Of Maximus, the author of the following Dissertations^ nothing more is known> than that he was by birth a Tyrian; that he lived under the Antonines and Commodus : that he for some time resided in Rome, but, probably, for the most part in Greece ; that he cultivated philosophy, and principally that of Plato ; and that he was one of those sophists who, like Dio Chrysostom, united philosophy with the study of rhetoric, and combined sublimity and depth of conception with magnificence and elegance of diction.
I have said that he principally cultivated the Platonic philosophy, because from the twentieth dissertation it appears that he preferred the cynic life to that of all others, thus placing the end of life in practical
As the essence of man consists in intellect, which is wholly of a contempUtive nature, the true end of life must necessarily consist in contemplation, and not in action. PraC" tical virtue, therefore, ranks as a mean, theoretic virtue as an end.
IV
and not in theoretic virtue. In every other part of this work, however, \)£i follows the footsteps of Plato as closely, and unfolds his doctrines as accurately, as can be expected from one who lived before the restoration of the Platonic philosophy, by that golden chain of heroes, of which the great Plotinus is the topmost link.
This philosophy, indeed, as I have elsewhere * observed, at first shone forth through Plato with an occult and venerable splendor ; and it is owing to the hidden manner in which it is delivered by him, that its depth was not fathomed till many ages after its promulgation, and when fathomed, was treated by superficial readers with ridicule and contempt. Plato, indeed, is not singular in delivering his philosophy occultly; for this was the custom of all the great ancients ; a custom not originating from a wish to become tyrants in knowledge, and keep the multitude in ignorance, but from a profound
In my Introduction to the Philosophy and Writings of Plato, prefixed to voL i. of my translation of his works^ from which introduction the whole of this paragraph is extracted.
conviction that the sublimest truths are profaned when i^learly unfolded to the tulgar. Tbis^ indeed, must necessarily follow ; $ince, as Socrates, in Plato, justly obsenres, it is not lawful for the pure to be touched by the impure, and the multitude are neither purified from the defilements of vice, nor the darkness of twofold ignorance *. Hence, while they are thus doubly impure, it is as impossible for them to perceive the splendors of truth as for an eye buried in mire to survey the light of day.
The depth of this philosophy, then, does not appear to have been perfectly penetrated, except by the immediate disciples of Plato, for more than five hundred years afl;er its first propagation. For though Grantor, Atticus, Albinus, Galen, and Plutarch, were men of great genius, and made no common proficiency in philosophic attainments, yet they appear not to have developed the profiindity of Plato's conceptions ; they withdrew not the veil which covers his,; secret
Twofold ignorance takei place when a man i» fHk*°t that he it ignorant. -i? ^
VI
meaning, like the curtains * which guarded the adytum of temples fromthe profane eye ; and they saw not that all behind the veil is luminous, and that there divine spectacles f everywhere present themselves to the view. This task was reserved for men who were born, indeed, in a baser age, but who, being allotted a nature similar to their leader, were the true interpreters of his mystic speculations. The most conspicuous of these are, the great Plotinus, the most learned Porphyry, the divine Jamblichus, the most acute Syrianus, Proclus, the consummation of philosophic excellence, the magnificent Hierocles, the concisely elegant Sallust, and the most inquisitive Damascius. By these men, who were truly links of the golden chain of deity, all that is sublime, all that is mystic in the doctrines of Plato {and they are replete with both these in a transcendent degree) was freed from its obscurity
£s> ruv XtyoiAivtn TiXcrwy, ret fiiv a^vra-ny, ca^ ^nXot jiom
if fuXorloyTcct. Psellus in Alleg. de Sphin. my Dissertation on the Mystere-.
and unfcdded into the most pleasing and admirable light. Their labours, however, have been ungratefully received ^. The beautiful light which thej benevolently disclosed has hitherto, uonoticed, illumined Philosophy in her desolate retreats, like a lamp shining on $ome venerable statue amidst dark and solitary ruins. The prediction of the master has been unhappily fulfilled in these his most excellent disciples. '' For an attempt of this kind," says he f , " will only be benefi* cial to a few, who from small vestiges, previously demonstrated, are themselves able to
The reader, who ivishei to tee a specimen of the manner in which the labonrt of these admirable men have been re* ceived by the worthless vulgar of modem times, may peruse an account of my translation of the works of Plato in a pro* duction as mean as maleyolent, called The Imperial Review. To the scurrilous and anonymous hireling who, in this publication, has thought fit to vilify me no less than these most excellent plulosophers, my masters, I shall only observe, that it it natural for docs to bark at strangers.
To Dr. Gillies, who has also thought fit to join in this abuse, m a work just published, and which is cited in the abovementioned review, I shall shortly reply in an octavo pamphlet, in which the injustice he has done to Aristotle, in a translation (as he calls it) of the Ethics of that philosopher, and his ignorance of the doctrines which he so insolently calumni* ates, will be fully unfolded.
t See the seventh epistle of Plato.
VllI
discover these abstruse particulars. But with respect to the rest of mankind^ some it will fill with a contempt by no means elegant^ and others with a lofty and arrogant hope that they shall now learn certain excellent things." Thus with respect to these admirable men, the last and the most legitimate of the followers of Plato, some from being entirely ignorant of the abstruse dogmas of Plato, and finding these interpreters fiill of conceptions which are by no means obvious to every one in the writings of that philosopher, have immediately concluded that such conceptions are mere jargon and reverie, that they are not truly Platonic, and that they are nothing more than streams, which, though originally derived from a pure fountain, have become polluted by distance from their source. Others, who pay attention to nothing but the most exquisite purity of language, look down with contempt upon every writer who lived after the fall of the Macedonian empire ; as if dignity and weight of sentiment were inseparable from splendid and accurate diction.
or as if it were impossible for elegant writers to exist in a degenerate age.
In consequence^ therefore^ of Maximus living prior to the fiiU developement of Plato's philosoi^y^ when he discusses any thing pertaining to its more abstruse parts^ his conceptions are generally inaccurate^ at the same time that he elucidates its more acces* sible parts with no less fertility of invention than solidity of judgment^ and with no less subtlety and accuracy of thought than perspicuity and elegance of diction. In these parts, indeed, he displays great erudition and science, and employs that mode of writing which requires and invites attention, and which prevents satiety either by the brevity or novelty of the sentences, or the beauty of the imagery, or the variety of the language. So excellent, indeed, ds he in these respects, that he may be said to have exhibited in his periods the skill of a consummate rhetorician, combined with that weight of sentiment peculiar to a philosopher, and that sweetness, grace, and harmony, which belong to the
poet^ and indicate a mind saturated with the divine ambrosia of Homer and Plato.
These Dissertations^ therefore, as all of them are on very important moral and theo* logical subjects, are highly worthy the atten-* tion of the liberal reader ; and are calculated to be largely beneficial, notwithstanding their inaccuracy in certain parts which per-» tain to the sublimities of the Platonic philo* sophy. These inaccuracies, wherever they occur, I have endeavoured to correct in the Notes which accompany this translation.
With respect to the arrangement of these Dissertations, it is necessary to observe, that though this translation is made from Reiske's edition of them, yet I have followed the order adopted by all the editions prior to that of Davis, for two reasons ; first, because it did not appear to me that any alteration in the arrangement of the first editions was ne» cessary, and I am an enemy to all innova* tions when they are not requisite ; and, se* condly, because it appears that the order which I have followed is the same with that
XL
which existed in the copies extant in the time of the empress Eudocia *, who lived upwards of eight hundred years ago. As this order, therefore, is obviously of the highest antiquity, the authority of a more recent manuscript, in which a different arrangement is adopted, without any reason whatever, is certainly of no weight, and is consequently not to be regarded. Had this circumstance been known to Davis, Markland, and Reiske, they would, doubtless, have followed the order in which these Dissertations were first published, and in which they are now, for the first time, presented to the reader in an English dress,
lliis is evident from the following account, given by thit empress, of Maximus, in her Historical and Mythological Dictionary, published by Villoison, at Venice, 1781 :
nx«Tfewa* ^nri^i 0/xd^ov» xai ng o votf ecvru a^xxmt ^7io<roO*»' u xetXv^ Zvx^lv); ovx atoXot^outd, xeu aXK» rtva ^Xo9o<p» ^trniftoTft: i.e. *' Maximus Tyrius the philosopher dwelt at Home, under the emperor Commodus. He wrote many philosophic dissertations, the first of which is, tVhat God it according to Plato; concerning Homer, and what the ancient philosophy is contained in his poems ; if Socrates did well in not apologizing ; and many other philosophical enquiries/* The first dissertation, however, in Reiske'i edition, is concern^ irtg Pleasure, &c.
In translating this work it is but just to own, that I derived considerable assistance from the critical labours of Davis,- Mark* land, and Reiske. So sagacious, indeed, for the most part, are the conjectures, and so acute the emendations of Markland, that he may, I think, be deservedly ranked among the first of critics. I say for the most part, because, as the learned reader will perceive, I have occasionally found it necessary to dissent from him, and particularly in pas-^ sages of a more philosophical nature, to the correction of which merely verbal skill, however transcendent, must be necessarily inadequate.
I have already observed that these Dissertations are calculated to be largely beneficial, and I now add, peculiarly so at the present time. For there surely never was a period in which it was so necessary that sound reasoning on some of the most important subjects of enquiry in ethics and theology should be promulgated as the present ; since nothing is more common than to hear the fimdamental principles of these sciences
called in question, and even the existence of axioms, those unperverted and spontaneous conceptions of the mind, those self-luminous pillars of all knowledge, treated with ridicule and contempt. Bishop Berkeley, who, amidst all his eccentricities, possessed great penetration on some of the most interesting subjects of speculation, saw this evil advancing in his time with giant strides, and very acutely ascribed its origin to the rage for experiment, and the introduction of it into our great seminaries of learning. For when a principal part, even of a university education, is made to consist in believing that nothing is real which the eye does not see, and the hand cannot grasp, and which, in short, does not fall under the cognizance of the senses, what else can be expected, but that even truths, which men in all ages, both the unlearned and the learned, the wise and the ignorant, have invariably acknowledged to be self-evident, should be considered as nugatory, because they cannot be brought to the test of experiment ? What else can be expected but Pyrrhonism in
XXV
knowledge^ a belief that nothing is worthy of attention which does not pamper the appetite or fill the purse, indifference in, or a total neglect of, the duties of religion, and atheistical conceptions of Divinity ? As a partial remedy to this mighty evil these Dissertations are recommended to the earnest attention of the English reader. I have already put him in possession of the sovereign cure in presenting him with the whole of Plato^s works j and I have no doubt he will gratefully accept this lesser, as an appendage to that greater labour, and consider it as one more effort, among many others, of a man, who, in order to benefit his countrymen, both of the present and fiiture generations, has hitherto abandoned all consideration of personal interest, and sacrificed to public good, health, strengthy and eascy though these have always been considered as ranking among things the most dear and valuable in life.
I shall only observe farther, that this translation was undertaken at the request, ^d completed under the patronage, of one.
XV
whose merits, however inadequately, I have, at Jeast gratefully, already acknowledged to the pubUc. Suffice it then to say, that the superior taste and liberality of William Meredith, as they first led forth my energies (such as they are) into light, have also been the benevolent parents of the present production. To him, therefore, I dedicate this work; for it is his own; and I well know that he will regard it with the eye of an indulgent father.
DISSERTATION I.
WHAT GOD IS ACCORDING TO PLATO.
TN disputing concerning daemons^ I can bear the opposition of arguments, I can endure the contention, and do not think that the conduct of him, who doubts with himself, or with another, concerning the existence, essence, and magnitude of a daemoniacal nature, is in any respect dire, erroneous, and absurd. For here indeed the name is uncertain*; the essence of that which is investigated is unapparent, and its power is tlie subject
Concerning the name and essence of a daemoniacal nature, see the notes to Dissertation 26, on the Ddsmon of Socrates, I shall only observe in this place, that we have a clearer knowledge of divinity, than of those intermediate beings which conoect the human with a divine nature ; because the light of superior principles irradiates more strongly through sublimity of power than that of such as arc subordinate ; just as with respect to corporeal vision, we do not perceive many things situated on the earth ; but we see the inerratic sphere, and the •tars it contains, through the powerful light which they emit^
B
of doubt. But now, in speaking of divinity, how shall I act ? By what beauty of words, by what light from the clearest appellations, or by what harmony of composition, shall I be able to exhibit to myself and others, that which is now investigated ? For if Plato, who was the most eloquent of all men, even though compared with Homer himself, is not, in what he says respecting divinity, sufficiently understood by every one, but there are those who enquire of others what the opinion of Plato was on this subject — if this be the case, he who is endued but with a small portion of intellect, will scarcely dare to engage in this investigation ; unless we wish to imitate the conduct of him who should procure necessary drink for one thirsty, not from a pure and abundant fountain though present— a fountain to the sight most pleasant, to the taste most sweet, and for nutrition most prolific ; but from a fountain debile, and in no respect to be compared with the former. Just as they say the owl is affected, whose eyes are darkened by the sun, but who searches for the light proceeding from fire in the night. For he who, on perusing the writings of Plato, requires another mode of diction, or to whom the light proceeding from thence appears to be obscure, and to participate in the smallest degree of clear splendor, such a one will never see the sun when it rises, nor the mild radiance of the moon, nor Hesperus when it sets, nor Lucifer anticipating the morning light.
But let us stop a little : for I now nearly perceiye
what the peculiarity is of the present discourse ; since it resembles that which is found in the diggers of metallic mines. For these when they perforate the earth, and dig up gold, have no accu-* rate knowledge of the nature of gold, but this is the province of those who examine it by fire. I indeed assimilate the first acquaintance with the writings of Plato to the discovery of crude gold. That which is consequent to this requires another art, which, examining what is received, and purifying it by reason as by fire, is now able to use the pure and tried gold. If, therefore, the vein of truth is manifest to us, and this magnificent and abundant, but we require another art, for the purpose of examining what is received, let us invoke the assistance of this art in the present inquiry, what divinity is according to Plato.
If then this art, being gifted with speech, should ask us, whether, not believing that there is any thing divine in nature, and not having any conception whatever of divinity, we engage in this investigation ? or whether we accord with Plato ; or possessing certain peculiar opinions of our own, we conceive that he thought differently * on this subject? And let us suppose, on confessing the latter to be the case, that this art should think fit to ask us what we assert the nature of divinity to be. What then shall we say God is, in reply ? Shall we say that he has round shoulders, a dark
Maximus is not to be considered in this pla<^e, as seriously asserting that he thought differently from Plato concerning God ; for it it clear that he wishes to accord with him.
complexion, and curled hair * ? The answer would be ridiculous ; even though you should characterize Jupitjjer in a sublimer manner, by ascribing to him^^^^ye-browsf, and golden hair, through which I^shakes the heavens* For painters and statUA^^, poets and pliilosophers, prophetically deliveAvery thing of this kind through penury of vision ,jpmbecility of explication, and darkness of judgment, in consequence of being elevated by imagination, as much as possible, to that which appears to be most beautiful. But if you should call an assembly of the arts, and command all of them collectively , by one decree, to give an answer respecting divinity, do you think that the painter would say one thing, and the statuary another, and that the poet would speak differently from the philosopher? So far from it, that by Jupiter, the Scythian and Grecian, the Persian and Hyperborean, would not in this respect dissent from each other. But in every thing else, you will see men
An Homeric verse. See OdytB. lib. xix. ver. 246.
t MaximuB alludes to the following well known lines of
K^ccTo; etv cc^avaToio' jAtyctv ^tXiM^n OXvfAVOV'
'ITius spoke Saturnian Jupiter, and bends His sable brows, the sanction of the god. His locks ambrosial vehemently shake From hit immortal head ; and rapid round With strong concussion great Olympus rolls
disagreeing in their opinions. For neither good nor evil, neither the deformed nor the heautiful, are the same to all : since law and justice are divulsed and lacerated, through extreme dissonance of opinion. For not only family dissents from family in these particulars, but city with city, and house with house, man with man, and even nian with himself. For
Such is the mind * of all the earthly race. As parent Jove diurnally imparts.
In such a mighty contest, sedition and discord, you will see one according law and assertion in all the earth, that there is one God, the king and father of all things, and many godsf, sons of God, ruling
f This dogma may be said to be coeval with the universe ; and though at certain periods, and in certain places, it may be derided from the prevalence of unscientific conception, yet those periods will always be inconsiderable, and thoik^|>laces barbarous, when compared with the periods and countries in which it will be embraced. Agreeably to this, Aristotle, in the 8th chap, of the 12th book of his Metaphysics, has the following re* markable passage. " Our ancestors," says he, *' and men of great antiquity, have left us a tradition, involved in fable, that the first essences are Gods, and that the divinity comprehends the whole of nature. The rest indeed is fabulously introduced, for the purpose of persuading the multitude, enforcing the laws, and benefiting human life. For they ascribe to the first essences a human form, and speak of them as resembling other animals, and assert other things similar and consequent to these. But if adaong these assertions, any one separating the rest, retains only the first, viz. that they considered the first essences to be Gods, he will think it to be divinely said ; and it may be probably inferred, that as every art and philosophy has been invented at
together with him. This the Greek says, and the barbarian says, the inhabitant of the continent, and he who dwells near the sea, the wise and the unwise. And if you proceed as far as to the utmost shores of the ocean, there also there are gods, rising very near to some, and setting very near to others. Do you think that Plato opposes, or prescribes laws contrary to these, and that he does not accord with this most beautiful assertion, and most true affection of the human mind ? What is this ? The eye says it is the sun. What is that ? The ear says it is thunder. What are these things thus flourishing and beautiful, these revolutions and
often at possible, and has again perished, these opinions also of the ancients have been preserved, as relics to the present time. Of the opinions of our fathers, therefore, and men of the highest antiquity, thus much only is manifest to us." fceL^h^orcu }| vvo rm ot^-xoMn xeu ^rotXotov, tf fivQw 0';^9i/AaTi x«T«X(XEtjtA/xEy« ^voKy. T» it XwT* i^vQiKu^ tj^ii le^oarnxjiyi Vf 05 rnv TuQca tow woXXaw, KOU T^o; my ui rov? vo/xov; kou to avfjL^t^p Xi"*^^^' ot.)^^(iyjeoii,6ui ti yob^ Tovrouit njM ruv aXXw ^ww o/AOiot/; run Xiyovakou toutm; in^ft aKoXwQoc kou voi,^otv\ytviOb Tot; ci^n/xEvot;. cJy u rig x^§^^ avro XaCoi /uoyoy to v^unovt on Seou; fli;oylo rotg T^unocg ovcnobg uvout du»i out ei^DO^OM yo/toff'eie* kjou xara ro uko^ ToXXaxt^ cv^tijUEVfi; ui TO ^vyoToy tKOtqm kou nx^ni kou ^iXoo^^ia;, kou TaXiv ^de^^ofieycriy, KM Tounotg robi io^o^ Exuyctfy> oioy XEi>]/ay» vi^i^cwa^ou i^ix^^ tou ivy* i fAit ow VftT^to; lo{a, kou i voc^ Tvy v^uruvt ct* too'ou- T«y fifuy ^yE^» fAoyoy. The reader who is desirous of obtaining scientific conviction of this most important of all truths, may consult the note to my translation of this chapter of Aris* totle's Metaphysics, my Introduction to the Parmenides of Plato, and above all, to my Translation of Proclus's Elements of Theology.
matations, the various temperamept of the air, the generations of animals, and the nature of fruits ? The soul says, that all these are the works of divinity ; it desires the artificer and predicts his art. And if through the whole of time, there have been two or three atheists, grovelling and insensate men, whose eyes wander, whose ears are deceived, whose souls are mutilated, a race irrational, barren, and useless, resembling a timid lion, an ox without horns, a bird without wings, yet even firom such a race as this you will be persuaded that there is something divine. For this they unwillingly know, and unwillingly assert ; although you deprive divinity of good with Leucippus, though you subject him to human passions with Democritus, though you change his nature with Strato, though you ascribe to him pleasure with Epicurus, though you deny his existence with Diagoras, though you acknowledge that you are ignorant what he is with Protagoras. Let us, however, dismiss those who were unable to arrive at truth entire and whole, but sought it in obscure and winding paths. But with respect to ourselves, what shall we do, or what shall we say, since we obliquely behold the footsteps of deity, but do not meet with his image ? Ulysses, indeed, when he landed on a foreign coast, ascended a lofty hill, from whence he could perceive the vestiges of the inhabitants, and learn.
If rustic *, insolent, unjust the race,
Or friends to strangers, and of pious mind.
Shall not we also, ascending by reasoning into acertain elevated part of the soul, dare to survey the footsteps of deity, that we may discover where he resides, and what is his nature? We must, however, be satisfied with an obscure vision. I wish indeed that I had an oracle from Jupiter or Apollo, and which would answer neither obliquely, nor dubiously ; for then I would interrogate the god, not x)oncerning the kettle* of Croesus, the most stupid of kings, and the most unfortunate of cooks, nor concerning the measures of the sea, or the number of the sands. I should also neglect inquiries more weighty than these, such as, the Medcs are making an irruption, how shall I defend myself? For without the advice of the god, I should have three-oared gallies. Nor should I ask, how shall I take Sicily, which I design to in-
Maximus alludes to the famous oracle which the Pythian priestess gave to Crccsus, and which, according to Herodotus, was as follows :
Oafxn o 6f (P^cyaj nXfle x^ocrou^ivoio ;^EXo>ytij EvI^ofAEvn; cy x^^^V ^H-* oc^^^kokcri K^ucrcnv
H ^OcXkO^ fXlV WTTEr^WTflM, ^»XkOV 5 £9rifr»*«
The sand's amount, the measures of the sea, Tho' vast the number, are well known to me : 1 know the thoughts within the dumb conceal'd. And words I hear by language unrevealM. Ev'n now the odours to my sense that rise, A tortoise boiling with a lamb supplies, Where brass below^ and brass above it lies.
▼ade? For though the god should not impede, Sicily is large. But let the Delphic Apollo clearly answer my inquiries respecting Jupiter, or let Jupiter himself answer for himself, or some interpreter of the god from the academy, an attic and prophetic man. He will answer therefore as follows :
Since the human soul has two instruments of perception, the one simple, which we call intellect, the other various, manifold, and mutable, which we call the senses; these two are conjoined in operation, but separated in essence. But as is the relation of these to each other, such also is that of the objects of which these are instruments ; and that which is intelligible, differs from that which is sensible, as much as intellect from sense. Of these, the sensible essence from our daily converse with it, is more known ; but intelligibles are indeed unknown to the multitude, but are naturally more known than sensibles. For animals and plants, stones and voices, vapours and odours, figures and colours, being collected by custom, and mingled with our daily associations, suborn the soul, and persuade it to think that nothing else besides these has anv subsistence. But the intelligible being liberated from the contact and adhesion of these, is itself by itself the natural ob* ject of intellectual vision. Intellect, however, though implanted in the whole soul, is dilacerated, disturbed, and prevented from energizing in quiet by the senses, so that it cannot perceive its proper spocta^es. To which we may add, that it is so per^
luaded by popular allurements, as to accord with the informations of the senses, and believe that there is nothing besides things visible and audible, and the objects of the smell, the taste, and the touch. As, therefore, at a banquet full of agreeable odours, where the wine is poured in abundance, accompanied with the sound of flutes and pipes, with singing and fumigations, he must be a man of great temperance, who is able to collect, contract, and turn his senses from the alluring scene to sobriety and moderation; in like manner, in this garrulity of the senses, it is difficult to find an intellect, sober, and able to look to the proper objects of its vision. Besides, since the nature of the senses is multiform, and in a perpetual flux and reflux, the soul suflers, in conjunction with it, all various mutations ; so that as often as she betakes herself to an intelligible essence, which is firm and stable, she is unable to perceive it with security, in consequence of being agitated by tempest and tumult. Just as it happens to those who on leaving a ship tread on firm land ; for they are scarcely able to stand, through the dis^ orderly motion and agitation to which they have been accustomed, by the fluctuation of the waves. In which, therefore, of these natures shall we place divinity? Must it not be in that which is stable and firm, and which is liberated from this flux and mutation ? For how can any thing be established, unless divinity supports its nature ? But if you require to be led as it were by the hand, to the whole of this knowledge, follow reason, who
II
will instruct you, by giTiug a two-fold division to natures which are more known, and by always dividing the more honourable of these, till youar* rive at that which is now investigated. Of things, therefore, some are inanimate, and others are animated. And the inanimate are stones, wood, and such like particulars ; but the animated are plants and animals. The animated, likewise, is more excellent than the inanimate division. But of that which is animated, one part is plantal and the other sensitive. And again, the sensitive is more excellent than the plantal part. But of the sensi-^ tive, one part is rational and the other irrational ; and the rational excels the irrational. In the rational soul also, because the whole is as it were a certain aggregate, consisting of the nutritive, the sensitive, the motive, and the passive, the intellective part excels the rest. As that whi^h is animated, therefore, is to that which is inanimate, so is the intellective soul to the whole soul ; and hence it is evident that the intellective soul is more excellent than that which is collected from all these. Where, therefore, among these, shall we rank divinity? Shall we place him in the aggregate ? Let us predict better things. It remains;^ therefore, that ascending as it were into a lofty tower by reasoning, we should establish divinity in ruling intellect^ itself. But here I see a two^
We have already ob»erved, in the Introduction to this worki^ that Maxinius hved before the philosophy of Plato wai lo fully and beautifully unfolded, as it was by that golden chain of philon
fold intdQect ; one naturally adapted to energize intellectually, though it does not thus energize ; the other naturally adapted, and which does energize intellectually. This last, however, is not yet perfect, unless you assign to it perpetual intellection, and assert that it understands all things at once*, and not different things at diflperent times: so that the intellect will be most complete, which understands always, and all things, and at once.
If you are wiUing, let us illustrate what has been said by comparing the divine intellect to sight, and the human to discourse. For the emission of the visual rays is most rapid, immediately attracting the sense of the visible object ; but the energy of discourse is similar to leisurely walking. Or rather let us assimilate the divine intellect to the sight of the sun, which with comprehensive view sees every part of the earth at once, but the human, to the progression of the surf, at different times occupying different parts of the universe. Such an intellect the angel t of the academy
sophers, of which the great Plotinus forms the uppermost link. Had he been contemporary with, or posterior to those inuiy divine meB> he would have known that divinity is a nature superintellectual^ and even superessential. The reader who is desirous of being convii^ced of this, may consult my notes to the Metaphysics of Aristotle, my Translation of Proclus's Elements of Th^logy, &C.&C. I shall only add here, that as deity is the source of all multitude, he must be without multitude ; or in other words, he must be (he one : but tf^ one is above being, since being implies multitude.
a/Aft is omitted in the original.
assigns to the generator and father of all things. His name, indeed, he does not tell, for he knew it not ; nor his colour, for he saw it not ; nor hi« magnitude, for he reached it not. These natures are objects of perception to flesh and the eyes ; but the divinity is itself invisible to the eyes, ineffable to the voice, intangible to flesh, inaudible to the bearing, and is alone visible through simili* tude, and audible through alliance, to the most beautiful, pure^ intellectual, elevated, and ancient part of the soul ; through collected vision being seen a collected whole. As, therefore, he who desires to see the sun, does not endeavour to ol)- tain this vision by hearing, and as he who delights in the harmony of voice, does not pursue it with his eyes ; but the sight indeed loves colours, and the hearing auclibW^ in like manner inteUect sees and hears intelligibles.
And this is indeed the aenigma of the Syracusian * poet,
Tis mind alone that sees and hears.
How, therefore, does intellect see, and how does it hear ? If with an erect and robust soul it sur- \/ veys that incorruptible light, and is not involved in darkness, nor depressed to earth, but closing the ears, and turning from the sight and the other senses, converts itself to itself* If forgetting terrene lamentations and sighs, pleasure and glory, honour and dishonour, it commits the guidance of itself to true reason and robust love, reason point-
Epicharmus.
ing out the road) and presiding love, by persuasion and bland aliurementSy alleviating the labours of the journey. But to intellect approaching thither and departing from things below > whatever presents itself is clear, and perfectly splendid, and is a prelude to the nature of divinity ; and in its progression indeed, it hears the nature of God, but having arrived thither, it sees him. The end, however, of this journey is not heaven, nor the bodies it contains (though these indeed are beautiful and divine, as being the accurate and genuine progeny of divinity, and harmonizing with that which is most beautiful) but it is requisite to pass even beyond these, till we arrive at the supercelestial place, the plain* of truth, and the serenity which is there ;
Nor clouds f, nor rain> nor winter> there are found. But a white splendour spreads its radiance round.
where no corporeal passion disturbs the vision, such as here-disturbs the miserable soul, and hurls her from contemplation, by its uproar and tumult. For who can perceive divinity amidst the perturbation arising from such a multitude of desires, and monstrous cares ? It is no more possible than m a noisy and discordant democracy, to understand the law and the words of the archon.
