., i.

[439] Ἀλλὰ γὰρ δεῖ καὶ ἕκαστον εἶναι καὶ πράξεις ἡμετέρας καὶ
διανοίας ὑπάρχειν. III., i., 4, Kirchh., I., p. 38, l. 22. So utterly
incapable is M. Vacherot of placing himself at this point of view,
that he actually reads into the words quoted an argument in favour of
free-will based on the testimony of consciousness. His version runs
as follows:—‘Nous savons et nous croyons fermement par le sentiment
de ce qui se passe en nous que les individus (les âmes) vivent,
agissent, pensent, d’une vie, d’une action, d’une pensée qui leur est
propre.’—_Histoire Critique de l’École d’Alexandrie_, I., p. 514. So
far as our knowledge goes, such an appeal to consciousness is not to be
found in any ancient writer.

[440] See _Legg._, 861, A ff. for an attempt to prove that men may
properly be punished for actions committed through ignorance of their
real good. This passage is one of the grounds used by Teichmüller, in
his _Literarische Fehden_, to establish the rather paradoxical thesis
that Aristotle published his _Ethics_ before Plato’s death.

[441] III., i., 10.

[442] Cap. 4, _sub fin._

[443] Capp. 6 and 7. Cp. _Enn._, II., iii.; Zeller, _op. cit._, pp. 567
ff; Kirchner, _Ph. d. Plot._, p. 195.

[444] Plato, _Phaedo_, 79, A ff.; Aristot., _De An._, III., iv., _sub
fin._

[445] _Phaedr._, 245, C; _Legg._, 892, A.

[446] _Adv. Col._, ix., 3.

[447] _Enn._, IV., ii., i.

[448] _Enn._, IV., ii., _sub fin._; _Tim._, 35, A.

[449] _Enn._, V., ix.

[450] _Enn._, IV., viii.

[451] _Enn._, V., ix., 2.

[452] Readers of Pope’s _Essay on Man_ will recognise this argument. It
was, in fact, borrowed from Plotinus by Leibnitz, and handed on through
Bolingbroke to Pope. There is no better introduction to Neo-Platonism
than this beautiful poem.

[453] Kirchner, _Ph. d. Plot._, p. 35. The triad of body, soul,
and spirit is still to be met with in modern popular philosophy;
but, contrary to the Greek order of priority, there is a noticeable
tendency to rank soul, as the seat of emotion, higher than spirit or
pure reason, particularly among persons whose opinions receive little
countenance from the last-mentioned faculty.

[454] _Rep._, VI., 508, C ff.; VII., 517, C.

[455] Vol. I., p. 229.

[456] _Ibid._, p. 235.

[457] Aristot., _Metaph._, I., vi.

[458] _Enn._, V., iv., 2; Kirchh., I., p. 72, l. 8.

[459] This is the method of Fichte’s _Wissenschaftslehre_, which seems
to show that Fichte was acquainted with Neo-Platonism, probably at
second-hand.

[460] _Enn._, IV., ix.

[461] _Ibid._, 3; Kirchh., I., p, 75, l. 24.

[462] _Enn._, VI., ix., 1.

[463] _Enn._, VI., ix., 3; Kirchh., I., pp. 81 ff.

[464] In the introductory essay prefixed to his work _De l’École
d’Alexandrie_.

[465] οὕτω δὲ καλῶν ἀμφοτέρων ὄντων, γνώσεώς τε καὶ ἀληθείας, ἄλλο καὶ
κάλλιον ἔτι τούτων.—_Rep._, 508, E. οὐκ οὐσίας ὄντος τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ, ἀλλ’
ἔτι ἐπέκεινα τῆς οὐσίας πρεσβείᾳ καὶ δυνάμει ὑπερέχοντος.—_Ibid._, 509,
B. The first of these passages is bracketed by Stallbaum, but not the
second.

[466] _Symp._, 211, E f.

[467] _Enn._, V., i.

[468] _Enn._, VI., ix., 3, _sub fin._; _ibid._, 6, p. 764, E. (Kirchh.,
I., p. 87, l. 16); _Enn._, V., v., 6, p. 525, D. (Kirchh., II., p. 24,
l. 24).

[469] _Enn._, VI., ix., 9, _sub fin._

[470] _Ibid._, V., ii., I, p. 494, A. (Kirchh., I., p. 109, l. 7).

[471] _Ibid._, V., i., 5, p. 487, C. (Kirchh., I., p. 101, l. 32).

[472] _Enn._, V., i., 6, p. 487, B. (Kirchh., I., p. 101, l. 21).

[473] _Enn._, V., i., 4, p. 485, E (Kirchh., I., pp. 99 f.).

[474] _Enn._, V., ii., 1, p. 494, A; VI., ix., 2, p. 759, A; II., iv.,
5, p. 162, A.

[475] _Enn._, IV., iv., 16, p. 409, C (Kirchh., I., p. 283, l. 31).

[476] _Enn._, V., ii., 2.

[477] _Enn._, II., iv.

[478] Aristot., _Metaph._, VII., x., _sub fin._

[479] _Tim._, 48, E, ff.

[480] _Ibid._, 47, E.

[481] _Enn._, II., iv., 5, p. 161, E (Kirchh., I., p. 114, l. 1).

[482] _Enn._, II., iv., 11, _sub fin._

[483] _Enn._, III., vi., 14 f.

[484] _Enn._, II., iv., 15, p. 169, A (Kirchh., I., p. 124, l. 17).

[485] _Ibid._, 5, p. 162, A (Kirchh., I., p. 114, l. 12).

[486] _Ibid._, III., ix., 3, p. 358, A (Kirchh., I., p. 128, l. 22).

[487] _Enn._, III., iv., i.

[488] _Enn._, II., iv., 15, p. 169, B (Kirchh., I., p. 124, l. 22).

[489] _Enn._, IV., iii,, 9, p. 379, A (Kirchh., I., p. 244, l. 17).
In one of his latest essays (_Enn._, I., viii., 7) Plotinus for a
moment accepts the Platonic theory that evil must necessarily coexist
with good as its correlative opposite, but quickly returns to the
alternative theory that evil results from the gradual diminution and
extinction of good (cp. Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., b, p. 549).

[490] _Enn._, III., viii., 4 and 8.

[491] Our own word ‘paragon’ is a curious record of the theory in
question. It is derived from the Greek participial substantive ὁ
παράγων, the producer. Now, according to Neo-Platonism, in the
hierarchic series of existences, the product always strives, or should
strive, to model itself on the producer, hence παράγων came to be used
in the double sense of a cause and an exemplar. As such, it is one of
the technical terms employed throughout the _Institutiones Theologicae_
of Proclus. But, in time, the second or derivative meaning became so
much the more important as to gain exclusive possession of the word on
its adoption into modern languages.

[492] _Enn._, III., iv., 2.

[493] _Enn._, I., ii., 1.

[494] _Ibid._, 3.

[495] _Enn._, I., ii., 6, _sub fin._

[496] _Ibid._, 5.

[497] _Ibid._, ix.

[498] _Enn._, I., iii.

[499] _Rep._, VI., 511.

[500] See the conclusion of the _Posterior Analytics_.

[501] _Enn._, III., vii., 1, p. 325, C (Kirchh., II., p. 282, l. 13).

[502] Zeller’s last volume, giving a full account of the Neo-Platonic
school, has recently reached a third edition, but it belongs to a
connected work, and contains, in addition, a mass of information
possessing special interest for theologians. It has not, however, been
translated into English, nor apparently is there any intention of
translating it. Our own literature on the subject is represented by a
worthless book of Kingsley’s, entitled _Alexandria and her Schools_,
and a novel by a lady, called the _Wards of Plotinus_.

[503] _Enn._, VI., ix., _sub fin._

[504] _Enn._, III., ii., 15, p. 266, E (Kirchh., II., p. 336, l.
31). M. Renan talks of the period from 235 to 284 as ‘cet enfer
d’un demi-siècle où sombre toute philosophie, toute civilité, toute
délicatesse’ (_Marc-Aurèle_, p. 498). As, however, this epoch produced
Neo-Platonism, the expression ‘toute philosophie’ is rather misplaced.

[505] _Enn._, IV., iv., 17, p. 410, B. (Kirchh., I., p. 285, l. 1).

[506] _Ph. d. Gr._, III., b, pp. 69 ff, 419 ff.