The man who speaks in uproar, who can hear ? For the soul, falling into this tumult, and giving
Instead of rov aXvfin TMiWy read roy o^nduw; viiiot* See the Phaedrus of Plato.
heradf to be borne along by its immense wave^^ swims in a scarcely navigable sea, till she is sue-- coured by philosophy, who casts her reasonings under her, as Leucothea* her fillet under Ulysses* How then is it possible to emerge and perceive divinity i You will indeed perceive him wholly when you are called to him. But you will be .called at no very distant period. Expect the call. Age will come conducting you thither, and Death, which he who is timid deplores, and when it approaches, dreads, but which the lover of divinity jojrfully expects, and boldly receives. But if even now you desire to learn his nature, how can any one relate it? For divinity is indeed beautiful, and the most splendid of all beautiful f things. Yet he is not a beautiful body, but that whence beauty flows into body ; nor a beautiful meadow, but that whence the meadow is beautiful. The beauty of a river and the sea, of heaven and the gods it contains, all this beauty flows from thence, as from a perpetual and incorruptible fountain. So far as every thing participates of this, it is beautiful, stable, and safe ; and so far as it falls off from this, it is base, dissipated, and corrupted. If these things are sufficient, you have seen God. If not, after what manner may he be enigmatically described ? Do not attribute to him either magnitude, or colour, or figure, or any other property of matter, but act like the lover, who should denudate
f See my Translation of Plotinus on the Beautiful.
a beautiful body, which is concealed from the view by many and various garments, that it may be clearly seen. Let this also be now done by you ; and by the reasoning energy, take away this surrounding scene, and this busy employment of the eyes, and then behold that which remains ; for it is that very thing which you desire.
But if you are imbecil, with respect to the vision of the father and demiurgus of all things, it may suffice you at present to survey his works, and adore his ofispring, which are many, and all various; and not those only which the Boeotian* poet enumerates. For there are not only thirty thousand gods, the sons and friends of God, but the multitude of divine essences is innumerable ; partly consisting of the natures of the stars in the heavens, and partly of daemoniacal essences in aether. But I wish to indicate to you what I have said, by a more perspicuous image. Conceive a mighty empire, and powerful kingdom, in which all things voluntarily assent to the best and most honourable of kings. But let the boundary f of
Meanmg Hesiod. See his Works and Days, v. 252.
f llie boundaries of the empire of the first cause are, accurately speakings not heaven and earth, but the highest order of intelligibles> and the lowest matter. That the empire of divinity, therefore, comprehends heaven and earth, is indeed a magnificent conception ; but he who knows, scientifically, all the divine orders, which, from having no connection with body, are said to subsist above the heavens, and considers these also as contained in the vast kingdom of deity, will be able to form an idea of divine dominion, infinitely more grand than that of
this empire be, not the river Halys, nor the Hellesponty nor the Moeotis, nor the shores of the ocean, but heaven and earth ; that above, and this beneath : heaven^ like a circular infrangible wall of brass, comprehending every thing in its embrace ; and earth like a prison in which noxious bodies are bound ; while the mighty king himself, stably seated, as if he were law, imparts to the obedient the safety which he contains in himself.
Ma^cimus. This will be evident from the following beautiful passage from the 2d book of Proclus on the theology of Plato, p. 109y the original of which the reader will also find in the aditional notes to my translation of Aristotle's Metaphysics, p. 430. *« Let us now, if ever, remove from ourselves multi- •/
form knowledge, exterminate all the variety of life, and in perfect quiet approach near to the cause of all things. For this purpose, let not only opinion and phantasy be at rest, nor the passions alone which impede our analogic impulse to the first be at peace ; but let the air be still, and the universe itself be still: and let all things extend us with a tranquil power to communion with the ineffable. Let' us also standing there, having transcended the intelligible (if we contain any thing of this kind) and with nearly closed eyes adoring as it were the rising sun, since it is not lawful for any being whatever intently to behold him — let us survey the sun, whence the light of the intelligible gods proceeds, emerging, as the poets say, firom the bosom of the -ocean ; and again, from this divine tranquillity descending into intellect, and from intellect employing the reasonings of the soul, let us relate to ourselves, what the natures are, from which, in this progression, we shall consider the first God as exempt. And let us as it were celebrate him, not as establishing the earth and the heavens, nor as giving subsistence to souls, and the generations of all animals ; for he produced these indeed, but among the last
The associates of this empire are many visible, and many invisible gods, some of them encircling the vestibules themselves, as messengers of a nature most allied to the king, his domestics and the associates of his table ; but others being subservient to these, and again others possessing a still more subordinate nature. You see a succession and an order of dominion descending from divinity to the earth,
of tMngs. But^ prior to these, let us celebrate hiin> as unfolding into light the whole intelligible and intellectual genus of gods, together with all the supermundane and mundane divinities—as the god of all gods, the unity of all unities, and beyond the first adyta— as more ineffable than all silence, and more unknown than all essence,— as holy among the holies, and concealed in the intelligible gods." The grandeur of this passage, which I will venture to say is unequalled by any writer but Plato (I mean in the original) was obvious even to a frigid verbalist, Le Clerc, who, in a note to Stanley's On* ental Philosophy, calls it a magnificent apparatus of words.
DISSERTATION II.
WHETHER INJURIES ARE TO BE RETURNED *.
Whether by justice^ or by fraud oblique. The earthly race, of men, a loftier wall Ajcends, my ^lind is dubious.
Y^U, O Pindar ! dispute with yourself concerning fraud and justice, comparing gold with l>rass : for you was a poet, skilled in composing an ode for the choir, and celebrating the victories of tyrants in triumphal songs. Hence die objects of your attention were, the measure of words, the harmony of verse, and the rhythm of figures. But the man with whom a choir, and an ode, and the pleasure resulting from verse, are in the same estimation as the sports of children, who is attentive
The whole foundation of this discourse is taken front the Crito of Plato, in which Socrates proves, that we should •/'
neither do nor return an injury, neither aa eviliyj nor avenge evil conduct.
to the measure^ the rhythm, and the melody of his soul, and who endeavours that his actions and the rest of his life may be elegantly arranged, such a one will never be induced to doubt^ whether by justice or not, men ascend a loftier wall ; but he will thus say, changing your verse :
By justice^ not by fraud oblique, ascends The earthly race of men> a loftier wall.
Indeed justice is a thing inaccessible to frauds in the same manner as heaven to the sons of Aloeus, who derived no advantage from placing Ossa on Olympus, and Olympus on Pelion, but they were as far distant from heaven as fraud is from justice. Hence justice belongs to the good, but fraud to the depraved. Justice is a genuine, but fraud an adulterated thing. Justice is strong, but fraud is imbecile; and the former is beneficial, but the latter not.
Will he, therefore, who is studious of justice, and who is fortified with this wall of Pindar, will he when injured return the injury ? But what do I say ? for it will not indeed be possible for such a one to be injured. For if to injure and to be injured are things of such a kind as to beat and to h6 beaten, to cut and to be cut^ there is nothing dire in admitting that the same person may both be the agent and the patient of an injury. But if here the same person, by a communion of nature, receives both energy and passion, to injure and to be injured^ will much more resemble seeing and
being seen ; (for that which participates of sight is visible, but not every thing which is visible also 3ees) if this be the case, we should rather say, that to injure and to be injured resemble the confuting and the being confuted. For he confutes who knows the truth, and he is confuted who is ignorant of it. And as he cannot be confuted who knows the truth, and he cannot confute who is ignorant of it, so neither can to injure and to be injured be the province of one and the same person. Since^ therefore, these do not pertain to the same but to different persons, and a worthy is not the same with a depraved man, whether shall we attribute the doing an injury to the depraved man, and the being injured to the worthy man ? or shall we indeed attribute the doing an injury to the depraved character, but assert that it is not yet manifest to which of these we shall attribute the being injured ? But let us thus consider : An injury is the ablation of good : but what else is good than virtue ? and virtue cannot be taken away. He, therefore j who possesses virtue, cannot be injured ; or the doing an injury is not an ablation of good. For no good can be taken away, nor ejected, nor can be captured, nor plundered. Be it so ; that a worthy cannot be injured by a depraved man, because his good cannot be taken away. It remains, therefore, either that no one can be injured, or that the depraved must be injured by his Uke. But the depraved man is a par* taker of no good ; and an injury is the ablation of good. He^ therefore^ who has not that of whicl)
he can be deprived, does not podsess that m which he can be injured.
Or shall we say, that an injury is to be arranged, not according to the ablation of him who suffers the injury, but according to the intention of him who does it ; and that the depraved man is injured by the depraved, though he does not possess good^ and also the worthy by the depraved, although he possesses good which cannot be taken away ? I admit this solution, which rather ascribes an in-» jury to the improbity of the intention than to the success of the deed. For the law punishes as an adulterer, not only him who commits, but him whd wishes to commit adultery ; atid as a housebreaker, him who attempts the deed, though he should be discovered before its perpetration ; and as a traitor, him who intends to betray, though he should not execute his intention. The whole discourse, therefor^, is brought to a proper conclusion. For the good mail neither injiites, nor is injured. He does not injure, indeed, through his will ; he is not injured through his virtue. The depraved man injures, but is not injured: for he injures thrbugh his depravity, but is not injured, through his indigence of good. Farther still, if virtue alone, land nothing else, is good, the depraved man, in consequence of not possessing virtue, has not that in which he can be injured. But if, besides virtue, those things also are to be considered as good which pertain to the body, which externally arise from fortune, and depend on circumstances, if virtue is not present it is better that these should
be absent ; so tbat tbus neitber viiU a depraved man be injured, when deprived of some one of those things which he improperly uses. Hence he may injure, but he cannot be injured, since, according to our doctrine, the doing an injury consists in the will.
Thus then I say respecting the depraved man, that he wishes indeed, but is not able (o do an in« jury • but being willing, he either seeks after one similar to or better than himself. But what will be done by the more excellent character ? Will he return the injury to the depraved man ? This man does not, however, possess any thing in which he can suffer an injury : for he is depraved through the absence of good. Neither, therefore, can the man of intellect m reality injure the depraved man, because such a one has not any thing which can be injured ; nor according to his wUl ; for being a worthy character, he is no more willing to do an injury than a piper is to play unskilfully 6n the pipe. In short, if to do an injury is base, it is also base to return an injury. For he who does an injury is not more depraved, because he begins it, but he by whom it is returned is equally unworthy. And if he who does an injury acts basely, he who compensates evil with evil acts no less basely, though he may perform the part of an avenger. For as he who returns a benefit to him by whom he had been previously benefitted, acts no less well, though he was previously benefitted ; so he who returns an injury acts no less ill, though he was previously injured.
What end then will there be of evil ? For if he who is injured returns the injury, evil will always pass and leap from one to another, and injury will receive injury. For by the same right by which you permit him who is injured to return the injury, vengeance returns again from the same to the same ; for the just is equal in both. Do you see also by Jupiter what you do in making justice consist from injuries ? How fcir too will this evil extend itself, and where will it stop ? Do you not see that you excite an ever-flowing fountain of depravity ; and that you are introducing a law which is the source of evil to all the earth ? For this indeed was the leader of evils formerly to mankind. Through this, barbaric and Grecian fleets sailed into each others lands, which they plundered and laid waste, making something past the pretext of the present injury. The Phoenicians * force from Argos a royal maid ; the Grecians from Colchis a barbaric virgin ; a,nd again the Phrygians fron^ Peloponnesus a Laconic woman. You see a succession of evils, pretexts of wars, and a multiplication of injuries. Indeed nothing else destroyed Greece . itself ^than an opinion of injury pervading to its Neighbouring nations, together with restless rage, immortal anger, the love of vengeance, and the ignorance of justice.
If, indeed, those th^t injure others did but know that injustice itself is to those that act unjustly the
Viz. The Phoeniciana forced from Argos Io> the daughtei; ff Inachus ; Jason forced Medea> and Paris Helen.
greatest evil, and that it is an evil greater than war, the destruction of walls, the devastation of lands, and the subversion of tyranny, Greece would not have been filled with so many and such mighty evils. The Athenians besiege Potidea. Suffer them to do so, O Lacedaemonian, they will soon repent the undertaking ; do not partake of the infamy. But if you are pleased with the pretext, and come to Plataea, you will lose the neighbouring island Melus, you will lose the city Sicyon, with which you are in aUiance. In taking one <^ity you will subvert many. For as those who trust themselves to the sea for the sake of gain, sometimes acquire wealth with the greatest usury, so to those who yield to anger, the usury of calamity is mighty. And to the Athenians I say, you have captured Sphacteria, restore the captives to ^Kirta, and while you are fortunate be prudent. If you do not, you will keep the men, but you will lose your three-banked galUes. Lysander is fortunate about the Hellespont, and Sparta is great, but abstain from Thebes. If you do not, you will deplore the fortune in Leuctras, and the calamity in Mantinea.
O latent and unerring * justice ! Through this Socrates was not enraged with Aristophanes, nor indignant with Melitus, nor avenged himself on Anytus; butwithaloud voice exclaimed, Anytus and Melitus may deprive me of life, but they cannot injure me ; for it is not laii^-ful for a good man
For vX»yw|Atyii; read ctvXouftnaimft
V
to be injured by one depraved. This is the voice of justice^ which, if adopted by all men, there would be no tragedies, nor dramatic scenes, nor many and all-various calamities. For as in the diseases of the body those that make gradual advances are the most dangerous, and require incessant attention, that the part which is not infected may be preserved ; so when the principle of injustice falls in a house or city, it is requisite to stop the evil, if we intend to preserve that which remains. This subverted Pelopidas, this caused the HeraclidsB to perish, this destroyed the house of Cadmus, the Persians, the Macedonians, and the Greeks. O unceasing disease, and which forso many periods of time has infested the earth !
I will, indeed, dare to assert, that if there is a transcendency of injury with respect to injury, he who takes vengeance on him who first does an injury is the more unjust of the two. For he who is led to do an injury through ignorance finds his punishment in the infamy of the deed ; but he who returns an injury, by adopting unjust cony duct, transfers infamy to himself. For as he who
wrestles with one defiled with soot must also necessarily defile his own body, so he who contends with an unjust man, and thinks fit to be rolled as it were together with him, must necessarily partake of his depravity, and be replete with his defilement. When an athletic; therefore, engages with an athletic in an equal contest, and with equal ambition, I admit the strife ; for I perceive in them a similar nature, a like care, and an equal
desire of victory. But when a good contends with a depraved man, each does not make his en* trance from the same pals&stra, nor is exercised under the same master. Each has not learnt the same art, nor has been nourished in the same contests, nor aspires to the same crown, nor is a competitor for the same commendation. I lament the conflict, the contest is unequal. It is necessary that the depraved man should vanquish when contending in a stadium of this kind, in which the depraved are spectators, and the judges are unjust. For here the good man is without art and discipline, and is destitute of infidelity, fraud, deception, and the other arts by which depravity is confirmed and strengthened : so that he will become ridiculous by attempting to return an injury, since he is neither by nature, nor art, nor manners, formed for unjust conduct.
But here some one may say, must a just man, on this account, bear reproach, calumny, and exile ? Must he suffer the loss of his possessions, be cast into prison, be dishonoured, and condemned to die ? What then ? If boys, having established laws among themselves, and a court of justice, should bring a man before their tribunal, and, if he appeared to them to have acted unjustly, should decree that he be dishonoured in the company of boys, and that his puerile possessions be fined, such as his dice and his playthings, what is it likely the man would do ? Would he not deride the decrees and the punishments of such a court ? Thus Socrates derided the Athenians, as
making puerile decrees, and ordering a mortal man to be put to death. And in like manner every other good and just man will sincerely laugh when he sees himself earnestly attacked by the unjust, who think that they can accomplish something, and yet effect nothing. But if he should experience their contempt, he wUl exclaim, in the? language of Achilles :
Jove hondira me, and favours my designs *,"
If they should 4eprive him pf his possessions, he will endure the loss as if playthings and dice were taken from him : and he will die as if he were deprived of life by a feyer or the stone, without any indignation against his murderers.
DISSERTATION III.
WHETHER, IF THERE BE DIVINATION, ANY THING
IS IN OUR POWER.
"II^HEN the Medes warred upon Greece, the Athenians consulted divmity what was requisite to be done in consequence of the approach of, the barbaric fleet, the Median horse, the Persian chariots, and the Egyptian shields, together with the Carian slingers, the Paphlagonian spearmen, the light-armed Thracians, the heavy-armed Macedonians, and the ThessaUan horsemen. The Athenians, therefore, consulted divinity what ought to be done, as such a mighty evil was approaching to Athens. But the god answered * them, that they should fortify the city with a wooden wall. Themistocles said, that the wooden wall appeared to him to be three-banked gallies. The Athenians also accorded with his opinion^ and, leaving their city, migrated into the wall of the god. If, therefore, the Athenians had not
The words of this oracle are presenred by Herodotus^ ViL 141. and Philostratus, Vit. Sophist. Prooem.p.48U
then thought fit to consult the god about these things, but some man endued with intellect, and who was able to estimate the Athenian power, the approaching preparation, the future danger, and the apparent security, is it likely that the advice of this man would be inferior to the oracle of the god? I, indeed, think that he would have no occasion to speak to them enigmatically, nor would require an ambiguous wall ; but he would thus address them: ** O Athenians! leave these stones and these buildings to the barbarian ; but do you, with your children, and the whole of your family, with your liberty and laws, haste to the sea; where three-banked gallies will receive you, which will either save you by flight, or render you victorious in battle."
Why then do men betake themselves to oracles, neglecting the counsel of those similar to them-* selves ? Is it not because the decision of man is unstable, unfaithful, adulterated, obnoxious to envy, and neither always similar, nor in all things sagacious; but a divine nature is from its transcendency credible, from its veracity approved, from its skill sagacious, and from its honour without envy. But. the oracles of divinity and human intellect (the assertion is indeed bold, but at the same time must be made) are things allied to each other ; and if any one thing is similar to another, nothing will more resemble the intellect of divinity than human intellect No longer, therefore, doubt after what manner the free-will of the human mind employs divination, nor how the possibiUty of any things
being accomplished by human counsel is consistent with the truth of divination. For you speculate concerning a similar thing ; since it is the same thing which you ask, of which you are dubious, and to which you revert, and you may discuss the whole afl^ir in a proper manner as follows :
Neither has a divine nature a certain conjecture of all things, nor does human nature in every thing conjecture ill. With respect to human nature, however, I shall again speak. But does a divine nature appear to you to know all things in an orderly succession, things beautiful and base, things honourable and dishonourable ? / am sparing of words ^ and reverence of dioinity possesses me. For to know all things, the number of the sands, the measures of the sea, and a strange kettle boiling in Lydia, is something venerable. And, indeed, it may be said, divinity prophesies to all such as are desirous of learning the truth ; this being beneficial, even though he who is instructed in the events of futurity, in consequence of being an unjust character, invades the property of others. But he who asserts this must think that divinity is busily* employed, that he is very cu-
Maximus sajrs this in consequence of not knowing the exempt power and uniform knowledge of divinityj and that every thing energizes in a becoming manner when it energizes according to its own power and nature. Hence knowledge subsists according to the nature of that which knows, and not according to the nature of that which it known. It is not therefore wonderful that tlivinity should know all things ift
rious and simple^ and that he does not in any re^* spect differ from those who, assembling in the circles, predict future events for two oboli to every one whom they may happen to meet. Indeed, I am so far from thinking it becoming in divinity, that I do not even think it proper for a good man to leap to the truth. For there is nothing venerable in speaking the truth, unless it benefits him who hears it. Thus the physician deceives the sick, the general his army, and the pilot the saiU ors ; and in this there is nothing -dire : to which we may add, that falsehood sometimes benefits, and truth injures men. If, therefore, you think that divination is any thing else than a divine intellect, differing f from the human in accuracy and stability, conceive also that reason opposes reason.
such a manner as is accommodated to his nature ; viz. divisible things^ indivisibly; things muhiplied, uniformly; things generated^ according to an eternal intelligence ; totally, such things as are partial ; and that, with a knowledge of this kind, he -should possess a power productive of all things ; or, in other words, that by knowing all things with simple and united intellections, he should impart to every thing being, and a prof gression into being. Hence divinity knows without busily attending to the objects of his knowledge ; for by knowing himself he knows every thing of which he is the cause, possessing a knowledge transcendently more accurate than that which is co-ordinate to the objects of knowledge ; since a causal is superior to every other kind of knowledge. See more on this interesting subject in the introduction to my translation of five books of Plotinus.
t It must be remembered, however, that a divine, transcendently excels a human, intellect.
But if these two differ no otherwise than the light of the sun from that of fire, each being at the same time light, embrace the more splendid, but do not in the division despise that which is more obscure. Consider all this as a certain harmony of a musical instrument, and that the artist is divinity, from whom the harmony originates, and proceeding through the air, the earth, and the sea, through animals and plants, and after this descending into many and dissimilar natures, composes the war which they wage with each other ; just as a coryphsean harmony descending into the garrulity of a choir composes its tumult.
What the mode is of this divine art I am not able to express by words ; but its power may be represented by an image. Or have you not beheld ships drawn to land, or stones of transcendent magnitude impelled along by the all-various turnings and revolutions of instruments, each of which imparting its impulse to its neighbour, and the one receiving motion from the other, they thus move the whole. Here too, the whole has the cause of the effect, but the parts also contribute something to its completion. Call the artist, therefore, God, but the instruments human reasonings, and the prophetic art that which draws us under the influence of fate. But if you require -a more perspicuous image, conceive divinity to be as a general, life as an army, man as a soldier, fate as a standard, possessions as arms, calamities as enemies, conidderation as a military associate, virtue as stre«
D
nuous contention, vice as discomfiture, and the prophetic art itself as that which from the apparatus knows what will ensue. For the pilot having a ship, knowing the requisite instruments, and perceiving the winds, knows what will happen. The general also, having an army, knowing his arms, being attentive to the necessary apparatus, and taking a view of the enemy, knows what will happen. And the physician, seeing the sick man, understanding his disease, and adverting to the medical art, knows what will be the event. You see the multitude of prophets, how clear, how artificial, how sagacious. If, therefore, that which is in our own power subsisted firom itself, and was liberated from fate, there would be no need of divination. But if that which is in our power is mingled with wholes, this also being a part of fate, divination will be established according to the necessary, but counsel will be conversant with the manifest or the contrary.
But how and after what manner do the decisions of human intellect and divination render manifest that which is necessary ? Indeed, not only divinity foresees droughts, abundance of rain, earthquakes, eruptions of fire, hurricanes, and mutations of the air, but among men also such as are of a demoniacal genius. Thus Pherecydes predicted an earthquake to the Samians, Hippocrates an approaching pestilence to the Thessalians, Timesias an eclipse of the sun to the Clazomenians, and some other event has been foretold
by others* But how does divinity predict such things as are in our power ?
" With daemcMis adverse, children ne'er beget,
says the god ; for,
'* The son thus bom his parent will destroy.
Divinity, indeed, thus spake, but knew that it was advising a man lascivious and prone to immoderate intoxication, and on this account predicted the calamity.
If Croesus passes over the Halys he will destroy a mighty empire *.
The god does not say that he will pass, but declares what will be the consequence of his passing. But if you dissolve the connection, and dissociate the divination of divinity and the intellect of man, you dissolve the most musical of all harmonies.
There is one abode of gods and men; viz. heaven and earth, two vestal hearths and immortal liabitations : in the one dwell gods and the sons of gods, in the other men the prophets of the gods, not such as slumber on the ground, and whose feet are unwashed, according to Homer, but who with an upright soul look to heaven, and whose coun« sals are suspended from Jupiter. Over the lives of these men gods preside ; for the foodful earth is nourished by the gods, who preserve its offspring,
This oracle is extant in Herodotus^ i. 53. and Arist.
and are neither visible, nor discharge arrows from the bow, nor are wounded in battle.
' Nor can they eat nor drink inflaming wine
But men looking to heaven, as far as is possible to human sight, behold the resplendent abode of Jupiter, which is not, like the palace in Homer t> decorated with golden ornaments, and with boys holding bright torches in their hands, but with the sun and moon, and the starry train shining with robust fire. You see an army of excellent leaders and necessary attendants : preserve this representation, and you will perceive divination, you will understand what virtue is, you will know how each is mingled, and communicates with the qther.
You see that human life is a polity neither stable nor continental, but resembling a heavy laden ship sailing in a wide sea ; which is not only preserved by the pilot's art, but by favourable winds, the ministrant labours of the sailors, convenient instruments, and the nature of the sea. Compare the cogitations of the soul with instruments and ministrant labours ; that which is immanifest in human aflairs with the sea and the winds ; and the sagacious conjecture of divination with the foresight of the pilot's art. But if this temperament of a polity appears to you to be absurd, hear Plato Xy who thus writes : " Divinity governs all things,
X See my translation of Plato's Laws, book iv.
and, together with divinity, fortune and opportunity have dominion over all human afisdrs. But that we may act more mildly, it is requisite to add art in the third place, as that which ought to follow these. For in a tempest I should consider it to be of great consequence whether a pilot is employed or not."
These predictions disturb my mind, and do not entirely lead me into a contempt of divination, or into a firm belief of it ; but as birds of an amphibious nature communicate, by flying on high, with the aerial species, in like manner I see that the condition of human life * is amphibious, and mingled with liberty in conjunction with necessity; the liberty resembling that of a man in chains, who spontaneously follows his leaders : so that I have a conjectural knowledge of necessity, but I
** The human soul," says Jamblichus de Myst. p. 1 62, '* possesses aproper principle of restoring itself to the intelligiblcj and of departing firom generated natures, and passing into contact with true being and that which is divine." He adds : '' but neither are all things contained in the nature of fate ; for there is another principle of the soul better than all nature and generation, according to which also we are capable of being united with the godS| of transcending every mundane order, and of participating eternal life, and the energy of the supercelestial gods. And according to this, we can also liberate ourselves t for when the better part of our natiu^ energizes, and the soul is elevated to this, it is then perfectly separated from the bonds which detain it in generation, and departs firom subordinate natures. It also changes a corporeal for another life, and gives itself to another order of thmgs, entirely abandoning that to which it belonged before."
V
cannot aptly denominate it; for if I should call it fate, I should speak of a name which wanders in the opinions of men. For what is fate * ? Of what is it the nature ? Of what is it the essence ?
' if thou a goddess art, and dwell'st in heav'n f,"
there is nothing dire in thy operations, nor do human calamities subsist from fate ; for it is not lawful to suspend the cause of evil from divinity.
But if some mortal, habitant of earth, {" Elpenor spoke falsely, when he said,
" The demon's ya/e destructive injured me §. And Agamemnon also spoke falsely, when he said,
" Nor I the cause.
But Jove and Fate, and she the fury fell
Erinnys, coursing thro' the air ||."
These names appear to be nothing else than the specious pretexts of human depravity, which refers the cause of its own baseness to a divine nature, to the fates, and the furies. Let them, indeed, have a place in tragedies (for I do not envy poets the use of such appellations) but suffer not such inanities to be admitted in the drama of life. For Erinnys, and Parca, and demons, and such other
^ Fate is the beneficent energy of divinity about a corporeal nature.
names as express our conceptions of fate^ are confined * in the recesses of the soul, and disturbed Agamemnon,
" Wlien he the bravest of the Greeks disgraced f.*'
These also led Elpenor to intoxication, these impelled Thyestes to invade the nuptials of his brother, and CEdipus to murder his father. These bring the sycophant into courts of justice, the pirate to the sea, the homicide to the sword, and the intemperate to pleasures. These are the fountains of human calamities. Hence the multitude of evils flows, as fire from iEtna, as pestilence from Ethiopia. And fire, indeed, only flows into some particular land, and pestilence proceeds only as far as Athens j but the streams of depravity are many and ever flowing, and require many predictions and ten thousand oracles. Will he, therefore, err, who predicts what will be the end of depravity, what of perfidy, what of intemperance ? These things also Socrates predicted, and not Apollo alone; and hence Apollo praises Socrates as his associate in art,
Maxinius says this, in consequence of not having penetrated the depth of ancient theology. For though depraved characters ascribe the efTects of their own passions to divinity, yet there are such powers in the universe as the Furies and Fate.
DISSERTATION IV.
HOW A FLATTERER 18 TO BE DISTINGUISHED
FROM A FRIEND.
pRODICUS,in a ikble* which he composed, introduces Hercules, now in the flower of youth, and conducting himself in a manly manner, at the entrance of two roads, of one of which he places Virtue as the leader, and of the other Pleasure. Of these leaders, likewise, one had an engaging appearance, as her form was elegant, her step gentle, her voice musical, her aspect mild, and her garb simple ; but the other was delicate, painted, gaudy, of an impudent aspect, with disordered step, and immusical voice. Hercules saw these, and as being the son of Jupiter, and naturally good, he bade fare wel to Pleasure, and committed himself to the guidance of Virtue. Let us also invent a fable, and introduce into it two roads, and a good man ; and leaders of these roads, instead of Virtue aFriend, and instead of Pleasure a Flatterer. Let these also differ in figure, in aspect, in garb,
Concernmg this fable of Prodicus see Xenophon. Memor,
in voice, and in gait; and let the one be most pleasant to the view, but the other be void of all guile. Let the one be full of mirth, extending his right hand, and calling on the man to follow him, employing for this purpose praise, alluring words, and supplications, and relating certain ad* mirable pleasures to which he will conduct him, such as flowery meadows, gliding streams, bird* melodiously singing, mild gales, trees thick with foliage, smooth paths, ample racing grounds, and flourishing gardens, where pears grow upon pears ^^ apples upon apples, and grapes upon grapes. But let the other of the leaders speak but little, yet let what he says be true, such as that the greater part of the way is rough, and but a small part of it smooth, and that it is requisite that he who strenuously undertakes the journey should be prepared to endure labour when necessary, and to consider ease as gain.
These two thus addressing him, by which will he be persuaded, and which road will he take? We may answer the author of the fable, that if the traveller is a miserable Assyrian, or the Phoenician Strato, or the Cyprian Nicocles, or that Sybarite, he will hate the latter of the leaders, and will think that he is rustic, unpleasant, and inelegant, but that the other is amiable, placid, and very phiian« thropic. Let the fine leader then conduct this man. Will he not lead him into the fire with the
^ MaximuB here alludes to the vertet on the |;ardeiM^ Aldnous. Odyss. yiii. 120.
Assyrian, or to poverty with the Phoenician, or to chains with the Cyprian, or into some other real evil through false pleasure? But if the man should resemble Hercules, he will make choice of the true leader, that is, the friend, in the same manner as he took Virtue for his guide.
And thus much for the fable. Resuming therefore the discourse, let us consider how a flatterer may be distinguished from a friend. The Lydian stone, indeed, tries gold when rubbed upon it ; but by what artifice shall we try friendship and flattery ? Shall we say, by the end of each ? But if we wait for the end, another evil will precede our knowledge, since it is requisite to judge before we begin to use. For if judgment is posterior to the use of a thing, repentance will be the consequence, and no advantage will be derived from the exercise of judgment. Are you willing, therefore, that we should judge a friend and a flatterer by pleasure and pain ? But, indeed, a flatterer in excessive prosperity is intolerable, and most troublesome ; but a friend, on the contrary, is then most pleasant. Shall we then judge the men by advantage 9nd detriment ? But this also you will find to be dubious ; for the flatterer either injures the wealth of him whom he flatters, or precipitates him into pleasure, of which the former is most light, but the latter most delightful. But through friendship many have been partakers of exile with their friends, have shared with them disgrace, and for their sakes have submitted to death.
By what then shall we distinguish a flatterer from a friend, if neither by the end, nor by plea^ sure and pain, nor by detriment and advantage? Let us then consider each apart from the rest. Is not he a friend whose company is attended with pleasure ? It is very likely. For if he is an enemy who procures us pain, he will be a friend from ivhom we receive pleasure. This, however, is not the case ; for he who is the most philanthropic of physicians is the cause of the greatest pain. This is likewise the case with the most skilful general and the most cautious pilot. Fathers also love their children, and disciples their preceptors, and yet what is more irksome than a father to his son, and a preceptor to his disciple ? Ulysses, who endured so many dire calamities, certainly loved his associates, since he was so anxious
'* Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore
But when he met with an intemperate and voluptuous race of men, who lived like cattle, eating the honied lotus f (for thus Homer denominates pleasure) he forcibly brought back his associates to the vessel, who were reluctant to return, and weeping, in consequence of mingling with the luxury of the Lotophagi, and having tasted the portentous sweetness of the lotus. Eurymachus, among the suitors of Penelope, was not a man of this kind, but a flatterer ; for he permitted his associates to slaughter fat swine and sheep, to drink wine im-»
moderately, to have connection by night with the female servants, to plunder the house of a king, and insidiously attempt to gain his wife.
Are you willing, therefore, in short, that we arrange a flatterer according to depravity, but a friend according to virtue, bidding farewel to pleasure and pain ? for neither is friendship without pleasure, nor flattery without pain, but each is mingled with each, pleasure with friendship, and pain with flattery. For mothers and nurses love infants, and find pleasure in obsequiously attending them, yet you will not deprive them of love because they find pleasure in the employment. Agamemnon exhorts Menelaus
•' The troopi to praise> forgetful of his rank *."
But do you think it was his intention that Menelaus should flatter them ? Ulysses, when he swam from the sea to the land of the Phaeacians, and had risen naked from his bed, met with virgins spotting, and recognizing among them a royal maid, compares her to Diana f, and again to a beautiful plant, and yet no one will call Ulysses on this account a flatterer ; for by intention, and use, and disposition, a friend is distinguished from a flatterer. Thus too both a brave and a mercenary soldier use arms, and yet no one estimates their works from manual exertion, but separates the use of each according to the intention of each ; for the one acts the part of a preserver through
friendship, but the other for the sake of gain. The conduct of the one is spontaneous, that of the other venaL The one is faithful to those with whom he contracts a league, the other is unfaith* fill even to his friends.
After this manner conceive that a flatterer differs from a friend : for it often happens to both, that they engage in the same employments and the same associations; but the one differs from the other in use, in the end, and in the disposition of the soul: for the friend considers that which appears to him to be good to belong also in com« mon to his friend ; and, whether this proves to be painftil or pleasant, he partakes equally of it with him • but the flatterer, following his own desires, conducts the association to his own advantage. The friend desires an equaUty c^ good, the flat* terer his own private good. The one aspires after equal honour in virtue, the other after superiority in pleasure. The one in conversation desires an equal freedom of speech, the other servile submission. The one loves truth in association, the other deception ; and the one looks to future emolu* ment, but the other to present delight. The one requires to be reminded of his good actions, the other wishes them to be involved in obUvion. The one takes care of the possessions of his friend, as of things common, the other destroys them, as being the property of another. The company of a friend in prosperity is most opportune, and in calamity is most .equal ; but a flatterer can never be satiated with prosperity, an4 in adversity he Is
never to be seen. Friendship is laudable, flattery detestable ; for friendship attends to equality of retribution, but this flattery mutilates ; for he who pays obsequious attention to another through indigence, that his wants may be supplied, so far as he does not receive an equal submission in return, will reprobate the inequality. A friend, when his friendship is concealed, is unhappy ; on the contrary, a flatterer is miserable when his flattery is not concealed. Friendship when tried is strengthened, flattery when exposed to argument is broken. Friendship is increased, flattery is confuted, by time. Friendship requires not to be corroborated by advantage, but flattery cannot subsist without proflt ; and if men have any communion with the divinities, the pious man is a friend to divinity, but the superstitious is a flatterer of divinity ; and the pious man is blessed, but the superstitious is miserable. \/ As the one, therefore, confiding in his virtue,
approaches to the gods without dread, but the other, in consequence of being abject through depravity, with much dread, and without hope, and fears the gods as if they were tyrants ; after the same manner I am of opinion, that towards men friendship is full of hope and confidence ; but that flattery, on the contrary, is deserted by hope and courage. No one is a friend to a tyrant y no one is a flatterer to a king * ; but a kingdom is more
Maximus says this, because a kingy in the true sense of the word, is one who governs with a view to the general good ; but a tyrant governs with a view to his own interest.
divine than a tyranny. And if friendship is an equa* lity of manners, but a depraved man is neither equal to himself nor to a good man, the good will be a friend to the good, for there is equality between them ; but how can the flatterer be a flatterer of a good man ? for he will be detected by the worthy man. But being the flatterer of a depraved character, if he should happen to be equal to him he will no longer be a flatterer ; for flattery cannot endure equality of condition, and if he is not equal, he will not be a friend. Thus also with respect to politics ; an aristocracy is full of friendship, but a democracy of flattery, and an aristocracy is better than a democracy. In Lacedsomonia there was no Cleon * nor Hyperbolus, base flatterers of a luxurious people. But Eupolis f, in his Bacchics, derides Callias, a private man, who was flattered at banquets, where the reward of flattery was cups and harlots, and other grovelling and servile pleasures. But in what theatre and in what Bacchics will some comic poet deride that people who were ispectators of the raillery of Eupolis, together with those numerous flatterers, whose rewards were not grovelling, nor such as proceeded no farther than the belly and venereal delight, but the calamities
CleoD was an Athenian, who, though originally a tanner, became ^neral of the armies of the state by his intrigues and eloquence.
f Eupolis was an Athenian comic poet ; he flourished 435 years before Christ, and severely lashed the vices and immoralities of his age. He is said to have composed seventeen dramatical pieces at the age of seventeen
of Greece ? But if the Athenians, dismissing these flatterers, had been persuaded by Pericles and Nicias, they would have had their governors instead of flatterers for their friends.
If, now, you proceed to monarchies *, Mardonius flattered Xerxes, one barbarian another, one stupid man another, a base servant a luxurious despot. But the end of this flattery was the subversion of Asia, whipping the sea, joining the Hellespont, digging mount Athos ; and the end of these la-- hours was defeat, exile, and the death of the flatterer himself. The Macedonians also flattered Alexander, and the effects of this flattery were, Persian drawers, barbaric adoration, and forgetfulness of Hercules and Philip, and of the family of the ArgeadflB. Why should I speak of tyrannies ? for where fear and despotic authority govern the subject people, there fls^ttery necessarily flourishes, and friendship is buried. In studies and arts * also flatterers may be seen^ in appearance, indeed, resembling, but in reaUty diflering from the arts. Thus spurious music flattered men when the Dorians, leaving their country and their mountain music, which they sang among their flocks and herds, became enamoured with Sybaritic pipes and dances ; virtue herself thus becoming spurious together with music. Spurious medicine also flattered men ; when, abandoning the healing art adopted by Esculapius and his followers, they evinced that the medical science in no respect dif-
See my tranilatioa cf the Goigiai of PlatQ.
fisred from the art of cooking, being the base flatterer of base bodies. The sycophant likewise flatters the rhetorician, by opposing argument to argument, and building the unjust on the just, and the base on the beautiAil. And, lastly, the sophist flatters the philosopher ; and he is the most accu« rate of flatterers.
DISSERTATION V.
WHICH IS THE BETTER LIFE, THE PRACTIC OR.
THE THEORETIC ?
THAT THE PRACTIC IS THE BETTER LIFE.
y TT is difficult to find a perfect life as well as a perfect man ; for each is, in a certain respect, defective as to accurate worth ; and that life surpasses the rest which is subject to the fewest wants. Hence the husbandman considers the inhabitants of cities blessed, as passing ajojrful and florid life : but those who are busied in assembUes and courts of judicature, and who are highly celebrated in cities, deplore their condition, and pray that they may live among ploughs, and in a small farm. You may also hear the soldier praising the felicity of a peaceful life, and those who live quietly admiring the condition of the soldier. Though if some god, after the manner of actors in a drama, should divest each of his present life, and transfer to him that of his neighbour, these very men would again desire their former, and bewail their present, condition. Thus it is that man is very morose and querulous, and difficult in the extreme, and that no one is content with his proper situation.
And why, indeed, is it necessary to consider the desires and moroseness of the multitude more than that of brutes ? But it is proper to be indignant with, or rather to pity, those philosophers, who, boasting of possessing wisdom, the art of life, and the scientific use of reason, yet have not ceased to be at variance with themselves and others, and to contend respecting that form of life which they have adopted. For these in reality resemble those pilots, who, after they have prepared every thing necessary to navigation, such as a vessel of a beautiful magnitude, a sound apparatus, a multitude of instruments, excellent sailors, and symmetry of ballast, yet wander, with respect to the use of the ship, and are dubious whither they shall direct their course, since many ports appear in view, but all of them are unknown. Let us, therefore, bid farewel to others, with the lives which they have adopted ; such as those who are dissolved in pleasure, who labour in the earth, wander in the sea, fight for hire, vociferate in as- Bepublies, and are defiled in courts of judicature, ^d as, in corporeal contests, the imbecile, who 4are beyond what is fit through the hope of victory, quickly fall, and are subdued, but those who contend with true valour, maintain their ground, and endure, and dispute the victory; so in the contest respecting lives, let us suppose that all the rest have been rejected by us and ordered to depart ; but let the theoretic and practic life, since they oppose each other in their pursuits, approaching hither, now contend in discourse. Which of
these, therefore, shall first plead his cause before tis as judges? In my opinion the practical life, for it is more confident and impetuous, and is accustomed to converse with the multitude.
But it will speak as follows : ** If any one should receive us entering into life in the same manner as a governor or founder of a city, and should not suffer us to enter the gates till he had enquired respecting the employment of each, and what each contributed in common to the good of the city, I think the architect would say, that his employment consisted in orderly adapting stones by art, so as to form dwellings by which mankind may be defended from heat and cold ; but the weaver, that it was his province, with thread and woof) to weave garments, which may both cover and be an ornament to the body ; and the carpenter would say, that it is his business to form a plough or bench) or whatever else his art is capable of effecting. Again, the brazier would say, that whatever instruments of brass or iron are requisite in war and peace, all these are the work of his art. It is likewise probable, that such things also as are fabricated with a view to pleasure will be admitted; viz. the productions of painters and statuaries, whose arts delight the eye ; and that perfumers and cooks will not be rejected, who are the noble artificers of juices and odours ; together with those, who, through the melody of pipes, or by singing or dancing, charm the ear. Let us likewise suppose, that those wlio excite laughter by ridicule^ those who deal in the marvellous, and
those who delight by their eloquence, are admitted within the gates ; just as the beauty of Nirius is assigned a place by Homer *, and this even in the camp. But let no one, as I may say, be admitted into life without a symbol ; one affording a certain advantage, another art, and another pleasure. Be it .so.
In which of these shall we place the work of the philosopher ? for that he is not introduced as an useless animal and a mere drone, but as a man who partakes of the same laws, and co-operates in the general labour, is obvious to every one. What then is the symbol which he bears of this communion ; and where shall we rank the man ? Shall we place him among artificers, as Tychias f ; among cooks, as Mithrocus ; with those who delight us, as Phrynio J ; with those who excite laughter, as PhiUp ; with popular orators, as Cleon ? or shall this man alone wander without a tribe, and without his household gods ? He has, however, a certain employment ; though what this is we are ignorant. But let us hear what he says : ** I pass my time in leisure, contemplate by myself the nature of things, and am filled with truth." You are blessed, indeed, with your abundant leisure : for, as it appears to me, if you should enter a ship, you would be so far from acting the part
X Phrynio was a roan given to lust and prodigality, and is mentioned by £>eiiiosthene8 advers. Neaream, p. 521^ scq^
of a pilot, that you would neither row nor cooperate with those who are busily engaged in doing every thing necessary to the safety of the ship, nor yet be so active as to handle the ropes, or manage an oar in a tranquil sea ; but you would rank among those idle passengers who are a use* less burden to the ship. Or do you think that a city is less indigent of co-operating labour to its safety than a ship in the sea ? I indeed think that it is much more indigent. For in a ship, those that take an active ^part are few, because the bur* den is not great ; but a city is a thing mingled from the co-operation of all f just as the necessity of the body, which is manifold, and is indigent of many things, is preserved by the parts contributing to the good of the whole : the feet support, the hands operate, the eyes see, the ears hear ; and, that I may not be prolix, each performs its proper office.
But if the Phrygian fabulist is willing to devise a fable to this efiect ; that the foot, being indignant >vith the rest of the body, should declare that it was incapable, through weariness, of bearing any longer, in an upright position, so great a burden, and that in future it should continue in rest and quiet ; or if the grinders among the teeth, enraged at having prepared nourishment for such a crowd of flesh, should refuse to perform their duty, and, desisting from their proper employment, should solely attend to their own concerns ; if these things should take place, what else would en^e in the fable than the detraction of the man ? The
like takes place in this political communion. For if every one, through weariness of labour, should desist from action, and should withdraw himself from the duties of society to a life of leisure, what would hinder the whole from being dissolved and corrupted ? Or do you ims^ine that strong buildings are bound and firmly held together by the mutual adherence of the stones from which they consist ; and that if you in any respect destroy this harmonious arrangement you dissolve the whole ; but that the whole of life does not derive its safety from its parts conspiring into union with each other ? And indeed, it is of no consequence when others cease to act ; for neither did the departure of Thersites from the camp afflict the Greeks ; but Achilles in his wrath, while resting from the toils of war in his camp, and giving himself up to leisure, to the harp and the song, filled the camp with many evils. For it is necessary that his ah. sence must be noxious whose presence was beneficial. Now therefore is he any other than a prudent and intellectual man, who embraces contemplation, and truth, and leisure? What then? Will a most skilful pilot resign his place in the ship to the most unskilful ? Or will he who is skilled in commanding an army transfer his authority to one ignorant how to command ? Besides, is there any thing venerable in knowing truth, and concealing in the soul an unproUfic, sluggish, and unfruitful treasure, which will neither benefit the possessor nor others ? Unless you admit that the hearing is beautiful, merely because we caa
hear, and not from perceiving harmony and sound ; and that sight is beautiful, merely from its possession, and not from our being able by its means to behold the light of the sun ; and that riches are beautiful though some one may possess them buried in the earth, an idle and useless
' In short, what is the advantage of knowing, un« less knowledge contributes to action ? What is the use of art to the physician, unless he heals according to art ? What is the use of art to Phidias, unless he inserts it in ivory and gold? Nestor was, doubtless, a wise man ; yet I see the effects of his wisdom ; viz. the preservation of the camp, the peace of the city, the obedience of the young, and the virtue of the people. Ulysses was a wise man ; but I see his works partly upon land, and partly on the sea :
^' Thro' many regions he observant stray'd. Their planners noted, and their states surveyed ; On stormy seas unnumber'd toils he bore. Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore *."
And still farther, besides these, Hercules f was a wise man ; but his wisdom extended itself to every
f The life of Hercules appears to have been both political and philosophical; but he energized principally according tQ an intellectual life. Hence his various labours are symbols of his exterminating the vices from the earth, in order that manr kind might partake of that intellectual good which he so largely possessed.
land and every sea. This is he who purified ih6 earth from wild beasts, who chastised tyrants, procured liberty to those in slavery, was the legislator of freedom, gave stability to justice, was the inventor of laws, and an observer of truth in words, and rectitude in actions. But if Hercules* had been willing to pass his life in quiet and leisure, and to pursue an indolent wisdom, he would have been a sophist instead of Hercules, and no one would have dared to call him the son of Jupii» ter. For neither does Jupiter lead a life of leU fsure ; since if he did heaven would cease to re^ volve, the earth to nourish, rivers to flow, the sea to be spread abroad, and seasons to change. The Fates would no longer distribute destiny, nor the Muses sing. The virtues of men would cease, to^ gether with the safety of animals and the fecundity of fruits ; and this universe, again wandering about itself, would be confounded and disturbed. But the administration of Jupiter being unwearied, unceasing, and ever vigilant, and never with* drawing from its proper employment, imparts pert> petual safety to all things. Thus also Jupiter ia dreams admonishes worthy kings, and such as ve-^ jiemble himself ;
^ 111 fits a chief, who mighty nations guides. Directs in council, and in war presides, / To whom its safety a whole people owes, To waste the night in indolent repose *.''
The philosopher, though he sees these things, yet neither imitates Jupiter nor Hercules, nor
worthy kings and rulers, but lives the life of a man born in solitude, a private, not a social life, the life of a cy clops, and not that of a inan. And yet even for these the earth bore wheat and barley. And though they were
Untaught to plant, to turn the glebe, and sow *,"
yet each dictated laws to his children and wife, and was not altogether without employment. In short, to what else can entire leisure belong but to a dead body ? If indeed action was destitute of virtue, it would be well to pursue the latter and abandon the former. But if the virtue of man is not speculation but action* and practice consists in communion and the politic use of life, these things are to be pursued, with which virtue also may be obtained :
" Vice may by all spontaneously be gain'd ; Sweat before virtue stands, so Heav*n ordain'd>"
says the Boeotian poetf, unless some one should praise a wrestler who is Willing to be crowned without sweat.
But it may be said that danger, detriment, stratagems, envy, exile, death, and dishonour, attend him who engages in the pursuits of an active life. Suppose then that a pilot should reason in the same manner, that navigation is insecure, is full of dangers and labours, and abounds with jpncertainty, storms, and winds ; suppose a gene-
ral should reason in the same manner, that the fortune of war is inmianifest, the uncertainty equal in both, danger before his feet, and death near ; from these reasonings what would hinder the sea from remaining unburthened with ships, or citi* zens, through a want of commanders, from re« maining in slavery ? or what would prevent the whole of life from being, like that of worms, abject and sluggish, and full of terror ? You speak of the life of Sardanapalus, you relate the life of Epicurus. Let us oppose to these others ; to Sar* danapalus, Cyrus; to an Assyrian, a Persian, who, though he might have lived a life of leisure and quiet, yet chose to free the Persian race ; for this purpose enduring labours, engaging in war, en^ countering hunger and thirst, and neither by night nor day remitting his toil. We may also oppose inany to Epicurus, Grecians to a Greek ; from the academy indeed Plato, from the camp Xenophon, from Pontus Diogenes.
Plato, indeed, for the sake of his friend *, wlio was poor and exiled, opposed himself to a mighty and powerful tyrant, for this purpose undertaking long journies by land and sea, exposing himself to the hatred of the tyrant, and falling into danger, that he might not abandon the philosophic habit : and yet he might have speculated in the academy, and have been filled with truth. But Proxenus /balled Xenophon, Apollo sent him, and, together mth Apollo, Socrates, from abundant leisure and
Viz. Dion.
speculation, to the camp, to the command of armies, and the safety of myriads of Greeks. And why is it necessary to speak of the pursuits of Diogenes? who, abandoning his leisure, wandered, inspecting the neighbouring realms, being neither an indolent nor a careless observer of their man-^ ners ; but, like Ulysses himself,
^ Each prince of name, or chief in arms approv'd. He fir*d with praise, or with persuasion mov'd ; But if a clamorous vile plebeian rose. Him with reproof he check 'd, or tam'd with blows ♦."
Nor did he even spare his body, but punished, and was the occasion of much molestation to it :
' Himself he tames by ignominious blows.
And rags o'er both his shoulders careless throws f ."
I omit to mention, that a good man, when he engages in active pursuits, without drawing back, or yielding to the depraved, will both preserve himself and turn others to a better life. But if he retires, and shows his back, he will fill the depraved with rashness, insolence, and audacity; but at the same time will betray his own preservation :
• *' Whither, oh whither, basely do you fly ? Pierc'd in the back, ignobly would you die t ?"
Stopi stand, and endure the darts, and you will find nothing to dread. The army of the eneipy is
timid, the arrows are vain. If you approach, no one will oppose you, but if you fly all will attack you, in the same manner as the Trojans did Ajax, as the Athenians did Socrates, who did not desist till they had thrown him on the ground. How then can any one live with security in the midst of enemies ? For nothing is more hostile to the virtue of a man than to be surrounded with abundance of depravity. Retiring, says Socrates*, under the shelter of a wall, I see others agitated by tempest and imprudence. Show us, O Socrates, the secure wall, where, standing, I may look down upon the arrows of the enemy ; but if you point out to me such a wall as that under which you retreated, I see the arrows, many Anytus's, many Melitus^s. This wall may be captured f.
See my translation of Plato's Republic, b. vi.
+ The citadel of intellect, however, which is the wall of Socrates, is not to be captured by any external foes ; since he -who h capable of legitimately ascending to this sublime vertex of the soul
May stand secure amidst a falling world."
For things external surround a truly incorporeal nature, si|ch as intellect, like nonentities. But the design of Maximus in this dissertation was only to present the reader with popular arguments in favour of the practical life.
DISSERTATION VI.
THAT THI TBEORETIC IS BETTER « THAN THE PRACTIC LIFE.
TF we were accused in a court of judicature, we should be indignant with the judge who would not permit an equal apology to the accusers and accused, but who rather resembled a tyrant than a judge. However, though the decisions and fortune of courts of judicature are very remote from the habits and manners pertaining to philosophy, yet since, even here, argument is opposed to argument and friend to friend, and in investigating truth, the present inquiry resembles a judicial process, let us to-rday permit the other party to make his apology, and suppose the contemplative man, as if before a judge, answering to the following, or
Human felicity is very beautifully defined by Aristotle, in his Nichomachean Ethics, to be, the energy of the rational souly according to the best and most perfect virtue, in a per' fectlife: ** "En^vnob mi '^^yy^ Xoyjxuj Jtotr' a|eTt)y af»r*iy k«* tikuoramit tf 0m rrXuw." But the best and most perfect virtue must be the virtue of our principal part, and this is intellect. Hence, as the energy of intellect is wholly contempla* tive, our felicity must consist in this energy. So that the theoretic is necessarily better than tHitpractic life.
a similar accusation : Anaxagoras* acts unjustly^ since, though he lives in the land and city of the Clazomenians, and partakes of the same sacred rites and ceremonies, of the same laws and nutriment, and of other things in common with the rest of the Clazomenians, yet withdraws himself firom them as if from wild beasts, and neither, min* gles in their assemblies^ nor is present at the festivals of Bacchus, nor in courts of judicature, nor in any other place with his fellow citizens ; but his lands are abandoned by him, his house is desolate, and he lives by himself, turning upwards and downwards, and exploring his wonderful wisdom.
Let this then be the accusation ; and let Anaxa* goras apologize as follows: ^* I well know, O Clazomenians, that I am very far from having acted unjustly towards you; for I have neither diminished your possessions nor been the occasion of rendering your city less renowned among the Greeks ; but in my associations with each of you I think that my conduct has been innoxious and moderate. Nor have I paid less regard to the laws and the polity, by which our lives are regulated and adorned. It remains, therefore, if I neither injure you in my daily conduct, nor in the
Anaxagoras was bom at Clazomene, in Ionia, about the 70th Olympiad. He was a disciple of Anaximenes, and he gave up his patrimony that he might be more at leisure for the study of philosophy. From his contemplative habit, therefore, he is very properly introduced by Maximus in this dissertation, defending the theoretic life
form of my life, but notwithstanding this err in my judgment, that at least I should be freed from the accusation of publicly injuring the city ; and I ought, in consequence of this, to obtain from you preceptors in my private concerns, and not accus* ers. But I will tell you the nature of my employment, though I doubt not but this my pursuit will excite your laughter. For I well know that power in a city, a communion of life, splendor of action, and useful occupation, are things of great consequence and worth. I also am well convinced that these particulars, which are of such great importance when they are united with virtue and probity, are of mighty advantage to their possessor ; but that, when this is not the case, they on the contrary degrade and overthrow, and do not even permit their possessor to conceal his improbity. For dignities illuminate men ; but so far as any one deviates from upright conduct, so far do his vices become exposed to public view. But if any one, from the soundness of bi^ judgment possesses splendor with security, such a one will derive advantage from dignity ; but he who, though defective in judgment, desires those things which power employs, must by a strong necessity, through ignorance of art and a want of instruments, be greatly deceived. Thus considering, I have thought that I should rather pay attention to myself than another, lest I should ignorantly engage beyond my abilities in public affairs, and thus produce nothing but defective and erroneous conduct. For neither should I act unjustly, if, being
ordered by you to sing in a choir, I should be unwilling to comply till my voice was attuned to harmony. On this account I have been but little solicitous that my lands might be well cultivated, but have determined with myself to embrace that life, from which knowledge being produced in the soul, as light in the eyes, affords security to what remains of the journey of life. This light indeed is not to be procured from those festivals which we call Panathenaean *, nor are the paths which lead to it either follies or trifles. They are neither agri- ^ cultural cares, nor forensic studies, nor popular associations ; but they are, the love of truth, the contemplation of things, and an ambition of excelling in these. Thinking that I ought to proceed in this path, I have followed those arguments which will lead me thither, and have diligently observed the vestiges of the road. ^
" And thus much concerning my own pursuits. But that by proceeding in this path I also deliberate about things most excellent and most just with respect to your concerns, I will now show. The safety of public aflairs does not consist in the possession of strong walls, nor in the preservation of docks, nor in the best saiUng vessels ; neither in porches, groves, gymnasia, temples, nor in utensils subservient to sacred processions (for these, though they maybe safe firom the assaults of enemies, fire, or any other calamity, yet time will finally destroy) but that which preserves cities is harmony, and the
These festivals were sacred to Minerva. For an account of them see my notes to Pausanias,
elegant administration of affairs. This also I assert : these things are effected by equitable legislation, but equitable legislation is preserved by the virtues of those whom it governs ; erudition produces virtue, exercise erudition, truth exercise, and truth is produced by the contemplation of it in retirement. For there is no other instrument, except true reason, by which virtue is acquired, and through which the soul is sharpened and enkindled. And being ignorant indeed, it learns ; but learning, it preserves that which it has learnt ; preserving, it applies it to use y and by using it, is defended from error. This is the employment, this the lei* sure which you accuse, the contemplation of truth, the art of life, the strength of reason, the preparation of the soul, and the exercise of probity. If, therefore, these things contributed to nothing beautiful, or contributing, were not obtained by disciphne or exercise, but produced casually and by chance, you would speak of a thing atrocious, and which deserves to be accused in a court of justice. But if iio one is so insane as to assert this, if there is no one who does not admit that truth, sound reason, virtue, and a knowledge of law and justice cannot be otherwise obtained than by sedulous attention to them, just as the shoemaker's art is oidy to be obtained by application to such particulars as it concerns, the brazier*s by diurnal labours in furnaces and fire, and the pilot's by being occupied in the sea and navigation ; if this be the case, by thus acting, I have injured no one ; but, on the contrary, if I had neglected these things.
and suffered my soul to be solitary and unprolific^ I should have deserved to be accused in a court of justice^ I, indeed, O Clazomenians, in apologizing before you, have asserted such things as are just, and at the same time true ; but I request that you will not pass sentence upon me immediately, but defer your final decision till you have dili^ gently inspected my studies, that if they shall appear to you to possess any utility in consequence of having been instructed in them in reality, I may be acquitted of the accusation ; but if this should not be the case, then it must be your province to pass such sentence upon me as you shall think fit, and mine to deliberate upon it in a becoming manner."