[507] _Op. cit._, pp. 419 ff.

[508] Zeller, p. 447.

[509] _Enn._, V., v., p. 520, A. (Kirchh., II., p. 18, l. 3). This is
the only passage in the _Enneads_ where the Sceptics seem to be alluded
to.

[510] _Loc. cit._

[511] _Vita_, x., _sub fin._

[512] For specimens of his treatment, see Zeller, pp. 622 ff.

[513] For the theology of Plotinus see Zeller, pp. 619 ff, and for the
daemons, p. 570. In our opinion, Zeller attributes a much stronger
religious faith to Plotinus than can be proved from the passages to
which he refers.

[514] _Enn._, V., vii.

[515] _Enn._, V., vii., I, p. 539, B. (Kirchh., I., p. 145, l. 23).

[516] For references, see Zeller, pp. 588 ff.

[517] _Enn._, VI., ii., 3, p. 598, A. (Kirchh., II., p. 227).

[518] _Enn._, II., ix.

[519] _Ibid._, cap. 6.

[520] _Ibid._, 14.

[521] _Enn._, II., ix., 15.

[522] Kirchner, _Die Ph. d. Plot._, pp. 1-24, 175-208. Cp. Steinhart,
_Meletemata Plotiniana_, p. 4.

[523] Two other popular misconceptions may be traced back, in part at
least, to the exclusively transcendental interpretation of Plato’s
philosophy. By drawing away attention from the Socratic dialogues,
it broke the connexion between Socrates and his chief disciple, thus
leaving the former to be estimated exclusively from Xenophon’s view
of his character as a moral and religious teacher. True, Xenophon
himself supplies us with the data which prove that Socrates was, above
all things, a dialectician, but only in the reflex light of Plato’s
subsequent developments can their real significance be perceived. On
the other hand, the attempt to combine Aristotle with Plato led to
a serious misunderstanding of the actual relation between the two.
When the whole ideal element of his philosophy had been drawn off
and employed to heighten still further the transcendentalism of his
master’s teaching, the Stagirite came to be judged entirely by the
residual elements, by the logical, physical, and critical portions of
his system. On the strength of these, he was represented as the type of
whatever is most opposed to Plato, and, in particular, of a practical,
prosaic turn of mind, which was quite alien from his true character.

[524] Χαλεπὸν μὲν γνωσθῆναι ... γιγνωσκόμενον δὲ μᾶλλον τῷ ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ
γεννήματι τῇ οὐσίᾳ. (_Enn._, VI., ix., 5, p. 763, B.) Πᾶν τὸ θεῖον
αὐτὸ μὲν διὰ τὴν ὑπερούσιον ἕνωσιν ἄρρητόν ἐστι καὶ ἄγνωστον πᾶσι τοῖς
δευτέροις· ἀπὸ δὲ τῶν μετεχόντων ληπτόν ἐστι καὶ γνωστόν. (Proclus,
_Institutiones Theologicae_, cxxiii.), cp. Proclus, _ibid._, clxii.

[525] _De Princip._, ii., quoted by Ritter and Preller, p. 536 f.

[526] _Inst. Theol._, lxxii., cp. Zeller, p. 808, where it is denied,
wrongly, as we think, that Plotinus held the same view.

[527] The following sketch is based on the accounts given of the period
to which it relates in the works of Zeller and Vacherot.

[528] _De Civit. Dei_, VIII., v., quoted by Kirchner, p. 208.

[529] _Enn._, II., ix., 18, p. 217, C; for Syrianus and Proclus, see
Zeller, p. 738. The Emperor Constantine is said to have remained a
sun-worshipper all his life (Vacherot, II., p. 153); and even Philo
Judaeus speaks of the stars as visible gods (Zeller, p. 393).

[530] Quoted by Ritter and Preller, p. 539.

[531] Compare the report of Agathias with the series of questions put
to Priscian, quoted in the Dissertation by M. Quicherat, prefixed to
Dübner’s edition of Priscian’s _Solutiones_ (printed after Plotinus in
Didot’s edition, pp. 549 ff).

[532] M. Vacherot says (II., p. 400), without giving any authority for
his statement, that the Neo-Platonists were driven from Persia by the
persecution of the Magi; and that they returned home ‘furtivement,’
which is certainly incorrect. They returned openly, under the
protection of a treaty between Persia and Rome.