It is likely that the Clazomenians would laugh at Anaxagoras thus speaking and apologizing ; for his defence would not be more persuasive than his accusation : and yet he would not speak the less truly, though he should be by their decision condemned. Before a judge, however, not elected by a bean, (if such a one is to be found) but by knowledge, which is alone the legitimate election of a judge ; before such a one neither Anaiagoras among the Clazomenians, nor Heraclitus in Ephesus, nor Pythagoras in Samos, nor Democritus in Abdera, nor Xenophanes in Colophon, nor Parmenides in Elea, nor Diogenes in Apollonia, nor any other of those divine men, will apologize as having acted unjustly, or as a defendant in a judicial process ; but, equitably persuading and speaking, he will employ wise arguments to the intelligent, such as are credible to the faithful, and such as^are
divine to divnne men. He will say that divinity assigned three powers, regions, and natures to the human soul, collecting them together, as if forming the cohabitation of a city. Among these, that which governs and deliberates he introduced into the acropolis, established it there, and assigned it flo other province than that of reasoning y but that part which possesses a vigorous energy, is skilful in acting, and is able to carry deliberations into effect, he conjoined and mingled, through its subserviency to command, with the deliberating power ; and the third part, which is no other than this irrational multitude, intemperate and servile, full of desires, full of loves, full of licentiousness, full of all-various pleasures, he allotted the third situation, as if it were a certain people, sluggish, noisy, full of passion and folly. The soul being thus distributed with respect to the economy of the co-arrangement of man, sedition is produced in it no otherwise than in a city. But with respect to cities, that which is subject to royal authority is happy, the other parts submitting, according to the law of divinity, to him who is naturally adapted to be the leader. The city, which is inferior to this in felicity, and which is denominated an aristocracy, being formed from the co-operation of those in power, though subordinate to a kingly government, is superior to a democracy. Such a city is powerful in action, such as was the Laconic, or Cretic, the Mantinic, or Pellenic, or Thetalic polity, very ambitious, and full of contention, litigious, busily occupied, impetuous and confi-
dent. The third form of polity, which is speci* ously denominated a democracy, but is in reality an ochlocracy, or the government of a mob, resembles the Attic, or Syracusian, or Milesian, or some other republic, which is strong in the multitude, is noisy, intemperate, and all-various.
Of these three polities you may see three vital imitations in the human soul ; the theoretic life of the soul being analogous to the deliberative and ruling form of government, and which is remote from action and manual operation ; but the practic life, which ranks in the second gradation, resembles that polity which is honoured and celebrated in the second degree ; and it is not difficult to perceive a democracy in man, since this kind of polity is largely distributed through the whole soul. This, however, we shall dismiss, since it is too d^raded to come into competition with the most excellent form of life. But if we compare speculation with action, since each partakes of the beautiful, speculation indeed according to knowledge, but action according to virtue, which shall we prefer ? Reason answers, that if we regard the use* of each, we must give the preference to action, but if the cause, whence the beauty of actions is derived, we must prefer theory. So that, endeavouring to conciliate the one with the other, we shall distribute the powers and the form of life
Use must here be considered merely with relation to the necessities of the mortal part, and not with reference to the good of the immortal part of man.
in the soul, either according to nature, or according to age, or according to fortune. For one man differs from another by nature, one being imbecile in action but having a soul prompt to speculation, and another being feeble in speculation but robust in action. Men also differ in age: for action is adapted to youth, as Homer says, and as I a^ persuaded :
- Youth is for all things fit."
For the philosopher, when a young man acts, speaks, engages in politics, performs the part of a soldier, and governs cities. Thus the journies of Plato to Sicily, his labours, and his diligent attention to the affairs of Dion, were accomplished in the flower of his age ; but the academy, profound leisure, beautiful disciplines, and blameless contemplation, received him when old ; for then he placed the end of life in the acquisition of abundant and mighty truth. I also love Xenophon, who, when a young man, engaged in action ; but I praise him, when an old man, for his literary pursuits. The form of Ufe also differs according to fortune. For fortune surrounds one man with power and necessary action, but another with leisure and bland quiet. Of these characters, I praise the one for strenuous exertion in circumstances of necessity, but I both praise and consider the other as blessed. I consider him as blessed on account of his leisure, I praise him for his quiet.
We regard, indeed, that man as blessed on acJ- count of his vision, who sails from Europe into Asia, that he may see the land of the Egyptians, or the gates of the Nile, or the lofty pyramids, or foreign birds, an ox, or a goat. In like manner we speak of the felicity of him who has seen the Ister or the Ganges, the ruins of Babylon, the rivers in Sardis, the sepulchres in iHumj or the regions in the Hellespont. This is also the case when fleets sail to Greece, either to behold the Athenian arts, or the Theban gates, or the Argive realms. With Homer too Ulysses is a wise man, from his abundant wandering ; for,
Thro' many regions he observant stray'd, Their manners noted, and their states survey'd."
And yet what were the spectacles of Ulysses, except Thracians, or savage Cicons, or sunless Cimmerians, or guest-destroying Cyclops, or an enchantress, or the prodigies in Hades ? What besides Scylla or Charybdis, the gardens of Alcinous, or the stall of Eumaeus? all mortal, all momentary, all fabulous ! But to what shall I compare the spectacles of a philosopher ? to a clear dream by Jupiter, circularly borne along in all directions ; in which, indeed, the body does not move, but the soul travels round the whole earth, from earth ascends to heaven, passes over every sea, flies through every region of the air, runs in conjunction with the sun, revolves with the moon, is carried round with the choir of the other stats, and
nearly governs and arranges the universe, in conjunction with Jupiter ! O blessed journey, beautiful * visions, and true dreams !
The visions of a philosopher are in this case beautiful, because he contemplates the intelligible world and its ineffable cause.
DISSERTATION VII.\
WHETHER PLATO ACTED PROPERLY IN EXPEL- LING HOMER FROM HIS REPUBLIC *.
A SYRACUSIAN sophist once came to Sparta, not furnished with the elegant diction of Prodicus, nor the empty garruHty of Hippias, nor the rhetoric of Gorgias, nor the injustice of Thrasymachus, nor with any other apparatus of discourse ; but the art of the Syracusian sophist consisted in action itself, and that mingled with advantage and pleasure. For he so prepared food by symmetry of seasoning, by temperament, variety, and the ministrant aid of fire, that it was far more grateful to the palate than in its natural state. Hence the name of Mithaecus was as celebrated among the Greeks for his art respecting banquets as that of Phidias in statuary. This man then came to Sparta at that time, when, from its dominion over other cities, it was invested with a noble power, with good hope that his art would be very acceptable to the Spartans. This, however, was not the case |
• See my translation of> and notes on, the Republic of
for the Lacedsemonian magistrates ordered him to depart immediately from Sparta, and betake himself to some other country and other men ; for we wish, said they, through labour, to require necessary rather than artificial food, and to have our bodies unpampered and simple, and to be no more in want of dainties than the bodies of lions. Hence they desired him to hasten to that city where it was likely his art would be honoured, and where both pleasure and advantage would concur to render its professors agreeable. Thus Mithaecus, together with his art, left Sparta. He was not, however, on this account, less acceptable to the rest of Greece, who gladly received him for their own pleasure, and did not despise him for having been disgraced by the Lacedaemonians.
But if it be requisite to introduce other images in the present discourse more venerable than the art of Mithaecus, thfe Thebans study the melody of the pipe, and the muse who presides over this instrument is vernacular to the Boeotians. The Athenians apply themselves to eloquence, and the study of oratory is an Attic art. The Cretan disciplines are, hunting, climbing mountains, archery, and the race. The Thessalians study the equestrian art, the Cyrenians the art of driving a chariot, and the CEtolians plunder. The Acarnanes hurl the javelin, the Thracians are skilful in the use of the short buckler, and the inhabitants of islands are expert in swimming. But if you transfer the pursuits of some to others you adulterate the arts. For what have the inhabitants of the
continent to do with ships, or the immusical with pipes, or those who dwell on mountains with horses, or the inhabitants of plains with the race, or the light-armed soldier with the bow, or the archer with the shield ? As, therefore, among these, the arts are distinguished by the places or the natures of those that use them, or the early attachment of their votaries, and neither each is honoured by all because it is by some, nor despised by all because contemptible with some, but each is celebrated according to the advantage derived from its possession ; this being the case, what hinders but that the inhabitants of this beautiful city, which Plato has instituted in discourse, and who are educated by him under foreign laws, and which are very remote firom the manners of the multitude, should again be permitted to enjoy certain native and legal pursuits in which they have been nurtured from their youth, and which are honourable in their estimation from their use, but are despised by others, as not harmonizing with their habits of life ? For if we compare city with city, polity with polity, laws with laws, legislator with legislator, and one mode of education with another, an enquiry of this kind will not be irrational, in which we investigate what is wanting to each. But if any one, separating a part from the whole, considers it by itself, employing the testimony of those who either do or do not use it after this manner, every thing else which is used by mankind will equally partake of hpnour and infamy, and it will be dubious which among these ought to
be preferred to the rest. For education, remedies, modes of living, and whatever else is subservient to the advantage of mankind, are not all of them the same to all men ; but the same thing injures one and benefits another, delights one and disgusts another. For use, occasion, and the form of life cause each of these to appear in a different light to different men.
This being the case, let us pass on to Homer, and consider what pertains to him with candour and equity ; not delighting in Plato and despising Homer, nor admiring Homer but blaming Plato : for they are not destined to be separated and divulsed from each other ; but we may both honour the writings of Plato and admire Homer ; and this may be accomplished as follows : Plato founded a city in theory ; not the Cretan nor the Dorian, pot the Peloponnesian nor Sicilian, nor by Jupiter an Attic city ; for to establish such a city as this would not only require the assistance of Homer, but, besides Homer, of Hesiod and Orpheus, and whatever other ancient muse may be found capable of charming and popularly alluring the souls of youth, and of gently mingling true arguments with accustomed pleasure. But the intention of Plato was to build a city and form a polity in theory, which should rather be characterized by extreme accuracy than extreme utility*. And in
We should rather say, that the republic of Plato is no less characterized by utility than accuracy ; but that, from the depravity of all existing polities, its accuracy is more apparent than its utility.
this respect he acted similarly to those by whom our statues are formed : for these, collecting together the beauty of every individual body, and crowding all this beauty together from different bodies into one imitation, according to art, produce one beauty sound and entire, and which harmonizes with itself; and you will not find any body, the beauty of which is in reality equally accurate with that of the statue. For the arts indeed aspire after the consummately beautiful ; but the objects which continually present themselves to our view, and the use to which they are applied, fall far short of the perfection which the arts desire. I am of opinion, indeed, that if there were a certain plastic power in men, capable of fashioning fleshly bodies, the artificers of such bodies collecting together, and aptly tempering the powers of earth and fire, with every thing else which, har-^ monizing and according, could compose the na- •ture of bodies, would produce, as it is reasonable to suppose, a body superior to the want of remedies, incantations, and medical prescriptions. If some one, therefore, on hearing one of those artificers prescribing laws to the men whom he had fashioned, and informing them that they would not want the medical assistance of Hippocrates, and that it was requisite, having crowned him with wool, and perfumed* him with ointment, to send
■* This is what Plato does by Homer in his Bepublic, as a sacred person : for Proclus informs us, that it was lawful to ^pour oil on the statues in the most oly temples, and crown rtiem with wool, and this according toa certain sacred law.
him to other men by whom he would be celebrated, as disease with them would require the assistance of his art; if any one on hearing this should be indignant with the artificer, as despising the art of Esculapius and his followers, would he not be ridiculous for accusing him who does not ignominiously reject the medical art, but expels it because he has no occasion for it with respect to use, and cannot embrace it with a view to pleasure ?
For since there are two things through which Homer and Hesiod and any other were illustrious in poetic harmony, I mean utility and pleasure, the verses of these poets are not adapted, according to either of these, to the polity of Plato. For there utility consists in accurate education and necessary auscultations, nothing spontaneous, nothing licentious being admitted, nor fables fashioned by irrational rumor, such as children receive from their mothers. For nothing rash, nothing casual, whether precept, or discipline, or sport, can be admitted into such a city as this ; nor can there be any need of Homer here, who so harmoniously and magnificently sings the opinions concerning the gods, and who raises the souls of the multitude from an abject imagination to astonishment. For poetical diction, when it falls upon the ears of those who have been improperly educated, plays round them with a tuneful hum, and does not afford them leisure to disbelieve in assertions which have acquired a casual celebrity. All poetry, indeed, contains a latent meaning, and we should
magnificently unfold its enigmas in the same man^ ner as we interpret the oracles of the gods. But in a polity where every thing ahject and every thing negligent are exterminated, what occasion can there be for such a remedy as this ? A Grecian once asked the celebrated Anacharsis, if the art of playing on the pipe was known in Scythia. So far from it, said he, that even grapes are not there known. For one pleasure calls upon another ; and it is a thing connascent, unceasing, and ever-running, when it begins to flow. The only artifice, therefore, that can procure safety, is, to stop the fountains, and impede the generation of pleasure. But such a city as Plato established was inaccessible to pleasure, and admitted nothing that could captivate the eyes and ears ; so that neither could poetry, if it procures pleasure, be admitted into this polity, in which utility alone found an entrance. I omit to mention, that manycities, which have not only been devised in theory, but have been established in reality, have been soundly governed and legally established without any knowledge of Homer. For it is but lately that Sparta, Crete, and the Doric race in Lybia recited his verses* These nations, however, have been celebrated for their virtue, not lately, but from remote antiquity. And why is it necessary to mention the affairs of the barbarians ? for surelv they have not learnt the verses of Homer ; and yet you will find virtue among the barbarians, for which they are not indebted to the poetry of Homer. Indeed, if this be not admitted, the race of
rhapsodists, who are the most unintelligent of all mien, would be happy from a knowledge of art. This, however, is not the case. The verses of Homer are certainly beautiful, and of all verses the most beautiful and splendid, and fit to be sung by the Muses ; but they are not beautiful to all men, nor are they always beautiful. For there is neither one law nor one time of melody in music. In war, indeed, the orthion melody is beautiful, but in a banquet the paroinian. And among the Lacedaemonians the melody called embaterion is beautiful, but among the Athenians the cyclwn. ' In pursuing an enemy the enceleusticon is. beautiful, but in flight the anacleticon. Every muse is indeed beautiful,- but the use is not similar in all. If, therefore, you judge that Homer sung to men with a view to pleasure alone, you introduce an intemperate and bacchanalian choir of poets, who in pleasure vanquish the melody of Homer, and thus you no longer allow him to be the artificer of deliorht. Homer is indeed captivating, but his beauty is more mature than the pleasure which he produces, and does not afford us leisure to be delighted, but to praise. The praise is however attended with pleasure, yet is not pleasure itself. But if we embrace the poetry of Homer with a view to pleasure, as we do the melody of the pipe or the harp, we shall not only expel Homer from the pupils of Plato, but likewise from those of Lycurgus, from those of the Cretans, and firom every region and every city where labours are celebrated in conjunction with virtue.
DISSERTATION VIII. \
IN WHAT THE AMATORY * ART OF SOCRATES
CONSISTED.
A CERTAIN Corinthian, whose name was iEschylus, had a son Actaeon, a Doric lad of surpassing beauty. A Corinthian youth, of the race of the Bacchiadae loved Actaeon, the BacchiadsD at that time being the rulers of Corinth. As the lad, however, was modest, and despised licentious love, Tiis lover, together with certain young men of his own family, wantonly entered the house of Actaeon, and deriving confidence from intoxication, tyranny, and love, while they endeavoured to force him away, and his domestics to detain him, the lad, being torn in pieces by both, perished
According to the Platonic philosophy, those terrestrial heroes that descend into mortality to benefit oblivious souls, belong to the amatory series. Hence Secrates, who ranks among the first of the terrestrial heroes, was of a disposition remarkably amatory; but the love of beautiful forms was with him nothing more than an instrument of reminiscence, by which he was enabled from the influx of apparent to recognize divine beauty. Hence his attachment to beautiful youths arose from his considering outward to be the forerunner of mental beauty. The amatory art therefore of Socrates consisted in leading the objects of his regard from corporeal beauty to that which is incorporeal and divine.
O
through violence in their hands. Hence this atrocious deed in Corinth was assimilated to that in Bceotia^ on account of the equivocation in the names of the lads, the one being torn in pieces by his dogs in hunting, and the other by his lovers in intoxication. Periander, the tyrant of the Ambraciotae was enamoured of an elegant lad ; but as his attachment was unjust, it was rather lust than love. But Periander, becoming confident from his authority, acted licentiously towards the lad. This licentiousness, however, brought the insolence of Periander to an end, and caused the lad to become, from an object of unjust love, the murderer of a tyrant. Such is the punishment of base love.
Are you willing that I should present you with an image or two of the other kind of love, I mean the just ? An Attic lad had two lovers, a private man and a tyrant ; of which the one was just, through the equality of his condition, but the other was unjust from his absolute power. The lad, however, was truly beautiful, and worthy to be loved ; in consequence of which he despised the tyrant and associated with the private man. But the tyrant, enraged at his contempt, acted injuriously towards both, and banished with ignominy the sister of Harmodius, who came to the Panathenaean festival for the purpose of carrying the sacred basket. The Pisistradidae were punished for this conduct ; and the licentiousness of the tyrant, the boldness of the lad, just love, and the virtue of a lover, were the sources of liberty to the Athenians. Epaminondas by an amatory stratagem li-
berated Thebes from the Lacedaemonians. In Thebes many youths were lovers of many beauti«r ful lads. Epaminondas, therefore, giving arms both to the lovers and the beloved, formed a sacred amatory band, powerful and unconquerable, skilfully defended and infrangible. This was a band, such as neither Nestor formed about Uion, though the most skilful of commanders, nor the Heraclidae about Peloponnesus, nor the Peloponnesians about Attica. For here it was requisite that each of the lovers should strenuously contend for victory, both through ambition, in consequence of fighting in the view of their rivals, and through necessity, as fighting for the objects of their love. On the other hand, the lads who were beloved contended in virtue with their lovers, just as in hunting whelps run close by the side of the older dogs.
But what is my intention in speaking of Epaminondas and Harmodius, and in adducing instances of unjust love ? Because that which men denominate by one word, love, is a twofold thing ; virtue being the object of one of its species, and the other being connate with depravity ; so that the same word signifies a divinity and a disease. Hence depraved lovers glory in consequence of having the same appellation with a god, but worthy lovers are not believed through the ambiguity of the passion. But as with respect to two goldsmiths, if it were requisite to enquire which of them had a knowledge of genuine and adulterated money, we should consider him as very remote from art who
preferred money which was apparently to that which was really good, but we should say, that he had a knowledge of art who could distinguish genuine from counterfeit money ; after the same manner, let us consider the amatory art as being conversant with the nature of the beautiful as if it were a certain coin. For if with respect to this, one species appears to be beautiful, but is not so in reality, but another species both is and appears to be so, it is necessary that those who are desirous of apparent and not real beauty, should be lovers of spurious and adulterated beauty, but that those who aspire after that which both really is and appears to be beautiful, should be lovers of genuine and true beauty. Be it so.
Since, therefore, both an amatory discourse and a lover are after this manner to be investigated, let us also dare, with respect to Socrates, to enquire into the meaning of those expressions concerning himself, which occur so frequently in his discourses ; such as, that he is the servant of hve *, and that he is a white measure of beautiful bodies fy and skilful in the amatory art J. He likewise enumerates as his preceptors in this art, Aspasia the Milesian and Diotima the prophetess, and considers as his disciples in this art the most superb Alcibiades, the most graceful Critobulus, the most delicate Agatho, Phaedrus with a divine head, and tlie beautiful Charmides. But he conceals nothing:
Vid. Xenophon. Sympos. viii. 1.
t Vid. Plat, in Charmid.
X Vid. Plat, in Theag. et Sympos,
pertaining to love, neither action nor passion, but freely discloses every thing in an orderly succession. For he says that his heart leaps and his body swells towards Charmides ; that he is terrified, and becomes enthusiastic like the Bacchae, through the love of Alcibiades*, and that he turns his eyes towards Autolycusf in the same manner as to splendor in the night. And when, inestablishing a city of worthy men, he frames laws for those who strenuously contend in battle, he does not assign them crowns or statues, those Grecian inanities, but permits the bravest nuin to love any one that he pleases among the beautiful. O admirable reward ! And how does he describe love in the fable J which he devised concerning him ? That he is deformed to the view and poor ; that he approximates very near to his own fortune, is without shoes, has no lodging but the ground, is full of stratagem, is a hunter, an enchanter, a sophist, a magician; and in short, every thing else, for which Socrates is reviled by comic poets in the festivals of Bacchus. But he said these things not only in the midst of the Greeks, but privately, in banquets, in the academy, in the Piraeus, on the road, under the plane tree, and in the Lyceum. And of every thing else indeed he denies § that he has any knowledge, such as the nature of virtue,
Vid. iEschin. apud Aristidem. in. p. 34.
t Vid. Xenoph, in Sympos. cap. i. 9.
X See the Banquet of Plato.
§ '^Fhis is a mistake of Maximus ; for^ as I have shown in my translation of Plato, Socrates acknowledged that he was skilled in three sciences ; viz. the amatory, the dialectic , and th^ maieiUic, or that which leads forth latent conceptions into light.
opinions concerning the gods, and whatever else the sophists arrogantly profess to teach ; but vindicating to himself the amatory art, he says that he has a scientific knowledge of this and is busily employed about it.
What Socrates meant by these subtleties, whe* ther they are enigmas or ironical assertions, let Plato inform us for Socrates, or Xenophon, or ^schines, or some other of his familiars. I indeed admire and am astonished that Socrates should banish from his wonderful polity, and the education of young men, the verses of Homer, and Homer himself, crowning the poet with wool, and perfuming him with ointment, assigning as the cause the freedom of speech which he employs ; as when he represents Jupiter* having connexion with Juno on Mount Ida, and concealed by an immortal cloud ; or Mars connected with Venus, and the bonds of Vulcan ; or the gods drinking and laughing with inextinguishable laughter; or Apollo flying and Achilles pursuing :
' A mortal chasing an immortal god ;*'
Or the gods lamenting :
" Ah me I Sarpedon, most belov'd of men Predestin'd to be slain, must die,"
says Jupiter. And again :
" Ah wretched me ! unfortunately brave A son I bore
says Thetis ; or whatever else is enigmatically as-
See all these fables satisfactorily explained in the introduction to my translation of the second book of the Kepublic.
serted by Homer, but reprehended by Socrates. — I say, I am astonished that Socrates should banish Homer from his repubUc for such things as these, and yet this lover of wisdom, who was superior to poverty, the enemy of pleasure, and the friend of truth, should himself mingle such slippery and dangerous assertions in his familiar discourses, that, when compared with them, the enigmas of Homer are very remote from reprehension. For every one on hearing such things as these concerning Jupiter and Apollo^ Thetis and Vulcan, wiU inime^ diatelj/ consider them as oracular assertions, in which the apparent is different from the latent meaning *. Hence, while he receives delight by hearing, he will contend wath the poet, will be elevated together with him in imagination, will devise together with him the figment, disbelieving and at the same time delighting in the licence of mythology. But Socrates, who is so celebrated for his attachment to truth, is more dangerous in his enigmas through the credibility of his assertions, his power of imitation, and the dissimilitude of his practice in amatory affairs to his theory. For in nothing is Socrates like himself, when he is in love, and when he speaks temperately ; when he is agitated with a pleasing terror at the sight of beautiful forms, and when he confutes the unwise ; when he opposes the amatory oration of Lysias, touches Critobulus,
This is a very remarkable passage, as it proves that however the fables of Homer might be considered by the licentious Romans of the Augustan and following ages, they were regarded by the Greeks as divine enigmas.
returns from hunting the beauty of Alcibiades, and is atonished at Charmides. For how do these things accord with a philosophic Ufe ? They are neither consistent with his freedom of speech to the people, nor his boldness towards tyrants, nor his strenuous contention at Delium, nor his contempt of his judges, nor his entering the prison, nor his preparation for death: they are very remote from all these particulars. For if these things are true, we should predict that they have a good meaning ; but if beautiful actions are enigmatically signified through base words, the thing is dire and dangerous. For to place the beautiful under the base, and to indicate the profitable through the noxious, is not the employment of one who wishes to benefit (for the utility is unapparent) but of one who desires to injure, and which is easily accomplished. These things I am of opinion Thrasymachus would say, or Callias, or Polus, or some other enemy to the philosophy of Socrates.
Let us, therefore, that we may trifle no longer, answer the accusation. I appear to myself indeed to be willing to yield assistance, but to possess less ability than is requisite. It is proper, however, that power should concur with will. Let us then act in the same manner as those that are arraigned at the bar, with respect to this negligence of Socrates nn his amatory discourses. For tliesc, when in danger of being cast, not only speak respecting the thing for which they are accused, but secretly turn the crime upon others of greater authority than themselves, and thus by their as-
sociation with them diminish their own guilt. Thus, also, let us omit to enquire at present whether Socrates acted right or not in this respect ; but reply as follows to these dire accusers :
^ You appear to me to be more absurd than those sycophants Anytus and Melitus : for they, indeed, accused Socrates as one who acted unjustly, who corrupted the young men, and was the cause that Critias tyrannized and Alcibiades acted licentiously ; that he made the worse appear to be the better cause, and that he swore by the plane tree atid the dog ; but even those dire sycophants spared the amours of Socrates. In like manner, neither did Aristophanes, who ridiculed other things pertaining to Socrates, in the festivals of Bacchus, and who was the most severe of his accusers, revile his love ; though he calls him poor, andatrifler, and a sophist, and every thing, rather than one who loved improperly. For this thing, as it seems, was beyond the reach of sj'cophants and comedians.
Since, therefore, this escaped the theatre of the Athenians, and the court of judicature in which Socrates was condemned, in opposing the accusers of the present day, who are not less hostile than those of former times, we shall evince, in the first place, that the amatory pursuit was not peculiar to Socrates, but is of far greater antiquity. Of the truth of this we may adduce Socrates himself as a witnesss, who praises and admires the employment, but asserts that he only increased the invention
For when the Myrrinusian Phsedrus* showed him an amatory oration, composed by Lysiasthe son of Cephalus, he says, that he is not struck with admiration, in consequence of having his breast full like a vessel, of foreign streams, derived from the beautiful Sappho (for thus he is pleased to call her, from the elegance of her verses, though she was short and of a dark complexion) or the wise Anacreon. But when he praises the discourse in the Banquet, on love, he ascribes it to a prophetic woman. However, whether a prophetess or a Lesbian was the mother of the speech, amatory discourses were not peculiar to Socrates, nor was he their inventor. For let us thus consider the affair, beginning from Homer : for it appears to me, that he, being most eloquent, and skilled in relating things base in conjunction with such as are beautiful, and in indicating what should be pursued and what avoided, has instructed us in other things in a manner very simple, and adapted to remote antiquity ; such as in what pertains to the medicinal art, to driving a chariot, and arranging an army. Thus he admonishes that the left-hand horse should keep clear of the goal. Thus he gives to the sick a potion of Pramnian wine ; places cowards in the midst of the brave in battle, and separates the horse from the foot. For all these wise precepts would excite laughter in the generals, physicians, and charioteers of the present day* But he discusses every thing
♦ See the Phaedrus of Plato,
pertsdning to love in order, such as its works, age, species, passions, whatever is beautiful and what^ ever is base ; love, chaste and intemperate, just and licentious, furious and gentle. And in things of this kind he is no longer a rude ancient but a skilful artist,
" Such as the modems are *."
Hence, in the very beginning of his lUad, he introduces two lovers, the one bold and furious, but the other gentle and impassioned. From the eyes of the one fire flashes, and he reviles and threatens every one. But the other silently withdraws, hangs weeping over the margin of the deep, anxiously wanders, and says that he will depart, and yetjabides. He presents us with another image of licentious love in Paris, who retires from battle into the bed-chamber, and always acts the part of an adulterer. You may also find in Homer an instance of just love perfectly reciprocal, such as that of Andromache and Hector, the former of whom calls her husband^ father and brother and lover, and addresses him by all the most endearing appellations. But the latter says that she is more the object of his concern than even his own mother. Homer likewise indicates venereal love in Juno and Jupiter t ; licentious love in the suitors; that which is produced by enchantments in Ca-
+ See the whole of this fable concerning the connexion of Jupiter and Juno unfolded in the introduction to my translation of the second book of Plato's Republic.
lypso ; that which is the ejBFect of magic in Circe. In Patrochis manly love is displayed, which is acquired by labour, proceeds with time, and ends not but with death. Here too both are young, and beautiful, and chaste. The one instructs, the other is instructed. The one is heavily afflicted, the other imparts consolation. The one sings, the other listens. This also is an amatory affection, to be desirous of having the liberty to fight, and yet to weep, as if this permission would not be granted by his lover. Achilles, however, comphes with his request, adorns him with his own arms, is terrified at his long stay, desires to die when he finds that he is dead, and then lays aside his wrath. His nocturnal visions, his dreams, his tears, and his last gift, the cutting off his locks at his funeral, are all of them the effects of love. These are the amatory examples of Homer. But in Hesiod^ what else do the muses sing besides the loves of women and men, of rivers, seas, and plants ? I shall pass by in silence the amatory writings of Archilochus, because they are licentious. But what else are those of the Lesbian (if it is requisite to compare more ancient with modern writings) than the amatory art of Socrates ? For each appears to me to study the same kind of love, the one as subsisting among males, but the other among females. Both acknowledge that they are lovers of many, and that they are allured by all beautiful forms. For what Alcibiades, and Charmides, and Phaedrus are with Socrates, that Gyrinna, and Atthis, and Anactoria are with the Lesbian. And what those ri-
vals Prodicus, Gorgias, Thrasymachus, and Protagoras were to Socrates, that Gorgo, and Andromeda were to Sappho. At one time she reproves, at another she confutes them, and addresses them in the same ironical language as that of Socrates, Covimend me to lo^ says Socrates. Commend me very much to the son of Polyanaxy says Sappho. Socrates says, that he did not form an acquaintance with AlcibiadeSj though he had laved him for a long time, till he thought himself sufficiently guali/ied to hear his discourses. You seem to me as yet to be but a small and elegant virgin, says Sappho. He reviles the habit of the sophist, and the manner in which he reclines ; and she sings,
The fair in rustic garment dressM."
Diotima says to Socrates, that Love is not the offspringy but the attendant and servant of Fenus. Sappho also says, in one of her poems,
" And thou, O fair attendant, Love !"
Again, Diotima says, that lave flourishes in abundance, but dies in want. Sappho conveys the same meaning when she calls love sweetly-bitter, and a painful gift. Socrates calls love a sophist; Sappho, a ringlet of words. Socrates says, that he is agi^ iated with Bacchic fury through the love of Pha^ drus; but she, that love shakes her mind as the wind when it falls on the mountain oaks. Socrates reproved Xantippe when she lamented that he must die; and Sappho writes to her daughter, Gtief isnot
lawful in the hfty residence of the rnusey nor is it fit that it should be indulged by us. But the art of the Teian sophist * is the offspring of the same habit and manners : for he loves and praises all that are beautiful, and his verses are full of the hairs of Smerdias, the eyes of Cleobulus, and the mature beauty of Bathyllus. But in these also behold the chastity : I lave y says he, to associate with you^ for your manners are elegant. And again, justice is beautiful in lave. You will also find, that in a cer-. tain place he unveils his art. / am laved by youths says he, for the sake of my words ; for my gifts are agreeable^ and I know how to speak elegantly. This also Alcibiades said concerning Socrates, assimilating the gracefulness of his manners to the melody on the pipe of Olympus and Marsias. Who, O ye gods ! can blame such love as this, except Timarchus f ?
I. e. Anacreon.
\ This is he against whom iBschines wrote
DISSERTATION IX.
AGAIN ON LOVE.
T3 ESUMING our discourse concerning lovCy as if it were the beginning of a long journey, after intervening rest, let us proceed to the end, invoking, as the leaders of the way, Mercury, the god of eloquence, together with Persuasion and the Graces, and Love himself. For the danger with which the undertaking is attended is neither small nor common ; since, close to the popular road of the discourse about love there is a profound precipice, and one of these two things is requisite j either that those who love in a becoming manner should proceed with security, or that those who deviate from this road should love improperly, and be hurled down the precipice. Socrates, dreading this, and perceiving that this disease raged in the rest of Greece, and especially in Athens, and that all places were full of unjust lovers and deceived youths, he pitied either herd on account of the disease ; neither being able to repress this licentiousness by law (for he was not Lycurgus, nor Solon, nor Clisthenes*, nor any one of those
Clisthenes was an Athenian, of the family of Alcmaeon. It is said that he first established ostracism^ and was the first who was banished by that institution. Vid. Herodot. v. 66. Aristot. Polit. iii. 2. Plutarch de Repugn. Stoic, p. 1033, &c.
among the Greeks to whom the power of dominion was entrusted) nor compel them by his authority to better conduct (for to have effected this would have required Hercules, or Theseus, or some other strenuous corrector of manners) nor persuade them by reason (for desire, when agitated with fury, and approaching very near to madness, is not to be persuaded.) Socrates, therefore, not entirely disregarding the youths that were lovers, and the lads that were beloved, nor despairing of their safety, invented the following artifice of voluntarily leading them to rectitude.
But I will relate what this artifice is, by composing a fable after the manner of the Phrygian iEsop : A shepherd and a cook travelling the same road, saw a well-fed lamb wandering from the flock, and abandoning his associates. Both on seeing this ran to the lamb. And, because at that time there was a communion of speech between men and brutes, the lamb enquired which of them would be willing to take charge of him and be his conductor. But as soon as he understood the true state of the case, and the art of both, he committed himself to the care of the shepherd, and at the same time thus addressed the cook : Thou art cruel, and a murderer of our flock, but this man is well satisfied with our wool. Assimilate, if you please, according to the fable, those lovers to a multitude of cooks, but Socrates to a shepherd, and the Attic lads to wandering lambs, possessing in reality a communion of speech, and not accord- ,ing to the licence adopted in fables. What then
Will this shepherd do, when he sees these murderers longing for the beauty of lads, and eagerly running to obtain it ? Will he endure it, and stand a quiet spectator ? But by such a conduct he Avill be more cruel than the murderers themselves. He will therefore run, and join himself with the slaughterers in th« course, though not with the same design. And yet he who is unskilled in the amatory art, and in the cause of the race, will, on seeing him, think that he also runs to destroy. If, however, he waits till the end, he will praise the race, he will imitate the pursuit, will admire the hunter, and proclaim the hunting blessed. On this account Socrates said that he loved, and that he was a general lover. Hence he joined in the course, pursued the beautiful, outran his rivals, and frustrated the attempts of the murderers. For he surpassed them in the endurance of labour, was more skilftil in hunting, and more dexterous in obtaining the objects of his pursuit. Nor is this surprising ; for with the others lovie was nothing more than the name of desire wandering in pleasures. But the principle of this is the flower of body passing into the eyes *, and through these flowing into the soul ; for the eyes are the avenues of love. The love of Socrates indeed was in endeavour similar to that of the rest, but in desire different, in pleasure more temperate, in virtue more sagacious : and the principle of this is the flower of the soul, the splendor of which becomes manifest in
See iny translation of the Phaedrus of Plato.
H
' the body. Just as if you conceive the beauty of a river flowing over a meadow. The flowers under the stream are indeed beautiful, but through the water become splendid to the eye. This also the flower of the soul is able to effect when implanted in a beautiful body ; for it is illuminated by such a body, shines forth, and transfuses its splendor. And the beauty of body is nothing else than the flower of future virtue, and the prelude as it were of more perfect beauty. For as a certain splendor from the summits of mountains precedes the rising of the sun, which is a delightful spectacle to the eye, through the expectation of a brighter light : in like manner a certain beauty in the extremities of the body precedes the rising of the splendid soul, which is a delightful spectacle to philosophers, through the expectation of what will follow.
The Thessalian indeed delights in a colt, the Egyptian in a calf, and the Spartan in a Avhelp. But the philanthropist, who is fond of educating man, will not conduct himself after the manner either of the Egyptian husbandman, or the Thessalian horseman, or the Lacedaemonian hunter. For the culture of these animab compensates the labour with which such culture is attended. But the phiLanthropist pays an obsequious attention to the objects of his love for the sake of communion in virtue. In order to eflect this he selects those that are best adapted to the expectation of virtue, and these are the most beautiful. Beauty, however, though one and the same, appears one thing to depraved ej^cs and another to legitimate lovers \
just as a sword, which is one and the same, appears to the brave man one thing and to the murderer another ; and as Ulysses saw Penelope in one light but Eurymachus in another; and as Pythagoras saw the sun as one thing and Anaxagoras as another; Pythagoras, indeed, as a god, but Anaxagoras as a stone : and as Socrates pursued virtue in one way but Epicurus in another ; Socrates as a lover of felicity, but Epicurus as a lover of pleasure. After the same manner Socrates pursued a beautiful body in one way, but Clisthenes in another ; Socrates as a lover of virtue, but Clisthenes as a lover of pleasure.
When, therefore, you hear that a philosopher loves, and that a depraved man also loves, do not call the love by one and the same name. For the one is furiously impelled to pleasure, but the other is a lover of beauty. The one is unwillingly diseased, the other willingly loves. The one loves with a view to the good of the beloved, the love of the other is attended with the destruction of both. Virtue is the business of the love of this, licentiousness of that. Friendship is the end of the love of the one, hatred is the end of the love of the other. That love is gratuitous, this is mercenary ; that is laudable, this is reprehensible ; that is Grecian, this barbaric ; that is manly, this effeminate ; that is stable, this is volatile and unstable. The man who possesses the former love is dear to divinity and dear to love, is full of modesty and full of liberty. The former in the day-time sedulously attends his beloved, and is delighted with
his love. He wrestles with him in the gymnasium, runs with him in the stadium , is his associate in hunting, contends together with him in battle for victory, shares his felicity in prosperity, and even dies with him when he dies, and requires for mutual converse neither night nor solitude. But the other lover is an enemy to the gods, for his conduct is disorderly. He is also an enemy to law, for he acts illegally. Hence he is without confidence, is void of hope, is destitute of shame, and is a friend to solitude, to night, and concealment. He is never willing to be seen by day by the objects of his love, but flies the sun and pursues night and darkness.
" To shepherds odious, but the thief s delight
For the one resembles a shepherd, but the other a thief, and therefore prays that he may be concealed ; for he knows the evil which he does, but knowing it, is led away by pleasure. Thus the husbandman cautiously approaches to fruit-bearing plants, but by the thief they are plucked with violence, and are thus injured and lacerated.
When you see a beautiful body flourishing and fruitful, pollute it not, defile it not, touch not the flower, but praise it as the traveller does a plant.
" Thus seems the palm, with stately honours crown'd. By Phoebus' altars ; thus o'erlooks the ground f-"
Spare the plant of Apollo and Jupiter, wait for the fruits, and your love will be more just. Nor is the undertaking difficult, since it is not the province of Socrates only nor of a philosopher only. For a certain Spartan *, who was neither educated in the Lyceum, nor exercised in the Academy, nor disciplined in philosophy, happening to meet with a lad t> barbaric indeed, but consummately beautiful, and in the flower of his age, became enamoured with him, for why should he not? But his love proceeded no farther than the eyes, I praise Agesilaus more for his fortitude in this respect than Leonidas for his victories. For it is more difficult to vanquish love than the barbarian, and the darts of love wound more than the Cadusian or Median. Hence Xerxes trampled on Leonidas and entered Pylae ; but love with Agesilaus proceeding as far as to the eyes, stopt there, at the very gates of the soul. A greater atchievement this. I give him the reward of strenuous contention. For thus acting I praise Agesilaus more than when he pursued Tisaphernes, or vanquished the Thebans, or endured stripes. For those things pertained to the nurture and education of the body, but these are the works of a soul truly exercised and properly chastised.
Agesilaus.
f Megabates^ the son of Spithridates^ Vid. Xenophon»
X DISSERTATION X.
AGAIN CONCERNING THE AMATORY ART OF
SOCRATES.
CMERDIES the Thracian, a royal lad, of a superb aspect, being captured by the Greeks, was by them bestowed as a gift on the Ionic tyrant, the Samian Polycrates. But the tyrant was delighted with the gift, and became enamoured with Smerdies : and at the same time the youth was beloved by the TeVan poet Anacreon, From Polycrates Smerdies received gold and silver, and whatever else.it was likelv a beautiful lad should receive from a royal lover ; but by Anacreon he was presented with odes and praises, and such things as it is likely a poet in love would bestow. But if any one compares love with love, the tyrannic with the poetic, which of them will appear to be more divine and celestial ? which will deserve to be called the offspring of Venus and the work of divinity ? I indeed am of opinion that the love which is mingled with the Muses and Graces is to be preferred to that which is mingled with necessity and fear. For the one resembles a captive, or mercenary, who is not very happy, but the other a free man and a Greek,
On which account it appears to me that liberal love is scarcely to be found among the barbarians. For where the people is servile, and the prince despotic, there that which subsists between these is exterminated ; viz. freedom of speech and equality of honour and law. But nothing is so hostile to love as necessity. For it is a thing superb and free in the extreme, and even more frSe than Sparta herself. For love alone of every thing pertainipg to men, when it subsists with purity, neither admires wealthy nor dreads a tyrant, nor is astonished by empire, nor avoids a court of judicature, nor flies from death. It does not consider as dire either wild beasts, or fire, or a precipice, or the sea, or a sword, or a halter ; but to it things impervious are most pervious, things dire are most easily vanquished, things terrible are most readily encountered, and things diflicult are most speedily accomplished. All rivers are passable, tempests most navigable, mountains most easily run over. It is everywhere confident, despises all things, and subdues all things. To love, when love is of this kind, is a thing of great worth. I indeed think that the man of intellect will pray never to be liberated from such love as this, if it is at the same time attended with liberty, intrepidity, and an immunity from guilt.
I fear, however, that it is not such in all men, but is a certain similitude of a base pursuit, and that, assuming the pretext of a beautiful work, and glorying in its resemblance, it has a similar appearance, but deviates from the end. Thus the
apothecary imitates the physician j the sycophant the rhetorician, and the sophist the philosopher. And you will everywhere find evil connate with good, and mingled with much of similitude, but ^parated from it either by choice, as the rhetorician from the sycophant, or by the end, as the physician from the apothecary, or by virtue, as the philosopher from the sophist. Choice, how-^ ever, and virtue and the end are known but to a few. When, therefore, in twofold and ambiguous pursuits similitude is not wanting, but dissimili-r tude is present, it is necessary that he who, through ignorance of the dissimilar, is not able to separate arts, should conjoin them so far as they are assimilated.
Are we, therefore, to judge after this manner concerning love, and ought we to. consider it as a common name placed as a medium between virtue and vice, and that being properly allured by both, and fashioned according as it adheres to either, it is denominated by the property of that by which it is allured ? Indeed the soul, according to Plato, receiving a twofold division, one part of which he denominates reason, and the other passion, it is necessary that love, if it is a vice, should be a certain passion destitute of reason ; but if it ranks among things beautiful, one of these two things must foHow, either that it must be arranged according to reason, and be liberated from passion, or according to passion in conjunction with reason. And if indeed love is the impulse of friendship, ^nd the appetite of the similar naturally hastening
to the similar, and desiring to be mingled with it^ this will be passion and not reauson. It will there** fore be necessary to add reason to this passion as a governor, that virtue and not disease may be produced. For as in the temperament of bodies^ health is a certain passion * of powers that are moist and dry, that are cold and hot, either mingled by art in a becoming manner, or artificially harmonized by nature, but if from these you take away either nature or art, you disturb the passion and exterminate health; in like manner with respect to love, it is at the same time passion^ though united with reason ; but if you take away reason, you disturb its symmetry, and cause the whole to be disease.
Let love then be an appetite of the soul, but this appetite, like a spirited horse, requires a bridle. But if you suffer the soul to be borne along whereever it pleases, according to the Homeric image^ you permit a wanton courser f to run through the
The word passion, when applied to other things than the soul, signifies with Plato and Platonic writers a property considered as participated. This word is likewise used in the same sense by Aristotle.
+ Maximus here alludes to the following verses in the 6th book of the Iliad, which are thus elegantly translated by Pope :
" The wanton courser thus, with reins unbound. Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground ; Pamper'd and proud, he seeks the wonted tides. And laves, in height of blood, his shining sides. His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies ; His mane dishevel'd o'er his shoulders iSies ; He snuffs the females in the distant plain, And springs, exulting, to his fields again.
plain beating the ground, pampered and proud, without a bridle and without a master, neither betaking himself to his accustomed baths, nor coursing according to art. But as it is shameful to see a horse without restraint, so it is shameful to hear insolent love. This is the love which leaps preci- {uces, which swims over rivers, which seizes a sword, employs a halter, attacks a step-mother, forms stratagems against grandfathers, acts contrary to law, is furious, and void of munificence. This is the love which tragedies represent on the stage, which is reprobated in fables, is full of furies and full of tears ; which bitterly mourns and laments, is but little fortunate, is praised contrary to its desert, is exposed to all various and sudden mutations, and is wholly intent on corporeal pleasures; which burns to mingle body with body, iind seeks neither a becoming, nor legal, nor truly amatory embrace. The report of beauty attracts it, agitated with insane fury, and wandering through ignorance.
But the love which is contrary to this, alone engages with the prolific sex, in order to beget its like, being impelled by natural appetite, forming a just connection, and separating the female from the male. This is the sacred institution of the gods who preside over nuptials, over kindred, and the procreation of children, and is naturally implanted in all animals, some of which are spontaneously impelled to connection through proper love in the season of begetting ; but others are led by the presiding art of the shepherd, the goatherd, the neatherd, and the equerry, each joining
the animals under his care according to nature, and again separating them through fear of their becoming wanton :
Apart the kids, apart the middle-aged And lambkins went *."
But the royal and pastoral art, which presides over the gregarious race of men, can find no device for exterminating wantonness in any one till he willingly commits his soul to reason as to a shepherd, that it may be nourished with modesty and temperance. For as different animals are allotted different means of defence for the security of their hves; as lions strength, stags the course, dogs hunting, the aquatic genus swimming, the elevated flying, and reptiles caves ; in like manner the human race, which in other things is inferior to all other species of animals (for it is most imbecile with respect to strength, most slow in running, is incapable of flying, is scarcely able to swim, and has not the power of dwelling in caverns) is gifted by Divinity with reason, as that which is equivalent to every other possession. To this Divinity also subjected amatory appetite ; as a horse to the bridle, as a bow to the archer, as a ship to the helm, and as an instrument to the artificer. As often, therefore, as the reason of man is dull in the extreme, he is without love; but when his love is perfectly stupefied then he is most unobedient to reason. But persuasion is a con-
junction of love and reason impelled to the beautiful, and abundantly illuminated by it in their course. But he who thinks that the beautiful is buried in the nature of flesh changes beauty for pleasure, by which he is deceived ; for pleasure is a plausible evil, and is full of flattery.
It was this which impelled the Trojan lad *, who before had been a neatherd wandering about Mount Ida, but was now no longer content with domestic pleasures, it was this which impelled him from the mountains to the sea, placed him in a ship, and brought the piratic lover to Peloponnesus. For there was no other beautiful body about Asia, neither Trojan nor Dardan, neither Hellespontic nor Lydian, whose language was allied to that of the lover, and which had been nourished in the same manners and legal institutions* The transmarine suitor, therefore, came to Sparta and Eurotas, becoming a lover from dreams, unjustly rose in arms against his guest, and dissolved the Grecian marriage. O intemperate love, unjust dreams, base eyes, and pleasure the leader of so many evils ! Thus too, neither the tall Indian virgin, nor the Mede with her tiara, nor the Dardan with her mitre, neither the Carian armed, nor the tydian with her song, neither the Ionic nor the Hellespontic maid could lead the mighty Xerxes to love, who engaged the Greeks at Salamis and Platsea, and who beheld and was the lord of so many beautiful bodies ; but he became enamoured
Viz. Paris.
with Amestris^ the wife of his son. O most base love! which, neglecting grateful food, requires such as is bitter and not fit to be eaten, throusrh intemperate licence abusing the power of love. For when you deprive the soul of knowledge, but afford it power, you impart to crimes an influx, a licence, and a passage. Deprive Paris of the power of Priam, and the confidence which he thence derived, and he will remain a keeper of oxen, and will not even dream of Helen. Deprive Xerxes of unrestrained authority, and will not Amestris be deformed, and ranked among private women ?
Royal power is licentious^ and the eyes become wanton when reason is absent. Deprive these of intemperate liberty, and neither Critias will wantonly love Euthydemus *, nor Callias Autolycus, nor Pausanias Agatho f > nor any one man another. On this account I praise the law of the Cretans, and blame that of the Eleans. I praise that of the Cretans from its necessity, I blame that of the Eleans for its licentiousness. It was disgraceful in a Cretan lad not to be beloved ; but at the same time it was disgraceful in a Cretan youth to be enamoured with those of his own sex. O law, beautifully mingled with modesty and love ! I shall pass by the Eleans in silence ; but I will speak of the Lacedaemonians. A Spartan loves a Laconic lad, but he loves him no otherwise than he
would a beautiful statue : there many love one, and one loves many. For licentious pleasure does not admit of society : but the love which subsists from the eyes alone admits of communion, and extends itself to all amatory natures. For what is more beautiful than the sun, and more sufficient to a multitude of lovers ? But at the same time all eyes love the sun.
In Locris, an Italian city, there was a beautiful lad, and a beautiful law, and base lovers. This lad they were compelled to love on account of his beauty ; but they were forbidden by law to love him improperly. Through the fury of passion, however, becoming insolent, as they could not persuade the lad (for he was one that obeyed the laws) the miserable lovers in succession finished their lives by a halter. Worthy indeed of such a death : for why ought that man to live who cannot restrain his eyes ? He who sees a statue and praises its beauty does not demand a halter. And a horseman, though he sees a horse and praises its beauty, and is not able to obtain it, does not require a halter. The sight of a beautiful plant in the garden of a neighbour satisfies the botanist. The huntsman is satisfied ^nth the sight of a beautiful whelp, though it is the property of another ; and no one of these dies through penury of possession. The avaricious love gold more than lovers beautiful bodies, and are more willing to be buried with gold than lovers with the objects of their love : yet no one of these dies if he happens not to possess gold. For neither did the Persian
king hang himself through being disappointed in obtaining gold, though he was the most insatiate and the most insane of all collectors of wealth ; who, though his empire was so extended, and though he rolled in so many pleasures as might have abundantly satisfied the appetites of an intemperate king> insidiously opened the tomb of the dead. In consequence of a report that gold had been buried with the dead body, the mighty king with his tiara became a digger of sepulchres: and gold * indeed he did not find, but he read the following inscription in the tomb : O most insatiable of all men, who hast dared to touch a dead body through love of gold. In like manner one Grecian may say to another, who is impelled by insatiable desire to corporeal insolence and injustice, when he is hurried away by the report of beauty buried in body : O most stupid of all men, you are digging out a dead bod}' ; for otherwise you would not dare to touch masculine flesh, a thing unlawful for a man to touch. The mingling is unjust, the connexion unprolific. Yeu are sowing in rocks, you are ploughing the sands. Betake yourself to those pleasures which nature prescribes- Turn your eyes to agriculture, and you will be delighted with prolific pleasures :
Lest, wanting seed, the future race should fail f •
Maximus here speaks of the sepulchre of Nitocris, a celebrated queen of Babylon, which Darius opened,
^ DISSERTATION XI.
AGAIN CONCERNING LOVE.
'X' HE assertion is not true," says the Himeraean* poet, in a certain part of his works, in which he abjures his former verses on Helen, acknowledging that he had spoken felsely concerning her. He subverts, therefore, the former blame by the latter praise. It appears to me, that I also, after the example of the poet, ought to recant what I have said respecting Love : for he too is a god no less able to punish those who offend his divinity. What then is the offence which we say must be vehemently opposed ? It is dire and mighty, and requires a generous poet and initiating priest, if we wish to appease this uncorrupted deity ; hot by an offering of seven tripods t> or Lesbian virgins, or Trojan horses, but by abolishing one discourse by another, the bad by the good, and the false by the true. Such a recompence as this, they say, the Teian poet Anacreon gave to Love. In the forum of the lonians, in Panionium, a nurse happened to be carrying an infant. Anacreon, as he
^ Stesichorus* See the Phaedrus in vol. iii. of my translation of Plato's works.
was walking in that place singing, crowiied, and staggering from intoxication, pushed the nurse with the child, and reviled the infant. The woman was no otherwise offended with Anacreon, than by praying that this insolent man might, some time or other, praise the child as much as he had now reproached him. The god assented to her prayer ; for the child, when arrived at matu« rity, became the most beautiful Cleobulus ; and Anacreon bestowed abundant praises on Cleobulus, as a recompence for a little defamation.
What then hinders but that we, to-day, in imitation of Anacreon, voluntarily submit to receive from love the punishment of an unjust tongue? For is it not highly improper to say that love leads to adultery, as in the instance of Paris, or to an illegal connection, as in that of Xerxes, or to lust, as in that of Critias, and to ascribe a thing impious to divinity ? To be convinced of this, however, let us thus consider the affair ; Is love any thing else than the love of beauty ? By no means. For it cannot with propriety be said to be love unless it is conversant with beauty. When, therefore, we say that Darius loved riches, or Xerxes the land of the Greeks, or Clearchus war, or Agesilaus honour, or Critias tyranny, or Alcibiades Sicily, and Gylippus gold ; do we, in consequence of perceiving a certain apparent beauty, and denominating the impulse towards it love, say that each of these loves, and is a lover of a different object ? By no means. For in so doing, by adorning the basest of things among men with an unfit name, we should
I
sin against truth itself. For how can there be any beauty in riches, the worst of all things? or in war, the most unstable of all things ? or in tyranny, the most savage of all things ? or in gold, the most proud of all things ? But if you speak of Sicily, or the land of the Greeks, you speak of hopes of pleasures, but by no means of beauty. Nor would this be the case though you should speak of the land of the Egyptians, with its mighty pyramids and capacious river, or of Babylon itself, with its impenetrable walls, or of Media, abounding in horses, or of the Phrygian land, with its fertile pastures, or of Sardes, renowned for its gold. For it is requisite that each of these should be so far beautiful as it is pleasant, and that it should rather be pleasant to him who is able to derive pleasure from it than beautiful to him who is not able to be benefited by it. For you cannot consider any thing as beautiful which is unstable, which contributes to depravity, or leads to calamity, or ends in repentance. Be it so. According to us love is the love of beauty ; and he who loves any thing else than beauty is a lover of pleasure. Let us, if you please, take away the name, and say, that he who pursues pleasure desires but does not love ; lest by an illegitimate use of the word we ignorantly change the thing, and not the word only. Let love^ therefore, be conversant with beauty, but desire with pleasure. But does not he who loves beauty desire it ? Very much so. For scarcely will love be any thing else if it is not a certain appetite. However, I beg pardon of those wise in-
vestigators of names if I call the same thing at one time appetite and at another desire. For I accord with Plato, both in other things and in the liberty of words. Let love, then, if they are willing, be appetite, and not desire; and let the following distinction be adopted : If the soul is impelled to apparent beauty let this be called love and not desire ; but if it is not so impelled, let this be called desire and not love. What then, if any intemperate sophist, using the addition of the word apparent^ should say that something which is pleasant appears to him to be beautiful, shall we also grant that he loves it ? And again, if any one, looking to those true lovers who are impelled to the beautiful, and beholding the pleasant in the appetite of beauty, through the admixture of pleasure, should say that these also desire but do not love, in what manner are these to be distinguished by us ? For if things which are pleasant appear to be beautiful, and things beautiful are mingled with pleasures, there is danger that desire also will be mingled with love. Are you willing, therefore, that we should take away from the beautiful the apparent, lest pleasure should deceive us in the shape of beauty, but not from pleasure ? For the beautiful being honourable, ought from its very nature to be beautiful, that it may be lovely ; but it is sufficient to pleasure to have the appearance of beauty, though it is destitute of the reality. For since pleasure derives its subsistence from the delight of him who is passive to its energy, and has not a
being of its own, it is sufficient if appearance is present with it though reality is absent.