[533] _Repub._, IX., _sub fin._

[534] Hauréau, _Histoire de la Philosophie Scolastique_, I., p. 372.

[535] For Gilbert de la Porrée see Hauréau, I., chap. xviii.

[536] Jourdain, _Recherches critiques sur les Traductions latines
d’Aristote_.

[537] The term Nominalist is here used in the wide sense given to it by
Hauréau. See the last chapter of his work on the Scholastic Philosophy.

[538] _Works_ I., p. 405 in Ellis and Spedding’s edition.

[539] ‘Historia naturalis ... materia prima philosophiae.’ _De Aug._,
II., iii.

[540] The ‘notions and conceptions’ of the _Advancement of Learning_
(_Works_, III., p. 356) is rendered by ‘axiomata’ in the _De Augmentis_
(I., p. 567), where in both instances the question is entirely about
Forms. Cp. § 8 of Prof. Fowler’s Introduction to the _Novum Organum_.

[541] _Analyt. Prior._, II., xxx.

[542] Prof. Bain, after mentioning that the second book of the _Topics_
‘sets forth in a crude condition the principal canons of inductive
logic,’ goes on to say that ‘these statements cannot be called germs
for they never germinated’ (Grote’s _Minor Works_, p. 14). May they not
have germinated in the _Novum Organum_?

[543] Descartes showed a much deeper insight into the scientific
conditions of industrial progress than Bacon. His words are, ‘On peut
trouver une philosophie pratique par laquelle connoissant la force
et les actions du feu, de l’eau, de l’air, des astres, des cieux, et
de tous les autres corps qui nous environnent, aussi distinctement
que nous connoissons les divers mestiers de nos artisans, nous les
pourrions employer en même façon à tous les usages auxquels ils sont
propres, et ainsi nous rendre comme maistres et possesseurs de la
Nature.’ _Discours de la Méthode_, Sixième Partie. This passage has
been recently quoted by Dr. Bridges (‘Comte’s Definition of Life,’
_Fortnightly Review_ for June 1881, p. 684) to illustrate what seems
a very questionable position. He says that the Copernican astronomy,
by revealing the infinitude of the universe, made men despair of
comprehending nature in her totality, and thus threw them back on
enquiries of more directly human interest and practical applicability;
particularly specifying ‘the lofty utilitarianism of the _Novum
Organum_ and of the _Discours de la Méthode_,’ as ‘one of the first
concomitants’ ‘of this intellectual revolution.‘ There seems to be a
double misconception here: for, in the first place, Bacon could hardly
have been influenced by a theory which he persistently rejected; and,
in the next place, neither Bacon nor Descartes showed a trace of the
positivist tendency to despair of attaining absolute and universal
knowledge. Both of them expected to discover the inmost essences
of things; and neither of them imagined that a different set of
conditions might come into play outside the boundaries of the visible
universe. In fact they believed themselves to be enlarging instead
of restricting the field of mental vision; and it was from this very
enlargement that they anticipated the most momentous practical results.
It was with Locke, as we shall see hereafter, that the sceptical or
agnostic movement began. In this same article, Dr. Bridges repeats,
probably on Comte’s authority, the incredible statement that ‘Thales
taught the Egyptian priests those two or three elementary truths as to
the laws of triangles, which enabled them to tell the height of the
pyramid by measuring its shadow.’ Comte’s ignorance or carelessness in
relating this story as a well-attested fact was long ago noticed with
astonishment by Grote. (_Life of George Grote_, p. 204.)

[544] Whewell notices this ‘Stationary Interval’ (_History of the
Inductive Sciences_, Bk. XVI., chapter iii., sect. 3), but without
determining either its just limits or its real cause.

[545] Compreso che sarà il moto di quest’ astro mondano in cui siamo
... s’aprirà la porta de l’intelligenza de li principi veri di cose
naturali. _De l’Infinito Universo e Mondi_, p. 51, Wagner’s Ed.

[546] ‘Sono amputate radici che germogliano, son cose antiche che
rivegnono. _Ibid._, p. 82.

[547] _Principio Causa et Uno_, p. 225. For David of Dinan, whose
opinions are known only through the reports of Albertus and Aquinas,
see Hauréau, II., iv.