My meaning is this (for I perceive that I have made a superficial distinction, and that I am in want of an image :) it is impossible for the body to be nourished without the assumption of food, and unless the teeth operate, the intestines receive, and the nutriment becomes subservient to the inward (Economy. But the food of man under the reign of Saturn * consisted, it is said, of the beech tree and pears; and hence the earth is said to have produced spontaneous fruits, because the inhabitants of that period living on native nutriment had no occasion for agriculture. If, therefore, you add cookery and seasonings, various food, and a different sauce for different appetites, together with Sicilian and Sybaritic delicacies, and Persian luxury, you will call all these by the name of pleasure ; and you will say that nutriment is common to all of them, but that pleasure is peculiar to each. You will also say that nutriment subsists according to nature, but pleasure according to art. And if you change the tables, the Sicilian for the Persian, and the Persian for the Sicilian, you will similarly leave nutriment to each, but you will change pleasure into pain through its mutation into the unusual. Nourishment,
'llie golden age, which is said to have been under the reign of Saturn, signifies nothing more than a life according to intellect ; for Saturn is a deity of an intellsctiml characteristic.
therefore, is produced according to the essence of that which is able to nourish, but pleasure accord.- ing to the passion of that which is accustomed to be* delighted.
But with respect to custom, it is different in different persons. Thus the Grecians and Persians, the Lydians and Phcenicians, and perhaps other nations, having planted vines, and laboured in their culture, plucked the grape, and prepared wine, a drink not necessary as to use, but possessing the very acme of pleasure. But many of the Scythians live on milk as others do on wine. For some the bees, building their hives in rocks and oaks, prepare a delicious drink ; and there are those who are not offended with the streams of the nymphs, but use spontaneous water for their drink. There is also, I think, a race of Scythians, who drink water indeed, but when they are in want of the pleasure of intoxication raise a pyre on which they burn odoriferous herbs. Round this pyre they sit in a circle, as if it were a bowl, and feast on the smell as others do on drink ; at length, becoming intoxicated with fragrance, they leap, and sing, and dance.
What, however, does the circuit of my discourse intend? to point out to you the difference between beauty and pleasure. For grant me that the beautiful itself, which ought really to be, and not only to have an apparent subsistence, is to be considered according to the necessary and the spontaneous in meat and drink ; but pleasure according to the various and adventitious, by which
different appetites are differently delighted : for it is necessary that this should only have an apparent subsistence. This being the case, love indeed will be reason, virtue, and art ; reason according to its truth, virtue according to its disposition, and art according to its unerring tendency to the beautiful. But the desires of pleasures are irrational, since they are the desires of things foreign from reason. As therefore it is necessary that the beautiful should be beautiful, in order that it may produce love, what kind of a thing shall we say it is, and how does it produce love ? Are you willing that I should speak to you according to the divination of Socrates ? that the soul formerly saw the beautiful itself, which is ineflable, and too excellent to be seen by the eyes ; and that in the present life she does not clearly perceive it, but only remembers it as in a dream. That this happens through her being remote from it both by place and fortune, through being expelled from the vision of beauty to this terrene abode, and merged in deep and all-various mire, by which she is disturbed, and is bound to an obscure and confused life, which is full of tumult and abundant error. , The nature of the beautifiil, however, thence originating, gradually descends hither, more and more losing its splendor as it de« scends, and abandoning its pristine acme. . Thus the most noble of rivers which flow into the sea, at the first exit from their source, preserve their stream unnaingled with another more bitter nature^ and afford a pure drink to marine
sailors ; but when these rivers have advanced farther in their coursey and have fallen into the broad sea, and delivered their stream to the winds and waves, to tempest and storm, they lose in the mixture their ancient nature. In like manner ineffable and immortal beauty first proceeds into the heavens and the bodies which they contain, and falling there, remains pure, unmingled, and entire, but when it descends from the heavens to this terrene abode, its force is broken and its splendor obscured. And scarcely, indeed, can the marine sailor know the influx of beauty when he sees it obscurely wandering on the earth, and mingled with a foreign nature. If, however, he has been accustomed to it, and has preserved the nature of it in his memory, when he meets with, he will recognize it, and like Ulysses *, when he beheld the smoke ascending from his native coast, he leaps, and is inflamed, is exhilarated and enamoured. Of this beauty a certain portion accedes to the well-flowing river, to the welL germinating plant, and to the generous horse, though this portion is most sluggish and debile. If, however, there is a certain nature of it which arrives to the earth, you will see it nowhere but in man, the most beautiful and intellectual of terrene bodies, and who is allotted a soul allied to the beautiful itself. Hence he who is endued with intellect, on seeing a statue praises the art, but does not become enamoured of the statue ; on seeing a
plant praises the fruit;, ^^^ ^oes not love the plant ; and praises a river for the gentleness of its course, but is not enamoured of the stream. But in man, when he sees beauty breathing, intellectual, and preluding virtue, in appearance indeed, he loves that which is visible, but in reality is enamoured of a more true beauty. On this account Socrates rapidly surveyed beautiful bodies, and inspected all of this description . Nor was beauty concealed from him, either in the palaestrsB, or when wandering in the academy, or feasting at banquets, but like a skilful hunter, through human bodies he pursued the recollection of true beauty.
DISSERTATION XII.
THAT THE PLEASURE OF PHILOSOPHIC DISCOURSES IS SUPERIOR TO THAT OF ALL OTHER DISCOURSE.
TTOMER * relates concerning Ulysses, that having fashioned for himself a raft, through penury of a ship, a storm arising, his raft was dispersed ; and that as he was swimming, Leucothea having thrown him a fillet, he reached the land of the Phaeacians : there, supplicating a royal virgin, he was brought by her to the city, and meeting with a favourable reception from Alcinous, he was hospitably entertained, with the best of the Phaeacians, and after this addressed Alcinous as follows : *' King Alcinous, it is a beautiful thing to hear a good harper, such as this, a man divine in his art. For what can be more pleasant than a joyful people, and a house full of guests, listening to the song, and seated in order, before an abundant table and flowing bowls ?" But I ask Ulysses, what, O wisest of men, do you conceive pleasure to be ? Does it consist in a plenteous table and full bowls
Odyss X. ver. 2, &c. See the apology for the fables of Homer in the Ist vol. of my translation of Plato's works.
of wine, and besides these in one singing, like that harper *,
< Whence the dire strife arose
That made Ulysses and Achilles foes'"
or the hollow horse, into which the best of the Greeks entering, for the purpose of invading Ihon, poured down its sides, and attacking, captured the intoxicated city,
" Does this to thee most beautiful appear * ?
If this be the case, O most wise Ulysses, you are a skilful praiser of popular delight, such as a barbarian would praise, who was just arrived from Babylon, where he had been accustomed to a sumptuous table, to wine poured forth in abundance, and to the extemporaneous song ; you, who, as you say, despised in other places the honied lotus and the siren's song. Does not, therefore. Homer by this obscurely signify something better than these verses at first view appear to indicate ? for he who introduces tables covered with abundance of food, and wine largely poured into capacious bowls, and who praises those that feast amidst such mighty pleasures listening to the song, appears to relate to us a more becoming banquet, such as a man endued with intellect would imitate, transferring pleasure from things most base to things more elegant, from the belly to the ears ; or will you
not say, that it is not sufficient to feast the ears casually and insatiably with the sound of pipes and flutes, and the tumult of men, but here also art is requisite, which may adorn the banquet of the ear with elegant harmony ?
But what will be the nature of such an harmony ? I love, 'indeed, the pleasure produced by melody, whether through flutes when inflated, or the lyre when struck, or through any other musical instrument which is able to impart and transmit to us bland modulation. I am fearful, however, lest these melodies should possess a certain pleasure beautifully mingled by art, but void of meaning, irrational, and without voice, and contributing nothing great to the delight of the soul. For if any one is willing to compare the pleasure arising from melodies with that which is produced by discourse, he will find the latter to resemble food and the former odours ; of which the one is most adapted for nutriment, but odour is a counterfeit thing, and most imbecile in nutrition. The ears, therefore, are to be so feasted that they may be nourished ; and at the same time that they are gratified with these odours from melodies, the food from discourse must be introduced to them. Since, therefore, elegant guests will be delighted with discourse and with nothing else, what are the discourses which we should place before them ? For there are some who imitate the strife in courts of justice, the artificial contentions and battles, fortifying injustice, adorning things base, and adulterating the truth ; but suffer nothing to remain safe, nothing
genuine, nothing natural. Indeed these forensic wranglers act Justin the same manner as the sellers of slaves, who if they receive bodies that are genuine, and that have been nourished under the pure sun and in the free air, these they nurture in the shade, and render smooth, till they ruin the form with which nature had invested them, and 'which far surpasses that of art.
These imitations, however, arc not only adulterated and unpleasant to the view, but are not altogether fit to be heard by feasted souls. Hence neither do I praise the iEnean * spectacles, by which the iEneans in Pontus arc delighted, where some are actors and others spectators. Two men imitate a battle, while another at the same time plays on the pipe : one of these is a husbandman and ploughs, another is a robber and has arms. The husbandman also has arms near him, and when the robber approaches, laying aside his plough, he runs to his arms. They close and fight, striking each other on the face, and imitating wounds and falling on the ground, — spectacles by no means convivial. I prefer to these the ancient Persian law, through which the Persians acquired freedom. Consultations were adopted by the Persians at their banquets in the same manner as by the Athenians in tlieir Attic assembHes. The law also punished intoxication, exciting their virtues at entertainments just as oil excites fire ; irrigating
See Eurip. Iphig. in Aul. ver. 277. Allian, Var. Hist, iii. 1. and Xenoph. de Expcdit. Cyri, lib. vi. cap. i. 4.
the soul with such symmetry, that its ambition might neither be perfectly extinguished, nor enkindled bevond what is fit. But here our sober orators, as they are under no restraint from the law with respect to freedom of speech, dance in assemblies in a manner more intemperate than all intoxication. Let us, however, now dismiss the Persians and Athenians, and return to our subject. Worthy souls, therefore, are to be feasted with discourses, but not with such as are forensic. With what others then ? Shall we sav with those which recal the soul to former times, and which afford them the spectacle of ancient transactions. For history is alluring, and it is delightful to be able without weariness to wander about everywhere, to survey all countries, to be present with security in all battles, to contract the immense extent of ao:es into a short compass, and to learn an infinite multitude of transactions in a little time, such as those of the Assyrians, Egyptians, Persians, Modes, and Grecians. Now being present with those that war upon land, at another time with naval battles in the sea, and again at another with counsellors in conventions; joining with Themistocles in naval engagements, ranked in battle with Leonidas, passing over the sea with Agesilaus, and saved with Xenophon ; loving with Panthea *, hunting
Panthea was the wife of Abradatcs, a king of Susa, and was a most modest and beautiful woman. Abradates, when she was taken prisoner by Cyrus, surrendered himself and his troops to the conqueror. He was killed in the first battle he undertook in the cause of Cynis, and Panthea stabbed herself
with Cyrus, and exercising royal authority with Cyaxares. If indeed Ulysses was a wise man because lie possessed great versatility of manners, and,
'* Wand'ring from clime to clime^ observant strayM, Their customs noted, and their states surveyM : On stormy seas unnumbered toils he bore. Safe with his friends to gain his native shore *."
He is much more wise who, beyond the reach of danger, fills himself with history : who sees Charybdis, but not in a shipwreck ; hears the Syrens, but without being bound, and meets with a Cyclops, but one peaceably disposed. If Perseus also was happy because he was winged, and, soaring in aether, surveyed all the calamities and regions in the earth, history is much lighter and more elevated than the wings of Perseus, which, receiving the soul, carries it about everywhere, and does not point out to it tilings sluggishly nor negligently, but genealogizes men. Such as, " Croesus was a Lydian by birth, the son of Alyattis, and the tyrant of nations f" And, ** from cloud-compelling Jove Dardanus derived his origin J." It also genealogizes cities, as *' Epidamnus is a city situated on the right-hand to those that sail to the Ionian bay, and the Taulantii, a barbarous people, dwell near it §." And ** the city Ephyre is si-
t These are the words of Herodotus, i. 6.
§ This is taken from Thucydides, lib. i. p. 17. ed. Wechel.
tuated in the recesses of Argus, the nourisher of horses *." It likewise genealogizes rivers, as, *^ which flowing from the meridian parts towards the north wind, falls into what is called the Euxine
" Which the gods Xanthus, men Scamander call J."
The narration of these things, through the assistance of memory, preserves the human race, which is diurnal, and is rdpidly corrupted and dissipated, and perpetually flowing, guards its virtues, and makes its actions immortal through renown. Through this Leonidas is not only celebrated by the Lacedaemonians of his time, and Themistocles is not only praised by the Athenians his contemporaries, but the military sway of Pericles and the justice of Aristides remain even now ; Critias now suffers punishment, and Alcibiades now flies his country. In short, historical narrations are to the hearer most delightful with respect to pleasure, and to the spectator most alluring with respect to recollection. What banquet then can be more agreeable to the soul than such relations as these ? It is difficult indeed to oppose many, and these illustrious historians; but at the same time we must say. Your harmony, O historians, is beautiful and most alluring, but a worthy soul desires something else, and not such delights as you afford. For what is there venerable in the record of
antient evils to him who has not yet learnt how these are to be avoided ? or what advantage do the Athenians derive from the Attic * history, or the Halicarnassenses from the Ionic history ? or in what are the Chians more happy through this ? For if historians, distinguishing things worthy from such as are base, concealed some and related others, the soul would be benefited by the imitation of historical transactions in the same manner as the eye by the imitation of painting. But now all things are promiscuously mingled in their relations, the worse abounds, and the base has dominion. Hence the greater part of history is full of tyrants, unjust enemies, irrational felicity, base actions, stupid calamities, and tragical circumstances. Of all these the imitation is insecure, the memory dangerous, and the misery immortal.
I indeed desire, in order to be fully feasted, the nutriment of salubrious discourses, and require such sane food as procured health to Socrates and Plato, to Xenophon and iEschines. The soul of man desires and fears, grieves and envies, and is possessed by other all-various and monstrous passions. You see a sedition bitter, and which no crier has proclaimed. Relate to me such a war as this, but dismiss that of the Medes. Relate to me this disease, but dismiss pestilence. Tell me to whom I shall commit the command and the care of this war. Leave Hippocrates to bodies and The-
Maximus by the Attic and Ionic histories alludes to those of Xcncphon and Thucydides.
mistocles to the sea. Tell me of a physician, tell me of a commander for the soul ; and if you are dubious with respect to men enquire among the gods. Enquire, but not concerning land which is plundered, nor sea which is infested with pirates, nor walls which are besieged, nor bodies which are corrupted : these are trifling, these are diurnal. Your crops may be laid waste, though the Peloponnesians refrain from them. The sea maybe infested with pirates, though the Athenians should not engage in a naval battle. Walls will be thrown down, if not by Philip, yet by time : and bodies will be corrupted, though pestilence should be absent :
" But virtue lost can never be regained *."
About this consult the gods, when the soul is wounded, plundered, besieged, diseased. Here you have occasion for an oracle, here you have need of divination. Pray to the god :
O thou I whose sway the shores of Chrysa own, God of the silver bow, regard my prayer f."
Hear me, O Apollo and Jupiter; or if there is any other god who is the physician of the diseased soul :
" If e'er with wreaths I hung thy sacred fane. Or fed the flames with fat of oxen slain J."
Apollo will hear a prayer of this kind swifter than he did that of Chryses. For you do not call the
This is a parody of the Homeric verse. Iliad x. ver. 408.
K
god to inflict pestilence, nor to emit deadly arrows, which may destroy dogs, and men, and mules : for these are not the works of a musical, wise, and prophetic god. But Homer ascribes these to Apollo, obscurely signifying the solar* rays, which pervade the air swifter than any arrow, and are far more unmingled than the symmetry of bodies. Let, however, Homer, or Hesiod, or some other divine poet, sing for me the god who can heal the maladies of the soul. These things are worthy of Apollo, these are worthy of Jupiter.
The arrows of Apollo are symbols of the solar rays ; and the solar rays are to be considered as nothing more than instrumental causes^ employed for the purposes either of benesitting or punishing mankind, or in short of accomplishing the deerees of fate, by that deity who presides in the sun, and who is the source of all sensible and intellectual tight and harmony.
DISSERTATION XIII,
X
WHICH ARE MORE USEFUL IN A CITY, SOLDIERS OR HUSBANDMEN ? AND FIRST IN DEFENCE OF SOLDIERS.
i^AN you tell me who those are whom Homer in his poems denominates Jove-begotten, resembling the godsy shepherds of the people, and whom he called by such other names as it is likely a poet would employ in celebrating the virtue of a man ? Are they such as labouring in the earth with the spade and the harrow, are skilled in ploughing and planting, are dexterous in gathering in the crop, and elegantly arranging the vine ? Or shall we say, that he has not thought fit to mingle in the slightest degree the works of these men in his song, except when he refers them to an in* sular old man* who had been ejected from his kingdom by licentious young men, and who lying upon leaves in the summer, on the fertile bosom of the vine-bearing earth, enjoys bland repose ? But those blessed men whom he delights to praise are very diflferent characters, and engaged in very different pursuits and works, such as Achilles pursu-
Maximus here alludes to Laertei^ the father of Ulysses.
ing, or Ajax engaged in single combat ; Teucer discharging his arrows ; or Diomede conquering ^ or some other of those that are skilled in strenuous contention. For his verses are full of mighty shields, shining helmets, long spears, and beautiful chariots, of brave men slaughtering, and of cowards that are slain. Hence he could not otherwise praise Agamemnon himself, the king of all Greece, than by adding the warrior to the king, as if this alone was the most imperial employment. And he says, that Agamemnon was both a king and a good warrior. For Menelaus also was no less a king than Agamemnon, but his valour was less manly, and on this account Homer bestows upon him less poetic praise. But with respect to Agamemnon himself, in what would he have been more renowned than others, if remaining at Argos, possessing fertile land, and cultivating that land, he had rendered it more prolific than Egypt ? For when you hear Ulysses extolling Ithica as
' rough, but the nurse of valiant men * ;"
he knew, as being a wise man, how much the fruits of valour surpassed those of wheat or barley, or any other nutritious production of the earth* But I dismiss Homer : for perhaps you will be indignant with the testimony of a man who was a lover of war.
Are you willing then that I should relate to you, in the second place, the Laconic or Attic, the
Cretan or Persian transactions ? You praise Sparta as governed by most excellent laws ; but Lycurgus will certainly be in no want of your praise. For Apollo^ before you, has said of him,
' Thee as a man or god shall I proclaim *."
Lycurgus, therefore, whom a god himself assimilates to a god, having established laws for Sparta, consulted Apollo concerning the form of a polity which he should adopt for his people. Was it, therefore, agricultural, mercenary, groveling, sordid, mechanical, and such like abject particulars ? or did he not rather leave these to the Helotes, to the tribe of slaves, and those that dwelt on the confines of Lacedaemon. But the pure Spartans were educated without restraint, with an erect soul, nourished in liberty, whipped and scourged, and exercised in hunting, in wandering on moun*> tains, and other all-various labours; and when they were sufficiently accustomed to endurance, then, being furnished with spear and shield, and marching under law as their leader, they fought for liberty and the safety of Sparta, contended in conjunction with Lycurgus, and obeyed the mandate of the god. If then the Lacedaemonians had been husbandmen, what Leonidas would have fought for them at Thermopylae ? what Othriades would have strenuously contended in Thyrea ? But neither was Brasidas a husbandman ; nor did Gylippus, rushing from the harvest, save the Syra
^ See the whole of this oracle in Herodotus, i. 65
cusians ; nor Agesilaus, leaving his vines, vanquish Tisaphernes, lay waste the land of the king, and give liberty to Ionia and the Hellespont. Callicratides did not come from attending sheep, nor Lysander from the spade, nor Dercyllides from the plough. Characters of this description are mercenary, are Helotic, whom shields preserve, for whom spears fight, and who act as slaves to conquerors. It is this virtue in arms which depopulated the land of the Athenians, plundered that of the Argives, and captured Messenia. When this virtue abandoned the Spartans, they laid down their arms, and became from free men, husbandmen. When were the Cretans free? when they bore arms, when they were exercised in archery and hunting. When were they slaves ? when they were husbandmen. When were the Athenians free ? when they warred on the Cadmeans, when they colonized the lonians, when they received the Heraclidae, when they expelled the Pelasgi. When were they slaves ? when the Pisistratidae disarming the people, compelled them to apply themselves to agriculture; and, when they were again attacked by the Median fleet, abandoning their lands, they ran to their arms, and with them recovered their liberty. Cynaegirus was not a husbandman who gave liberty to the Athenians ; nor did Callimachus, when engaged in the harvest, expel the Medes ; nor was Miltiades the commander of husbandman. Works belong to arms, dominion to those that fight, and liberty is procured by conquerors. When the
sea, however, again required the Athenians; bidding farewel to the land, delivering their houses to the fire, and alone taking up their arms, they migrated into their three-banked gallies. The Attic city and a continental people sailed, sailing fought, fighting conquered, and conquering possessed both the land and sea. I also praise Pericles for his military command, who, neglecting the husbandmen, and seeing the Acharnse cut off, preserved the liberty of Athens : for when liberty remains, land, plants, and crops remain.
But leave the Greeks, and direct you attention to the barbarians. The Egyptians are husbandmen, the Scythians are warriors : the Scythians are brave, the Egyptians cowards. The Scythian nation is free, the Egyptian enslaved. The Assyrians are agriculturists, the Persians warriors : the Assyrians are slaves, the Persians possess royal authority. The Lydians were formerly soldiers, and afterwards became husbandmen. When they were free they fought, when they were slaves they turned their attention to agriculture.
Proceed to animals : for here also you will behold liberty and slavery, and a life consisting from virtue and bonds. The ox ploughs, the horse contends : but if you change their works you will act illegally against nature. Timid animals feed on grass, bold animals hunt. The stag feeds on grass, the lion hunts. Jackdaws gather seeds, eagles hunt. But those animals that gather seed and live on grass are slaves, while those that hunt are free. If fables likewise concerning the gods
are to be admitted, neither Jupiter, nor Minerva, nor Apollo, nor Mars, who are the most royal of the gods, are husbandmen ; but Ceres began to exercise agriculture but of late, after much wandering ; Bacchus of late, after Cadmus and Pentheus; and Triptolemus of late, after Erichthonius and Cecrops. If, likewise, we direct our attention to the kingdom of Saturn, what shall we find said of agriculture? But indeed even now there is no need of agriculture. For the earth does not neglect to bear spontaneous fruits, since she bears beaeh and pear-trees. She also bears spontaneous drink, the Nile and the Ister, Achelous and Maeander, and other fountains of perpetually pure and sober streams. The agriculturist who takes care of these, is not the old Icarian, nor a Boeotian or Thessalian, but the sun himself ; the moon with her bland heat, nourishing showers, gently-blowing winds, seasons changing, and the earth germinating. These are immortal husbandmen, who supply us. with fruits and trees without requiring any assistance from human art. Neither famine, nor pestilence, nor war, are able to bring this agriculture to an end ; but
" These without seed, unploughed, spontaneous grow *.'
If, indeed, you desire the Lybian lotus, and the Egyptian wheat, the Attic olive, or the Lesbian vine, you make art subservient to pleasure.
In short, when you compare warfare with agriculture, you compare liberal with necessary la-
bours, liberal virtue with necessary agriculture : for you do not compare peace with war. For if agriculture is a thing of this kind dismiss war, and let us all cultivate the earth. Let any one throw away his spear and take up the spade : let him strenuously labour in the earth, and conquer among husbandmen. Let us publicly celebrate the man for the fecundity of which he is the source.
Let him be first, and his be victory's palm."
But now all things are full of war and injustice: for desires wander everywhere, exciting in every land an immoderate love of possessing ; and all places are filled with armies marching to invade the property of others. A Peloponnesian woman * is celebrated for her beauty ; and a barbarian f sails to her from Mount Ida, not a husbandman, but a man milder, more at leisure, and more peaceable than a husbandman, a shepherd, and a herdsman. Cambyses desires the land of the Egyptians, and the desire excites war. Darius desires the land of the Scythians, and the Scythians wage war. Desire passes to Eretria and Athens, and together with desire a fleet. Hence Eretria is besieged, and Marathon is invested with /lips. Xerxes desires Laconic, Attic, and Argive maid-servants ; and through desire of a woman marine fleets are prepared, Asia is depopulated, Europe is subverted. The Athenians desire Si-
Helen. t Paris.
cily, the Lacedaemonians Ionia, the Thebans em* pire.
O most bitter desires to Greece ! where can anyone exercise agriculture with safety ? Where will he find the golden countenance of peace ? What part of the earth has not its lovers ?
' Ascra's in winter bad, in summer dire *."
Shall we, therefore, go to Ascra f ? Boeotia, * however, abounds with people. The land of India is most remote, but it also found a Macedonian lover, who marched to it through many nations and battles. Where can any one turn himself ! where can he find agriculture secure ? All things are full of wars, all things are full of arms. Hence then,
' His sharpened spear let every warrior wield. And every warrior fix his brazen shield ; Let all excite the fiery steeds of war. And all for combat fit the rattling car J.'
Beautiful would agriculture be, beautiful indeed, if it could be permanent, if it could obtain leisure, if it possessed security. But I fear this is not a beautiful thing which excites war and sedition. A certain ancient writer says, ** The best land is always subject, to the greatest changes of inhabitants ; and hence Attica through its sterility being
•j* 1 have made this question as the sense seemed to require it. Ascra was a village of Boeotia.
-without sedition, is always inhabited by the same men*.'* You have heard how war is produced. Do not exercise agriculture, O man. Suffer your land to be deserted and uncultiyated : for otherwise you will excite sedition, you will excite war,
These are the words of Thucydides, lib. L p. 2.
7 DISSERTATION XIV,
THAT HUSBANDMEN ARE MORE USEFUL THAN
SOLDIERS.
T ET US now give assistance to the husbandmen , since our contest is in words, and not with arms ; though if arms also were wanting, perhaps the husbandman would appear to be in nothing more imbecile than the soldier. This, however, we shall again consider. At present let us judge the men with arguments and not with arms ; and let us not fear Homer, nor any other, even though he should be more eloquent than Homer. For, if there were occasion for such a one, we could adduce another poet from Helicon, in no respect less renowned than Homer, blaming the present age, which
" First that dire instrument the sword devis'd. And on the flesh of ploughing oxen fed *.*'
For to praise things of this kind must be the province of a man more baneful to human life than the necessity of war ; from which though you
should take away injustice, you will leave a lamentable necessity.
But let us thus consider : Of men some are just and others unjust. The just, therefore, by no means war with the just : for, according in their sentiments, what occasion can there be for war ? The unjust, therefore, either war with the just, or with those that resemble themselves : for they neither accord with each other, nor with the just. Again, the imbecile engage in war in consequence of aspiring after equality, and the strong for the purpose of obtaining more. Be it so. The discourse presents to our view these three systems ; of which the first always conducts to itself truces and leagues ; but each of the other two engages in war, the one with itself, the other with the just. War, therefore, appears to be necessary to the just, but voluntary to the unjust. And why is it requisite to speak of the unjust ; since there is no occasion to fear that any one will give them a portion of praise ? But since the just engage in war not from will but necessity ; chastising every thing unjust, like Hercules ; or preventing the incursions of enemies, as the Greeks did those of the Medes ; — this being the case, which condition will the just receive ? Shall we say, that, together with the necessity of war, they may be liberated from warlike virtue ; or, that, together with the involuntary use of it, they may possess the necessity of virtue ? I indeed think they will receive the former. For physicians, if they were just and
philanthropic, would pray that their art might perish, together with diseases.