[548] Galileo’s words are:—‘Il moto circulare è naturale del tutto e
delle parti mentre sono in ottima disposizione.’ _Dialoghi sui Massimi
Sistemi._ _Opere_, Vol. I., p. 265; see also p. 38.

[549] _Dialoghi_, p. 211.

[550] ‘Non posso trovar termine all’ammirazione mia come abbia possuto
in Aristarco e nel Copernico far la ragione tanta violenza al senso
che contro a questo ella si sia fatta padrona della loro credulità.’
_Dialoghi_, p. 358.

[551] _Ibid._, p. 370.

[552] ‘Kepler était persuadé de l’existence de ces lois en suivant
cette pensée de Platon: que Dieu, en créant le monde, avait dû faire de
la géometrie.’ Arago, _Œuvres_ III., p. 212.

[553] _De Aug._, III., v. _Works_, I., p. 571.

[554] This is well brought out in a remarkable series of articles
on the Philosophy of Hobbes recently published by Tönnies in the
_Vierteljahrsschrift fur wissenschaftliche Philosophie_.

[555] _Leviathan_, chap. xv., _sub fin._

[556] _Leviathan_, chap. xi., _sub fin._

[557] _Leviathan_, chap. vi.

[558] _Spaccio della Bestia Trionfante, sub in._

[559] _Advancement of Learning_, Ellis and Spedding, III., p. 428.

[560] _Republic_, VI., 511, Jowett’s Trans. III., p. 398.

[561] Plotinus himself expresses a doubt as to whether the One is,
properly speaking, all things or not (_Enn._, V., ii., _sub in._); but
in his essay on Substance and Quality, he defines qualities as energies
of the substance to which they belong (_Enn._, II., vi. 3). Now all
things are, according to his philosophy, energies of the One. There
would, therefore, be no difficulty in considering it as their substance.

[562]

    —— Quia multimodis, multis, mutata, per omne
    Ex infinito vexantur percita plagis,
    Omne genus motus, et coetus experiundo,
    Tandem deveniunt in taleis disposituras,
    Qualibus haec rebus consistit summa creata.

  (I., 1023-7.)


[563] V., 853; IV., 780-800; V., 1025.

[564] Just the same remark applies to the monads of Leibnitz. Each
monad reflects all the others, and infers that its reflections
represent a reality from the infinite creative power of God. Descartes’
appeal to the divine veracity represents the same method in a less
developed stage. The root-idea here is to be sought for, not in Greek
thought but in the Christian doctrine of a supernatural revelation.

[565] The formal cause of a thing is its species, the concept under
which it is immediately subsumed; the efficient cause is what brings
it into existence. Thus the formal cause of a man is humanity, the
efficient cause, his father.

[566] _Eth._, I., prop. xvi.; II., prop. iii.; prop. v.; prop. xviii.,
schol.; prop. xxviii.; prop. xl., schol. ii.; V., prop. xxix., schol.;
prop. xl., schol. (The passage last referred to is the clearest and
most decisive.)

[567] See the passage from the _Republic_ quoted above.

[568] The tendency of logicians is now, contrariwise, to force
reasoning into parallelism with mathematical physics by interpreting
the proposition as an equation between subject and predicate.

[569] III., prop. ii., schol.

[570] II., vii., schol.

[571] III., ix. and xi.

[572] Greek tragedy is just the reverse—an expansion of the old
patriarchal relations into a mould fitted to receive the highest
thought and feeling of a civilised age.

[573] For the whole subject of Spinoza’s mathematical method, see
Windelband’s paper on Spinoza in the _Vierteljahrsschrift für
wissenschaftliche Philosophie_, 1877. Some points in the last paragraph
were suggested by Mr. Pollock’s _Spinoza_ (pp. 255, 264).

[574] _Essay_, Bk. iv., ch. 12.

[575] See the references to Epictêtus, _supra_, p. 21.

[576] What Aristotle has written on the subject is not ethics but
natural history.

[577] ‘Ne remarque-t-on comment chaque recherche analytique de Laplace
a fait ressortir dans notre globe et dans l’univers des conditions
d’ordre et de durée?’—Arago, _Œuvres_, III., p. 496.




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Transcriber’s note:

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and ligatures have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.