Let us then see whether manual labour in aericulture subsists after the same manner as in war. Men apply themselves to the cultivation of the earth either with justice or without it : with justice, when they look to the utility resulting from fruits, and without justice when they look to gain. Let it, however, be observed, that we do not here discourse concerning the whole of agriculture. But since this pursuit also is common both to the just and the unjust, as well as war, there is reason to fear lest the discourse should deceive us, in consequence of wishing to compare, not war with agriculture, but the unjust with the just. Both the warlike and the agricultural pursuit, therefore, must be supposed to be just ; the one proceeding to war from necessity, and the other being compelled to cultivate the earth from indigence. In this manner, therefore, let us consider each. Though why do I thus speak ? For if the just is equal in both, the beautiful also is equal, and the praise is equal, and both will depart victorious. Are you willing, therefore, that, taking away the just from each, we should add the unjust, and thus consider them ? But here, also, by introducing vice equally to both, we shall take away praise from both. Are you willing then that I should tell you how a right judgment may be made of this affair ? and I will tell you. My soul prophecies according to the doctrine of Plato, that there
is a certain genus of men who neither excel in vir* tue, nor are entirely rolled into the extremity of vice, but who live in right * opinions ; and who, from the mode in which they have been nurtured and disciplined, conduct themselves according to a temperate law. Giving a twofold division to this genus of men, as being ambiguous, and situated in the confines of virtue and vice, and delivering one part to the earth, but sending the other to arms ; let us consider each from its pursuits, and see which is more inclined to virtue, and which to vice. But let us consider as follows :
Desire is the greatest evil to man. Whether, therefore, is war or agriculture more effective of desire ? The one, indeed, is insatiable, but the other parsimonious : war is insatiable, but agricul* ture is parsimonious. War also is all-various, but agriculture is simple j and the former is immanifest, but the latter obvious : for what can be more immanifest than the fortune of war ? But labour in the earth is stable. War from success becomes eminently daring, but agriculture from fertility becomes modest. If too, anger, which associates with man, is a troublesome companion, and requires abundant discipline, what can be a greater incentive to anger than war and arms ? what, on the contrary, can be more mild than agriculture ? Again, with respect to the virtues themselves,
Opinion, according to Plato, has a middle subsistence, between sense and intellect. And those who live according to right opinion form indeed true notions of things ; but their knowledge of them is not scientific^ because they only know that, but not why, they are.
each subsists as follows: And, in the first place, with respect to temperance; the man who has arms, if he is stron^^ is rash, but if timid insecure *. On the contrary,. tine husbandman, if he is strong, abounds in fruits ; but if he is weak he becomes more healthy by the exercise of agriculture. And, if you regard justice, war is the preceptor of injustice, but agriculture of justice. For w^ar is avaricious, and always tends to the property of others, and then thinks it has obtained its end when it acts most injuriously and becomes fortunate by injustice. But with' agriculture the retribution is equal and the association just. If the husbandman cultivates a plant, he receives fruits in return. If he cultivates corn, it repays him with a fertile crop. If he pays attention to the vine, it abounds with grapes ; if to the olive, it becomes florid. The husbandman is terrible to no one, is an enemy to no one, the friend of all men ; void of blood, void of slaughter, sacred and devoted to the gods who preside over fruits and vines, over corn and ploughing. Agriculture is equal in a democracy^ but hates the most of all things an oligarchy and a tyranny. For neither Dionysius nor Phalaris is the progeny of agriculture, but each is the offspring of arms.
In festivals too, in the mysteries, and in solemn assemblies, which of these is the more excellent ? Is not the soldier a most inelegant, but the hus-
There is something defective here in the original, which the best editors of Maximus have not been able to supply ; and indeed it seems vam to attempt it, I havei therefore^ made the best sense I could of it.
bandman a most elegant celebrator of a festival ? Is not the former foreign from, but the latter most adapted to the mysteries ? And is not the former most dreadful, but the latter most peaceable in a solemn assembly ? Indeed, it appears to me that none but husbandmen first celebrated the festivals and mysteries of the gods. These first instituted choirs to Bacchus for the wine^press, and orgies to Ceres for the harvest ; these first celebrated Minerva for the invention of the olive, and offered the first-fruits of the productions of the earth to the gods, by whom they are imparted. And these, it is likely, are more acceptable to the gods than the tenths which Pausanias sacrificed, or Lysander dedicated. For the first-fruits of these were from wars, and their piety from calamities. But with respect to husbandmen, their prayers are philanthropic, and their sacrifices auspicious; the offspring of their proper labours, unattended with calamities, unattended with evils.
If, too, the wisdom of the men is to be explored, let us consider that of each. He, therefore, who is wise in battle is skilful in adorning
'* Horses *, and warriors ann'd with shields,"
the most inelegant and dire of all human afiairs. But he who is wise in agriculture,
" When the bright Pleiads f. Atlas* daughters, rise,
begins to gather in the harvest,
" But when they set resumes the plough."
He also attends to the seasons of the year, the course of the moon, the rising of the stars, the measures of rain, and the season of the winds. But if we are to form a judgment of the men by the virtue of bodies and the fortitude of labours, to the soldier the opportunities of labour are but few, to the husbandman continual : for he is always in the open air, is a friend to the sun, accustomed to inclement w^eather, with his feet bare, working with his own hands, free from asthma, swift in running, and robust in enduring. If, too, he has occasion to fight, you will see a soldier exercised in true labours, such as Darius encountered when he came to Marathon. For the military force of the Athenians at that time did not consist of armed soldiers, nor of archers, nor sailors, nor horsemen, but of the people divided into tribes, who, cultivating the earth when the barbaric fleet sailed to Marathon, ran from their fields ; working soldiers, armed with spades, ploughshares, and sickles. O beautiful military exercise, self-operative, and full of liberty ! O beautiful and generous progeny of earth and agriculture ! How much do I praise your virtues and arms, with which you fought for your own land, for the vines which you had cultivated, for the olives which you had planted ! From these military transactions you again came to your lands, from battles husbandmen-, from husbandmen strenuous soldiers. O beautiful retribution !
The Persians, indeed, were followed in battle by their mistresses^ that they might fight well for the
dearest objects of their love ; and will not a husbandman strenuously fight for what he considers as most dear ; for his vine, lest it should be cut off^ for his olives, lest they should be crushed, for his crops, lest they should be burnt ? If you compare posterior soldiers with this army, you will find them very numerous, but not victorious^ armed, but mercenaries, soldiers educated in the shade, soldiers full of insolence, vanquished in Sicily, captured in the Hellespont. And if you speak of the Persian transactions you also speak of soldiers who were formed from agriculture. For when, when were the Medes vanquished, and the Persians victorious ? when the Persians still Cultivated their lands, and the Medes engaged in war; for then Cyrus came to them, leading an army exercised in Pasargada^, a rough land, soldiers inured to manual labour. But when the Persians no longer employed themselves in agriculture, and neglected their lands, their ploughs, and their sicKles, then, together with their implements, they threw away their virtue.
Pasargada was a town of Persia, near Carmania, founded by Cyrus, on the ycry spot where he had conquered Astyages. The kbgs of Penia were always crowned there. Strab* XV.
\ DISSERTATION XV.
A
THAT THOSE DISCOURSES ARE THE BEST WHICH CORRESPOND TO WORKS.
A WISE man from among the barbarians, in the land of the Scythians, came to Greece, professing a wisdom neither verbose nor loquacious, but the sum df which was, an accurate life, a sound mind, brief but acute speech, not similar to a hireling light-armed soldier unexpectedly running, but resembling a heavy-armed soldier marching slowly, and securely moving. This man, then, coming to Athens, met with no one of the latter, but with many of the former description, whose course and tumult Anacharsis could by no means approve. Hence he wandered round Greece, being anxious to find wisdom stable and firm. And I cannot indeed say whether he found it elsewhere ; but he found in Chena*, a small and inconsiderable town, a good man, whose name was My son. This man knew how to build a house well, to cultivate the earth dexterously, to preside
A town of Laconia.
at weddings modestly, and to educate children liberally. The Scythian guest was satisfied, and was determined no longer to investigate loquacious wisdom, when works were present which he then accurately surveyed. When, however, he had sufficiently inspected these, the Chenean Myson said to him : These are the things, O Anacharsis, for which, though I know not why, we are said by men to be wise. But if I am wise for these pursuits, where will the thing be found which is not wise ? Anacharsis was very much pleased with the abundance of the works and the paucity of the words of the Grecian host.
Thus, too, the sentences of Pythagoras * were similar to laws, short and concise ; but his works were long and continued, giving no respite to the soul, nor suffering it to languish into neghgence,
The truth of what Maximus here says respectmg Pythagoras is evident from the following beautiful fragment of that prince of philosopher s> preserved by Stoboeus. Eclog. p. 3.
avrov 9} avvrt^Hot voiwu* ^^ovTo; oo-dsfn; ayxv^fty do|« an ao'deyErE^A* to ervfjM ofjuoMqt eu ctfx^> ^^ Tt/uiflM* Ilarret yet^
lj.tyoc\o^vx^^» ay^§»»* ravretg ov^ei; ;(E^/x»y <r»\tVH, Outo; deov thagoras said^ that it is requisite to chuse the most excellent life, for custom 'will make it pleasant. Wealth is an infirm anchor, glory still more infirm ; in like manner, body, dominion, and honour: for all these are imbecile and powerless. What then are powerful anchors? prudence, magnanimity, fortitude. These no tempest can shake. This is the law of God : that virtue alone is strength, and that every thing else is a trifle."
either by night or by day. JFor; as in the harmony of singing, the omission of any thing, however small, dissolves the elegant arrangement of the song ; so in the harmony of life, if we do not wish ' it to be dissonant, and to have a casual subsistence, it is necessary that there should be a consent between our actions and words : for without this our deeds will become perfectly obscure, and our words will proceed above our deeds, as if poured from a capacious into a narrow vessel ; though it is requisite that each should possess equal measures with each, and be full to the brim. Will he, therefore, who is a lover of this harmony, and who wishes to hear the sound of works, — ^will he ever think highly of himself on account of his eloquence ? Very far from it, as it appears to me. For no one will proclaim peacocks blessed for their beauty, who are the most pleasant of all birds to behold, since this contributes nothing to the facility of their flying, which is the strength of birds. We are also delighted to hear the song of the nightingale ; and yet that which is pleasant to us contributes nothing to the safety of this bird.
But from the clangor of the eagle, or the roaring of the lion, though painful to the ear, any one may know the strength of that which produces the sound. If, therefore, the sound of man is not accused as viler and more imbecile than the roaring of the lion and the clangor of eagles, will it not be worth while to investigate by the hearing whether the sound is from the nightingale, whose tongue is imbecile, and whose song is diurnal, or from the
eagle or some other animal, masculine, and fiill of animation. Zopyrus, indeed, on surveying the parts of the body, was able by his skill to know the manners, and could prophesy from what presented itself to the eye, though this was an obscure divination, the condition of the soul. For what mixture is there with respect to similitude of the soul with the body ? But if the condition of the soul may be divined, not through obscure nor imbecile symbols, we must leave to the eyes the association with colours and figures, and with the pleasant and the disagreeable which subsists in these ; but with the hearing we must investigate the manners of the soul ; not like the vulgar, who think nothing more is required in a discourse than a prompt tongue, valuable diction, Attic words, round periods, or bland harmony ; all which, according to the poet in the festivals of Bacchus, are " useless branches, idle garrulity, the muse of swallows, and the stains of art."
What is it then which is beautiful in discourse ? Some one may say. Do not yet ask me this, my friend, for you will see what it is when you are able to perceive it. For neither can any one relate to a Cimmerian the beauty of the sun, nor the sea to an inhabitant of the continent, nor the divinity to Epicurus. For narration does not proceed through messengers, but to the perception of these things science is requisite. As long, therefore, as knowledge is absent, it is necessary that judgment also should wander. Thus the traveller is an all-various, but the husbandman a sane in-
spector of the productions of tBe earth. One praises the flower of plants, another their magni-» tude or their shade, and another their colour; but the fruit is praised by the husbandman in conjunction with its use. If, therefore, some one after the manner of a traveller approaches to a dis« course, I do not envy him the pleasure of his hasty praise ; but if he draws near to it after the manner of a husbandman, I do not admit the praise till he informs me of the utiUty of that which he com^ mends.
Tell me, then, what fruits do you see and re* ceive in discourse, and how do they subsist? Have you tried, have you explored whether they are mature and prolific of other fruits ? Has any thing good and useful germinated from discourse in your soul * ? Pear, indeed, grows old upon pear, and apple upon apple, grape grows upon grape, and fig upon fig : shall the generation, therefore, of discourse be diurnal, and its fruit without seed ; and shall it neither nourish nor be mingled in the soul ;
But smoothly flow supemally like oil. f ?"
Narrate to me this agriculture, but dismiss praise, For if you take away utility I suspect the cause,
Maximus here alludes to the following lines in the Odyssey, lib. vii. V. 120. &c. ; which form a part of the description of the gardens of Alcinous :
'* Each droppmg pear a following pear supplies^ On apples apples^ figs on figs arise." Pope,
and I pity the praiser and blame the praise. The intemperate parts of the soul sound this praise, which are too weak to judge, and are naturally adapted to be deceived.
" They cried, no wonder such celestial charms, Trojans * and Greeks hav,e set so long m arms.*'
You see the depravity of this praise, which for one woman, and the pleasure resulting from her, procured Grecian and Trojan evils. Here, also, there is a praiser of this kind, when some one meeting with an intemperate discourse, is not acquainted with its fraud, but embraces its pleasantness, being gradually and silently hurried away by diurnal pleasures. Just as those, who sailing with a prosperous wind, but, wandering from their right course, fall, through the tranquil lapse of the sea, on desert shores or dangerous rocks. So, likewise, this praiser of an intemperate discourse is afterwards secretly led to ignorance, and then through pleasure to regions more solitary than every shore, and more dangerous than every rock ; delighted in his wandering, and rejoicing in the alluring art. Just as those who in a fever fill themselves with meat and drink contrary to the laws of art. For, adding evil to evil, and labours to disease, they chuse rather to be diseased with delight than to be well with labour. Some skilful physician, indeed, may mingle a short
Iliad, iii. ver. 156. These verses form a part of the praise given by the Trcjan senators to Jielen.
pleasure with the pain of the remedy ; but to impart pleasure, and this all-various, is not the prorince of Esculapius, nor of his descendants, but is the employment of cooks. And an intemperate discourse, indeed, is not in any respect more venerable than the adulations of the belly. For if you take away utility from discourse, and add delight, you give to it an unworthy and intemperate equality of honour, and equality of appellation with respect to every thing base, which accedes to the soul through the senses, and is introduced by pleasure.
Let us, however, dismiss to banquets these cooks, and these base ministers of the belly and the ears : for we require erect and elevated reason, which calls on us with a loud voice, and raises our souls, together with itself, above the earth, and all its pleasures and desires, ambitions and loves, and whatever is the attendant of anger, sorrow, and ignorance. To all these the true rhetorician ought to be superior, who is formed by philosophic discourse, and who is neither sluggish, Bor dissolute, nor decorated by art, nor alone calculated to give dubious aid in a court of justice ; but who has been tried everywhere and in every thing ; who in assemblies is a prudent coun- •ellor, in judicial processes a just contender, in public conventions a modest champion, in erudition a scientific teacher. Not one who is skilled to speak of Themistocles alone, who is no longer in being, nor of the Athenians who were contemporary with Themistocles, nor of some re-
nowned soldier, who is nowhere to be found, nor to plead the cause of an adulterer, having himself committed adultery, nor to defend insolent conduct, being himself insolent ; but one who is liberated from passions that he may become a true accuser of injustice. Such is the champion who is formed from a good palaestra, one who is fiill of arguments that are free from flattery, who has been sanely exercised, and who is able to lead every one near him by persuasion, and a force that astonishes.
But if in order to be thus led we require the assistance of pleasure and of Tyrtaeus*, let some one give me a pleasure such as that which is produced by a trumpet, a harmony arranged in the midst of the armed, and exciting the soul by its melody. • I require in discourse a pleasure of that kind, which pregerves its magnitude, but without the addition of infamy. I require a pleasure of such a kind as virtue will not disdain to have for her attendant. For it is necessary that the graces^ elegance, desire, delight, and all pleasant appellations should be co-arranged with every thing which is naturally beautiful. Thus the heavens are not only beautiful but the most delightful of spectacles ; the sea is adapted to navigation, cornfields are fructiferous, mountains are prolific in trees, meadows are florid, and streams flow.
Markland very properly conjectures, that instead of rv^otnov here as in the original, we should read Tv^reuot- For the verses of Tyrtaeus were cakulated to incite to warlike virtue.
Achines was a pleasant spectacle (for how could he be otherwise?) but not through his yellow hair, for the hair of Euphorbus* also was graceful ; but the beauty of Achilles was most delightful because it was enkindled by virtue. Among riyers the Nile is a most pleasant spectacle, but not through the abundance of its waters, for the Ister also is a well-flowing stream, but the Ister is not prolific like the Nile. The Nile is a most pleasant spectacle ; but I dare not, omitting the virtue of the God f, celebrate him for the pleasure which h^ affords. I also perceive pleasure in the statues of Phidias, but I praise the art by which they were produced ; and I see pleasure in the verses of Homer, but I praise them for something more venerable than delight. I do not, indeed, think that even Hercules himself lived without tasting and without partaking of pleasure ; and I am not, therefore, entirely persuaded by the narration of ProdicusJ. For there are masculine pleasures which sooth the pains of virtue; not such, indeed, as are perceived through the flesh, .or which flow into the soul through the senses ; but such as are spontaneous, and which rise within, when the soul is accustomed to rejoice in beautiful works, arguments, and pursuits. Thus Hercules rejoiced when he went into the fire ; thus Socrates . rejoiced when he staid in prison, and was obedi-
t The ancients called the power that immediately presides oyer the Nile, Osiris.
{ See the 4th Dissertation.
ent to the law, and drank the poison. Let us compare this cup of Socrates with that of Alcibiades *. Which of them drank with less pain, Alcibiades the wine, or Socrates the poison ?
Maximus here alludes to that bowl of eight cotylae (a cotyla was eight-twelfths of a peck) out of which the intoxicated Alcibiades drank at the feast of Agatho. See the Banquety in my translation of Plato's works.
DISSERTATION XVI.
IF THERE IS A SECT IN PHILOSOPHY^ ACCORDING
TO HOMER.
T WISH, according to the example of Homer himself, to invoke to this Dissertation some one of the gods, and perhaps the same fhat he invoked, the muse Calliope,
" The man for wisdom's various arts renown'd, Long exercis'd in woes, O muse resound *."
Not because he wandered through an inhospitable land, or sailed over a dangerous sea, or associated with savage men ; for these are the fabulous relations of Homer ; but he with hb soul, which is a light thing, and which wanders much more than the body, was carried about everywhere, and surveyed all things, the motions of the heavens, the calamities of the earth, the counsels of the gods, the natures of men, the light of the sun, the choir of the stars, the generations of animals, the flux and reflux of the sea, the gates of rivers, and the mutations of the air. To these we may add, poli-
tical, oeconomicaly warlike, peaceful, nuptial, agricultural, equestrian, and nautical concerns, all-various arts, words, and species, together with men lamenting, rejoicing, weeping, laughing, warring, raging, feasting, and sailing. So that I, when I peruse the poems of Homer, have not ability sufficient to praise the man ; but for this purpose I require of him to give me some verses, that I may not injure the praise by celebrating him in prose :
" Thee, Homer! more than man, the muse inspires. Or Phoebus animates with all his fires *.
But it is not lawful to suppose that the doctrine of the Muses and Apollo is any thing else than that through which the soul is elegantly arranged. And what else is this than philosophy ? And what else can we apprehend philosophy to be, than the accurate science of divine and human concerns, the supplier of virtue, beautiful reasonings, the harmony of life, and appropriate pursuits ?
But the sum of this science, which was formerly invested with all-various figures, exercised the souls of those that applied to it with pleasant disciplines; some celebrating their doctrines by the mysteries f and sacred ceremonies, others by fables, others by music, and others by divination. And advantage, indeed, was common to all of them,
These lines are a parody on those in Odyss. viii. ver. 437, See ver. 531. and 532. of Pope's translation.
t Maximus here alludes to what Protagoras sa)r8 in that dialogue of Plato which bears the name of this prince of the sophists.
but the form of their doctrine was peculiar. But in after-times, men becoming audacious through their wisdom, drew aside these veils of doctrine, and exhibited philosophy, naked, disgraced, common, and familiar to every one, being nothing more than the name of a beautiful employment wandering in miserable sophisms. Hence the verses of Homer and Hesiod, and all that ancient and divinely inspired muse, was considered as fabulous. Nothing was admired in them but the narration, the sweetness of the verses, and the elegance of the harmony, as in flutes and harps; but the beauty which they contain was overlooked, and the virtue which they are calculated to inspire was reprobated. Hence, too. Homer was expelled from philosophy, though the leader of philosophers. But from that time in which the sophisms from Thrace * and Celicia entered Greece, together with the atoms of Epicurus, the fire of Heraclitus, the water of Thales, the air of Anaximenes, the strife of Empedocles, the tub of Diogenes, aiid a numerous army of philosophers, singing the song of
Maximus here alludes to Democritus of Abdera, and Chrysippus of Solensis. Jt is justly observed by Simplicius, in his Commentaries on Aristotle's Physics, that with respect to these antient philosophers, some contemplated the intelligible, and others the sensible order of things. Some investigated the proximate, and others the more primary elements of bodies. Some, again, surveyed the more partial, but others the more total prerogative of an elementary nature. And, lastly, others, exploring all the causes and concauses of things, speak. diHerently from each other in physiologizing, at the same time that their assertions are not contrary to each other.
triumph in opposition to each other, — from thai time all things were full of words and whisperings, and sophists contending with sophists ; but there was a dreadful solitude of deeds; and the cele* brated sovereign good, for which the Grecian sages were so much at variance with each other, was nowhere to be seen.
That ancient wisdom, however, m which the verse of Homer is still powerful, nurtured and disciplined generous, true, and genuine pupils of philosophy. One of these was Plato. For though he banished his preceptor, I see the signs, I recognize the seeds of the master in the pupil :
^' Full shines the father in the filial frame. His port, his features, and his shape the same ; Such quick regards his sparkling eyes bestow ; Such wavy ringlets o'er his shoulders flow ♦♦"
So that I shall be bold to say that Plato is more similar to Homer than to Socrates, though he ex* pelled the former and pursued the latter. Do not think that I compare the words of Plato and his nouns and verbs with those of Homer ; (for the former, indeed, are derived from the latter, and are a defluxion from Homeric harmony, just as the Maeotis is from the ocean, as the Hellespont is from the Euxine, and our sea from the Hellespont,) but I compare doctrine with doctrine, and I see the alliance. And about this, indeed, I shall again
Odyss. iv. ver. U9. The above lines are ftom Pope's translation of the Odyssey.
M
speak ; but let us now return to the doctrine of Homer, and investigate what it may reasonably be supposed to be.
Homer, who possessed a genius most divinely inspired, a most skilful mind, and the most diversified experience, appears to me to have applied himself to philosophy, that he might pubUsh it to the Greeks, in that harmony which was then so much admired: and this harmony was poetical. But he was neither willing that this should be Ionic, nor accurately Doric, or Attic, but that it should be common to all Greece. As speaking therefore to all, he collected together the Grecian tongue, and mingled it into the form of verse, which might be alluring, and at the same time intelligible to all, and gratifying to every one. Perceiving, however, that among all men but few were intelligent, and that the greater part could only be led by popular arts, he did not divide his poems so as to be particularly adapted to either of these, after the manner of Hesiod*, who separately relates the race of heroes, beginning from women, and narrating the order in which each was born ; and who separately composed divine discourses, and together with these the generation of the gods. He also separately composed a poem on such things as are useful to the life of man ; viz. works which are to be performed, and days in which such works are to be executed. Not so the
Of those works of Hesiod, which are here enumerated by Maximus, his Works and Days, and Theogony, are unfortunately alone preserved.
poems of Homer; nor is each particular thus sepa« rately discussed, nor again are all things, without discrimination, mingled in all ; but fables compose the form of his work, which contains the Trojan transactions, and the calamities of Ulysses. But in these are mingled a manifest theology, the man* ners of polities, the virtues and depravities, the sufferings, calamities, and prosperities of men. Each too of these has an appropriate hypothesis ; just as if you conceive a certain instrument which produces every kind * of harmony, and emits allvarious voices, all of which accord with each other. Or rather, the poems of Homer may be compared to a collection of instruments, consisting of the sound of the flute, the pulsation of the lyre, and the song of the choir, together with which are mingled the trumpet and the pipe, and other instruments of different forms and appellations ; each of which is indeed fashioned according to an appropriate art, but is co-ordinated with its neighbour, according to a common muse.
In short, the poetry of Homer is just as if you conceive a painter to be a philosopher, as, for instance, Polygnotus or Zeuxis, not painting casually and in vain. For the design of these would be twofold ; one firom art and the other from virtue : by art, indeed, preserving the resemblance of figures and bodies with reality ; but by virtue giv-
The ancients appear to have had a musical instrument^ which, from its producing every kind of harmony, they called panarmonion, as I have shown from Proclus, in the additional notes to the first volume of my translation of Plato, p. 496.
ing the imitation of beauty to the elegance of the lines. Thus, also, consider the poems of Homer as having a twofold scope ; according to poetry arranged into the form of a fable, but according to philosophy, co-ordinated to the emulation of virtue, and the knowledge of truth. Immediately in the beginning of his Iliad, a Thracian young man and a sovereign are introduced, Achilles and Agamemnon ; the latter through anger being led to insolence, and the former through contumely to anger ; — images of the passions, of youth and power. Oppose to each of these Nestor, ancient by time, excelling in prudence, skilful in speaking. Again, Thersites is introduced by him, deformed to the view, with a reviling tongue, and disordered mantiers. Oppose also to him a good man, and a consummately skilfiil leader making his appearance.
" Each prince * of name, or chief in arms approv'd. He fir'd with praise, or with persuasion mov'd : But if a clamorous, vile plebeian rose. Him with reproof he check'd, or tam'd with blows."
Does not Socrates appear to you to do the very same thing, when he honours and receives royal and excellent men with bland words, such as Timaeus, or Parmenides, or some other royal guest ?
" But if ^ clamorous vile plebeian rose," This man he checked by his arguments, such as
Iliad ii. ver. 188. The above lines are from Pope's translation.
a certain Thrasymachus*, or Polus, or Callicles, or some other calumniator and trifler.
Let us, however, again return to Homer and his barbarians ; for here you will see virtue and vice opposed to each other ; Paris intemperate, but Hector temperate ; Paris a coward, but Hector brave. And if you consider their marriages, the one is to be imitated, the other to be pitied; the one is detestable, the other laudable ; the one an adulterous, the other a legal connection. Consider also the other virtues distributed among the men ; fortitude in Ajax, sagacity in Ulysses, confidence in Diomed, and prudent counsel in Nestor. Homer, therefore, represents Ulysses as an image of a worthy life and accurate virtue, in consequence of which he devotes to him one half of his writings. And these things, in fine, are brief ves* tiges of long narrations.
If also, besides this, it is requisite to adduce a few indications of Homer's opinion concerning the gods, let us compare the rest with one passage of Plato, as with an image, according to the custom of discourse, the more ancient with the more recent, since we may form a judgment from this. '' The mighty Jupiter in the heavens," says Plato t ; and he introduces Jupiter riding in a winged chariot, and leading the gods. But Jupi-
For the character of Thrasymachus see the Bepublic ; for that of Polus and Callicles, the Gorgias of Plato.
f Maximus here alludes to the Fhaedrus of Plato, of which see my translation.
ter in Homer thus speaks in the character of an emperor :
' My words let neither god nor goddess try
To frustrate ; but let all assent, that I
These works with rapid execution may complete **'
And after this his chariot is yoked for him, and the horses run
" Rapid, their curling manes adom'd with gold." For Neptune also a chariot is yoked in the sea :
'* His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep, Th' enormous monsters rolling o'er the deep Gambol around him on the watery way. And heavy whales in awkward measures play f .*'
Pluto in Homer has the third kingdom : for, according to him, all things are triply divided. And Neptune indeed is destined
" To dwell for ever in the hoary deep J."
But the lot of Pluto is to reign
« ■ in black obscurity ;"
And the abode of Jupiter is heaven. O just and philosophic division !
You will also find in Homer other principles and origins of all-various names, which are considered by the stupid as nothing more than fables, but are
f Iliad, xiii. ver. 27, &c. The above lines are from Pope'? translation.
J This and the following are in Iliad xv. ver. 189 ^
regarded by the philosopher as realities. There is also in him the principle of virtue, but it is called Minerva, and is present with its possessor in allvarious labours. There is likewise the principle of love, but it is ascribed to Venus, who presides over the cestus, and imparts desire. The principle of art too is to be found in him, but it is Vulcan who governs fire and communicates art. But with him Apollo rules over the choir, the Muses over the song. Mars over war, ^olus over the winds. Ocean over rivers, and Ceres over fruits ; and there is nothing in Homer without deity, nothing without a ruler, nothing without a principle, but all things are full of divine speeches, and divine names, and divine art. And if you look to the elements and the war of these, you will see a battle in the Trojan plain ; not of Trojans and Greeks, and of those that slaughter and are slaughtered, blood rumiinor in torrents on the around, but a battle betwcen fire and water ; the latter swelUng and resisting by the vehement and continued course of its waves, and the former falling with vigorous impulse on the whirlpools of the river, burning its hairs, and its beauty ; viz. its willows audits tamarisks, its lotus, and its bulrushes; and burning its vestments and its animated offspring :
' Now glow the waves, the fishes pant for breath. The eels lie twisting in the pangs of death : Now flounce aloft, now dive the scaly fry, Or, gasping, turn their bellies to the sky *."
And this battle would have been unceasing, but * Iliad xxi. ver. 353. The translation from Pope.
Juno reconciled the contending powers, and dissolved the strife, and conciHated the elements. But dismiss these enigmas, and consider things pertaining to yourself, and such as are human.
Here you will see the form of a polity, not devised in the Pirseum*, nor promulgated in Crete ; but under an heroic pretext indicated by a philo^ sopher, through an heroic institution : rulers operating themselves, but from previous consultation ; excellent generals engaging in battle; a chaste woman opposed to insolent young men ; a just king receiving a wanderer as his guest ; and a wise man opposing his art to all-various calamities. I will also show you other polities opposed to each other, which Homer fabricated in words, but Vulcan in gold. In the one there are marriages, the song, and the dance, kings judging, and the people attending to the decision :
" Another town fwo warring hosts embrace, f"
And if you do not believe in the fiction you will not doubt more true narrations. You will find then two insular cities, the one that of the Phaeacians, the other that of the Ithacensians ; in the one of which modesty rules, but in the other insolence. In the one, too, there are just kings, in the other unjust suitors. The one city venerates the king when he approaches as if he were a god ; in the
Maximus here alludes to Plato's Eepublic and Laws ; the scene of the former of wluch was the Pirxum, and of the latter Crete.
t Iliad xviii. ver, 509^
other stratagems are devised against the wife of the king. The end, likewise, of the one is perpetual hilarity, a life free from molestation, the exercise of hospitality, fleets of ships, and fruits of the earth ; but of the other sudden and general destruction in the midst of pleasure. This is the end of insolent depravity, and unrestrained authority. And with respect to Ulysses himself, do you not see how virtue, and the confidence which he acquires through her aid, preserve him, while he opposes art to all-various calamities ? This is the moly in the island of Circe, this is the fillet in the sea, this delivered him from the hands of Polyphemus, this led him up from Hades, this constructed for him a raft, this persuaded Alcinous, this enabled him to endure the blows of the suitors, the wrestling with Irus, and the insolence of Melanthius. This liberated his palace, this avenged the injuries of his wife, this made the man a descendant of Jupiter, like the gods, and such a one as the happy man is according to Plato.
DISSERTATION XVII.
WHETHER VIRTUE IS AN ART.
"IITHO will attend to the philosopher that says virtue is any thing else than art ? For scarcely will any thing else be art if virtue is not. Unless we should say, that a plough, and a shield, a ship, and a wall are the works of art, but that what uses and presides over these, and imparts the proper use of each to him who possesses them, and co-ordinates the advantage arising from all to a common end, is deprived of art. It would be a dire thing, O ye gods ! and more than dire, if the potter, the shoemaker, and the carpenter should each of them be disciplined in art, but the philosopher should be instructed indeed, and should have for his end virtue, but this should not be art, but a certain discipline learnt without art.
It is well : for you do not, by Jupiter, think absurdly nor without art. I, indeed, praise your art ; but let us see what the sum is of your assertion. A potter, you say, a shoemaker, and a carpenter, learn to effect their respective works by art. I
grant you this, that every artificer effects by art what he has learnt ; but the end of each art is not for one artist to learn his art from another. For discipline produces a succession of knowledge; but the use of art is not that art may be produced from art, but that a bowl may be effected by the potter, the harmony of the flute by the player on the flute, and victory by the general of an army. But to each of these something besides art is the end of art. It does not, however, immediately follow that what is not art is inartificial. For the inartificial is an ablation of art where art is requisite : but that is not art which is indeed produced by art, and yet is diffierent from art.
Do you think that I speak clearly, or shall I speak still more manifestly to you as follows ? You call a certain art that of medicine, and again another that of the statuary. And with respect to the end of each of these, medicine is not the end of the art of medicine, nor the making * a statue of the statuary's art ; but a statue is the end of the latter and health of the former. What then ? Do you think that virtue is any thing else than the health and elegance of the soul ? But thus consider the affair : To these three,^ the soul, the body, and a stone, attribute three arts. The matter of each of these is indigent of ornament ; but art, introducing to each its proper figure, invests the stone with rhythms and forms, in order that it may assume a shape, but the body with harmo-
That is> the end of the statuary's art does not consist in the opera/ion by which a statue is made, but in the statue when made.
nies and temperaments, in order that it may acquire the measure of health ; and the soul with symmetries and facilities of motion, in order that it may obtain the ornament of virtue. And though you should call some one of these art, and, through regard, should attribute the name of him who acts to him who makes, you will appear to me to do just the same thing as if you should call the splen* dor proceeding from the sun the sun itself; though it is a different thing, the work of, but not the sun.
Let us, however, consider what is said on both sides. And let us inquire what art is, and what virtue is. Do you think, then, that art is any thing else than reason proceeding to an end ? and which, indeed, through manual operation, effects a certain body, which we call a work. Thus, a house is the work of an architect, a ship of a shipwright, and a picture of a painter. But sometimes, again, it is effective of a certain action which is not accomplished without body ; such as, in the military art victory, in the medicinal art health, and in the political art justice. There is also a third species of arts, which consists in reason itself being occupied in and about itself without body ; such as are the geometrical and arithmetical arts, and such as have for their end that which is dianoetic *, and not that which is practical or effective. Be it so.
The dianoetic power of the soul is that which reasons scientifically, deriving the principles of its reasoning from intellect^ or that power by which we understand self-evident truths, and are able to energize with immediate vision about incorporeal forms.
Since then there are three genera of art, in which of them shall we rank virtue, if it is an art ? Shall we arrange it according to that which is effective ? You yourself Avill not say so. But will you admit of a contest between action and speculation ? I, indeed, take away neither of these from virtue ; but, mingling one with the other, I also add something else, and say, that what consists from all these is different from the particulars of which it is composed. Just as if some one should assert that the body of man is fire, or earth, or air, or, by Jupiter, water ; I, indeed, should say that it is neither of these : for that which is mingled from all things is not any one of the things from which it is mingled.
How is it, then, that virtue, since it participates of contemplation and action, is not an art ? Follow me in what I shall now say. But I shall say, that which is not my own assertion, but which is derived from the academy, is the intimate companion of the muse of Plato, and which Aristotle also himself admits. I can, likewise, refer it to a higher origin : for I suspect that it came to Athens firom Ital}', certain Pythagoreans * bringing this beautiful mercliandize into ancient Greece. The assertion is this: the soul of man, according to the first division, receives a twofold distribution ; and one part of it is reason, but the other passion. But when either of these subsists in a depraved
See the fragments of Theages and Metopus the Pythagoreans, preserved by Stobaeus. Serm. i. p. 7, 8, and 10 ; and afterwards edited by Gale in his Opuscula Mythologica.
condition, and is moved in a disordered manner, it is in short called by one most disgraceful name, vice. The fountains, however, and the generations of this base evil are from the inundation and influx of the other of the parts, when the passions boiling over, deluge the soul, and confoutid the blossoms and germinations of reason. For as winter torrents, swelling above their accustomed bounds, and pouring down on the cultivated lands of the husbandman, disturb both the safety and the ornament of his works, so the soul, through the immoderation of the passions, is forced to abandon its rational energies, and then false and depraved opinions rise in it with hostility contrary to its nature. And this indeed is the very thing which happens to the intoxicated : for satiety exciting the inward diseases, like serpents from their retreats, confounds the intellect, and compels it to utter the voices of these reptiles.
But, if you require a clearer image, let the depravity of the soul be assimilated to a certain ochlocracy * ; when all the worthy part of the city is compelled to be in a state of servitude, but tl>e stupid and all-various part attempts to govern, becoming, audacious through intrepid power. For it is necessary that a city of this kind should be lo- . quacious, divided into many parts, be subject to i many passions, and full of allvarious desires, be-
ing intemperate in pleasure, precipitate in anger, immoderate in honour, unstable in prosperity, and
That is, the government of a mob
with difficulty consoled in adversity. When Pe« ricles departs, Aristides is exiled, Socrates dicis, Nicias rises in arms, Cleon desires Sphacteria^ Thrasyllus Ionia, Alcibiades Sicily, or some other another land or sea ; and when the sluggish, disorderly, and mercenary multitude, who are led about everywhere, join with them in desire;— when this is the case, it is necessary that these desires should generate slavery, calamity, and knavery, and all absurd appellations. There are also in the soul many demagogues, and an intemperate people, many Alcibiades's and Cleons, whodo not suffer the miserable soul to be at rest, and to obey the law and reason which it contains. And this is the depravity of the polity in man.
But virtue, for the sake of which we have said so much, resembles on the contrary the Lacedemonian polity, in which the multitude is governed, but the few and the worthy govern. And the latter, indeed, save, but the former are saved ; the latter command, the former obey ; and that which is effected by both is liberty. But each is indigent of each, that which governs, of the governed, and that which is governed of the preservers. After the same manner with respect to the soul which is in a good condition ; reason saves, but the passions are saved ; and reason measures, but the passions are measured, and liberty is that which results from both. Arrange now the theoretic form of art according to reason, but that which is adorned by it according to the passions : and call the one which is science wisdom, but the other virtue, the
O0spring of science. But if you transpose the n^mesy and call science virtue, I shall ask you from what it is produced: for that will be science, and not the thing produced from it. Do you call science the art of arts? I hear you. The science of sciences ? I understand and admit what you say, if you only grant me a very trifling particular. Call art the art of arts, call sqience the science of sciences. Recede from the other part, and I assent to the assertion. But if, preserving science, and taking away the passions, you assign to science the proper form of these, you do just the same, as if some one, preserving the art of Phidias, but taking away the matter, should add to art the name of the matter. Are you willing that science should rule over a worthy life ? let reason have dominion. Are you willing that reason should ? let this then be the master,
To whom wise Saturn's son the sceptre gave *.
But what are the things over which it will have dominion ? What servants will you assign to it ? what manual artificers of actions? The body? Immediately see what yeu will do. You will leap over the rank of the governed, from the general to the pages of the army. Do you not see the order ? First the general, then the captains of the bands, after these the enomotarchsB f, then the heavy-
i" This was a militarj order among the Lacedaemonians : and they were thus denominated from swearing not to leave ^heir ranks. Etymologus.
armed s6ldiers, then those that are only armed with shields, and then the archers. Ministrant aid descends gradually from the whole to a part, from the most excellent to the most vile.
But I see this prompt objection. Divinity governs this universe beautifully, artificially, and scientifically. Why should he not ? What then, is science the more virtue on that account ? For if you call the iscience of divinity virtue, I shall not envy you the appellation. For there is not in divinity, as in man, one part which governs and another which is governed ; but he is something simple, and the same as intellect ^, science, and reason. But if in the mixture of the better with the worse you transfer the name of the governed to the better, I bear with this as far as to the word, but I do not assent to the thing. Call virtue, if you please, science, but do not call science virtue. For by Jupiter the opinion of that man is false and insecure, who is persuaded that the speculation of numbers f, and certain disciplines acceding to the soul, bring with them virtue. For if this were the case, the tribe of the spphists would be of inestimable worth, since it is distinguished for polymathy and loquacity, and is full of disciplines, which it vends to those that are in want of them. A market of virtue is exposed to the view ; the thing is venal.
This is a mistake of Maximus, which I have ahready noticed in the note to p. 11. For divinity is not only superintellectual> but is even superessential.
f Instead of dimtAoflm a^AfAMf I read dw^miM rtn »^i^fAW»
N
But if arguments are clear and at hand, and alt things are foil of teachers and disciplines, but at the same time troublesome and savage passions, base manners, unjust exercises, monstrous desires, and depraved education, inwardly resist the paths of reason, it is obvious, that a good natural disposition ^ is in the first place necessary, like a foundation to a rising wall. After this, education and custom are requisite to the preservation of such a disposition, through which friendship is ingenerated in the soul, which in process of time converts itself to every thing beautiful, and runs in conjunction with advancing age. To these also it is necessary that art should be added, that it may seal with stability the measures of the passions. Thus the soul will obtain felicity, and the life health, and right opinions will be produced, coarranged by harmony and an appropriate mixture. These are the things which divinity establishes by law, these render a man worthy ; the guidance of the passions by reason and a voluntary obedience to science. But depravity is an involuntary thing, which is hurried along by pleasure.
See the Meno of Plato.
DISSERTATION XVIII.
HOW A MAN MAY LIVE WITHOUT SORROW.
TN what manner may a man vindicate his soul from sorrow ? Or is not here a physician ne« cessary, as well as in the maladies of the body, and, besides a physician, certain remedies, and a diet well adapted to health ? Who, therefore, will be the physician of our soul, what are the remedies, and what the mode of diet which it requires ? I, indeed, through my regard for all ancient con<- cerns, do not divide these arts ; but I am persuaded by the poets that there was in Pelion a physician whom they called Chiron *, and whose art extended both to body and soul. For he brought
Chiron I according to &bles> was the son of Saturn> by the nymph Phil3rra, the daughter of Ocean* And it is said that Saturn, in order to elude Rhea, changed himself into a horse when he was connected with Philyra. Hence the up* per parts of Chiron, as far as to his navel, were those of a man, and his lower parts were those of a horse. Chiron, therefore, is the image of a man who lived in the confines of the kingdom of Jupiter and Saturn ; or, in other words, who lived a life partly consisting of the political, and paitfy of the intellectual virtues *, but yet so that he possessed the former ia
For in aooooDt of tbsse virtues seethe notes to 07 tnnilatio& of the Phadt of Plato.
the bodies of those who came to him to the highest degree of health, by exercising them in hunting, in journies on mountains, in the race, in sleeping on grassy beds, in eating rustic food, and in drinking river water. He also paid attention to their soul that it might not be in a worse condition than the body, by giving agility to its reasonings, and enabling it strenuously to resist the passions : and on this account he appeared to be a most skilful physician, and at the same time a most just man } poets celebrating one art by two names. But if in the present times this art is discordant with itself, let not this appear to you wonderful till you have shown me that the art is one and collected, and that it is not allotted as many parts as there are members of the body, of which one cures the eyes, another the back, and another a different part, in consequence of this being exposed to the danger of becoming entirely evanescent through a continual distribution into slender and ignoble parts : just as it happened, as they say, to the Macedonian empire, which, after Alexander, fell into the hands of many who were not reckoned worthy to possess the whole of his dominion.
greater perfection than the latter. For the fable, by asserting that his upper parts were human, signifies his hving according to the political virtues, of which Jupiter is the exemplar; •ince Jupiter is peculiarly Ttccrrt^ av}^v^ n dtoarrt, the father of gods and men. As Jupiter, therefore, is eminently a political god, man must partake m an eminent degree of apolitical life. But the lower parts of Chiron evidently partake of the nature of Saturn : and Saturn is the source of an intellectual life, which he causes to receive the most extreme division.
Why, however, have we introduced Chiron into our discourse? Consider with yourself whether in so doing we have acted improperly. For if you grant me that there is any malady of the body, and you certainly wiU, this if it enters the body with one impetus, and equally mingHng itself with the whole, disturbs its natural constitution, in the same manner as fire does iron, is properly called fire. But physicians, speaking diminutively, change the name, as if it would appear to us to be a less evil if it were not called ttu^, fire^ but ifxjqerogj & fever. Again, there is another kind of malady, when a part of the body is the cause and the fountain of disease ; but the evil hence originating, draws and divulses into a participation of the malady all the rest of the body. For thus the transition is most rapid from the diseased to the sound part, as is evident when the extremity of . the foot is hurt ; since in this case, as they say, the pain runs in a moment from the nails to the head. Do you think then this would happen unless the soul comprehended on all sides the whole body in its embrace, and was mingled with it in the same manner as light * with the air ? Or, rather, let us thus speak : as the smell of fiimiga-
The union of the wul with the body resembles the rising of the sun, which fills all things at once with light; For thus the soul at once enkindles life in the whole body, and vivifies it, in consequence of its being adapted to this union. As the life and power of the soul, however, are impartable, we must not conceive that in this union there are any divisible illumi-!' nations or participations: for the soul is present with the body unconnected with time.
dons extends to those at a distance, diffusing its fragrance through the intervening air ; or as co« lours, when they reach the eyes from afar, paint the air with their own nature ; thus also conceive that the soul is disused everywhere, and that no part of the body is without soul. The hairs and nails, however, must be an exception ; for they are analogous to the leaves of trees, since these are the most insensible parts of plants. The soul, therefore, thus subsisting with respect to the body, it becomes mingled with its pleasures and pains. And the pain indeed originates from the body, but the passion from the soul; and malady extends itself from both to the man. But again, there is a second malady opposite to the former, which originates from the soul and ends in the body, For when the soul is weary with pain, the body also is weary and wastes away, And* this it is, indeed, which sends the trickling tears from the eyes; -—this it is which causes the body to grow pale and become attenuated ; as in the pains which are pro^ duced by love, the afflictions arising from poverty, and the negligence occasioned by sorrow. Anger, too, rage, and envy, and other inordinate motions of the soul, are the sources of malady to the body. But why are these things mentioned by us? to show that pain being sent from the soul to the body, and being also produced from the body in the soul ^, one medicinal art is requisite to afree-
The motiont of the nutritive part, and the impulses of tense, are the causes of disturbance to the soul. We must ^oc^ however, suppose that the soul suffers any thing in realitjr
dom from pain, in the same manner as one art o( the pilot to a prosperous navigation through the Euripus. And after this manner let these things be rendered manifest. But who will tell us what the medicinal art is which can heal the dire maladies acceding on both sides ? (for I doubt whether any one skilled in this art like Chiron can be found) that I may become the possessor of twofold goods. And neither do I confide in the artifice (for the work is great and more lofty than Ossa and Olympus) nor entirely disbelieve in it. For what is it which the all-daring soul cannot accomplish when it is willing * ?
from these particulars. For, as Proclus, in his Commeiitary on the Timsus, beautifully observes, ** If some one, standing on the margin of a river^ should behold the image and form of himself in the floating stream, he mdeed will preserve his face unchanged ; but the stream, being ail-variously moved, will change the image, so that at different times it will appear to him different, oblique, and erect, and perhaps divulsed and continuous. Let us suppose, too, that such a one, through being unaccustomed to the spectacle, should think that it was himself that suffered this distortion, in consequence of surveying his shadow in the water, and thus thinkmg, should be afflicted and disturbed, astonished and impeded. After the same manner, the soul, beholding the image of herself in body, borne along in the river of generation, (i, e, the whole of that which is visible,) and variously disposed at different times, through inward passions and external impulses, is indeed herself impat* live, but thinks that she suffers ; and, being ignorant of, and mistaking her image for herself, is disturbed, astonished, and perplexed.
Agreeably to this, one of the Chaldaean oracles (as cited by Proclus in his book on Providence) tays, ^ Believe your-
Being situated, however, between belief and unbelief, through my ignorance on this subject, it appears to me that the strife may be dissolved as follows : I suspect, then, that there is one art, not indeed of the two ; viz. the soul and the body ; but which, by attending to the more excellent part, takes care of the deficiency of the other. For while I assert these things I recollect what Socrates says to Charmides*; not, indeed, the Thracian incantation, which he there mentions, but vice versa. For he says that the part must be healed in conjunction with the whole, and that it is impossible for safety to accede to a part before it has arrived at the whole ; speaking rightly, as I am persuaded, so far as pertains to the body ; but I say it is vice versa in the conjunction of the soul and body. For here, when the part is in a good condition, it is also necessary that the whole should be welL This, however, is not true of either of the parts indifferently, but only of that part which is the more excellent. For in the association of the subordinate with the more excellent, the forpier depends on the safety of the latter. Or does it appear to you that a man, whose soul is in a healthy condition, will be concerned about pain from wounds f, or from any other calamity which
ielf to be above body and you are." See my collection of those onurles in the Supplement to the third volume of The Monthly Magazine.
See my translation of the Charmides of Plato.
i* See an illustrious instance of the triumph of the soul over the maladies oTthe body in Plutarch's Life of Philopoemeh.
happens to the body ? By Jupiter, by no means. This is the medicinal art, therefore, which is to be inquired after and explored ; and this is the health which is to be imparted and investigated. For thus the body will be in a prosperous condition, or at least a contempt of every thing dreadful in it will be the result.
DISSERTATION XIX.
WHAT THE END OF PHILOSOPHY IS.
nPHE inhabitant of Crotoniatis * loves the wild olive, the Athenian a naval victory, the Spartan conquest in heavy armour, the Cretan hunting, the Sybarite luxury, the Theban the flute, and the Ionian the dance : and, further still, the mer« chant loves gold, the wine-bibber intoxication, the musician love, the songster melody, and the rhetorician orations. But with respect to this animal which they call a philosopher, is he a lover of nothing ? This, however, would be the life of a stone, and not of an animal, seeing, breathing, moving, and understanding, and possessing im« pulses, senses, and appetites. He aspires, indeed, after something, but that which he loves cannot be expressed by one name. He says, I am a lover of feUcity. Blessed are you indeed in your simplicity, if you think that any one from the catalogue of men admires the pursuits that are dear to him for their own sake, and not on account of
A country near Crotona; and Crotona is a town of Italy, still known by the same name^ in the Bay of Tarentum^ founded 759 years before the Augustan age by a colony from Achaia.
felicity; and that, when interrogated, one man would not say he contends, another that he labours, another that he wages war, another that he loves, another that he sings, and another that he speaks for the sake of feUcity alone. Or do you think that Sardanapalus himself, with his smooth body, emaciated eyes, and platted hair, who was buried in purple, concealed in his palace, and mingled with harlots, pursued any thing else than felicity ? for he was not willingly unhappy. But what ? Did the Persian *, who destroyed the temples of the Egyptians with fire, who reviled the sea, and immolated the ox Apis, did he pursue any thing else ? Certainly, he 'also perpetrated these things in consequence of hastening to felicity. For Xerxes appears to me to have contended with Jupiter concerning felicity, so large a portion of it had he received in his own opinion, because he had whipt the sea, and bound Asia to Europe with a diurnal bond, that of ships fastened together in the form of a bridge. And though Neptune in Homer claims an equality of honour with Jupiter^ yet by Xerxes, at least as he conceived, he is whipped and hurled into prison.
But why do I speak of barbarous kings ? Do you not see Pisistratus, a Greek, an Athenian, always running to the Acropolis, as if his felicity was
Mazimut here tpeaks of Cambytet> king of the Per* siansi whose impious deeds are related by Strabo, lib. xviL
seq.
there buried together with the ancient olive*; and though he was frustrated of his wish, }'et could not endure to live in quiet ? Neither, too, could the admonition from Egypt persuade Polycrates t not to think highly of himself on account of his felicity, because he was master of the Ionian sea, and possessed many three-ranked galleys, a beautiful seal, Anacreon as his associate, and Smerdies as the object of his love. It is likely, however, that potentates should be deceived by those specious evils, luxury and pleasure ; but will you not hear Hesiod celebrating the GEacidae as men,
whom war no less than banquets pleas'd ?"
And yet what is less grateful than war? This thing, however, though so unacceptable, has had lovers by no means vile, such as once was Philip ; who, though he might have remained in Macedonia, and lived in the possession of the goods of Amyntas and the felicity of Perdiccas, yet sought after happiness by a circuitous course, as if it were not to be found in the land of the Macedonians. Hence through this, as it seems, he warred on the
Maximus alludes to the olive, which Minerva is fabled to have produced. See Hyginus Fab. cixiv. and liban.
f A tyrant of Samos> remarkable for the continual flow of good fortune which always attended him. Amasis, king of the Egyptians^ was his monitor. See Herodotus^ iii. 40> 41. and
Triballi, invaded the Ulyrians, besieged Byzantium^ subverted Olynthus, deceived the Athenians, joined himself to the Thessalians, formed a league with the Thebans, captured Elatea, rose against the Phocenses, swore, lied, and was mutilated. There was nothing which was avoided by Philip, neither word, nor deed, nor disgrace, nor infamy. Let us ask Philip, what it is for which he undergoes such mighty labours and dangers, and mutilations of body. Are you a lover of infelicity ? the question is ridiculous. But Philip, it may be said, did not find the object of his search. I grant it : felicity, however, impelled him thus to act. Hence, too, Alexander, bidding farewel to Europe, as barren of good, passed over into Asia, suspecting * that he should find felicity either in Sardis, buried in fragments of gold, or in Caria, among the treasures of Mausolus, in the walls of Babylon, or the Phoenician ports, in the shores of the Egyptians, or the Ammonian f sands. But neither the flight of Darius satisfied him, nor the conquest of Egypt, nor his father Ammon, nor the capture of Babylon ; but he ran with his arms even to the Indies. Let us ask Alexander the
The design, however, of Alexander (with submission to Maximus) in all his conquests, appears to have been that of civilization, and of introducing among barbarous nations Grecian rites and customs ; as is shown, with great elegance and force of reasoning, by Plutarch, in his treatise on the fortune of Alexander.
t Maximus here alludes to the well-known expedition o€ Alexander to the temple of Jupiter Ammon.
cause of his expedition. What do you desire ? With what are you in love ? To what are you hastening ? Would his answer be any thing else than, to felicity ?
Let us, however, dismiss kings and potentates. Do you not see the same thing among the vulgar ? Do you not see how every man hastens on all sides to this ? For this, one man is occupied on the land, another is busily employed on the sea ; one man is anxiously engaged in war, another devotes himself to literature ; one takes a wife, another educates children ; one lives by rapine, another acts insolently ; this man is delighted to receive gifts, another to commit adultery, and another to act the part of a hireling. The multitude, too, proceed in dangerous and slippery paths, through precipices and profundities : and though some one may pity them, yet they are not ignorant of the dangers with which they are beset : and these, indeed, are ardent in their pursuits. But what will you say of the indolent and dissolute ? Do you think tJiat they abandon the hope of good ? By no means, by Jupiter. For, if this were the case, flatterers would not be subservient to the desires of the rich, nor would jesters strive to excite admiration and laughter, nor would mountebanks bend and distort their bodies, nor would any one, in short, earnestly engage in any undertaking, however vain it may be.
An Ionian came to Babylon to the great king, exhibiting a certain art remarkable for its contrivance : for, having made farinaceous little balls, he
threw them with so certain an aim, at a needle placed at a considerable distance, as to fix them on the point of it. And for this dexterity he thought no less highly of himself than Achilles did for his spear from Mount Pelion. In Lybia, too, there was a native of that country, whose name was Psaphon, a lover of no grovelling felicity, by Jupiter, nor of that to which the vulgar aspire : for he wished to appear to be a god. Hence, collecting together many singing-birds, he taught them to sing these words : " the great god psaphon!" and, after he had taught them, again sent them to the woods. Both these birds, therefore, and others, from being accustomed to the sounds, sang these words : and the Lybians, thinking that it was a divine voice, sacrificed to Psaphon ; and thus he became among them a god elected by birds. Nor was he, in my opinion, viler than the Persian * king, who was not adored by the Persians till he' was elected to empire by a wanton horse.
Darius, the son of Hystaspes, who conspired, with six other noblemen, to destroy Smerdis, the usurper of the crown of Persia, after the death of Cambyses. On the murder of the usurper the seven conspirators agreed that he whose horse neighed first should be appointed king. The groom of Da^ rius previously led his master's horse to a mare, at a place near which the seven noblemen were to pass. On the morrow, before sun-rise, when they proceeded all together, the horse, recollecting the mare, suddenly neighed ; and at the same time a clap of thunder was heard, as if in approbation of the choice. The noblemen then dismounted from theu* horses, and saluted Darius king.
Thusj then^ in human affairs^ one thing has no concord with another. All men, however, agree in one thing ; viz. a tendency to good, though they pursue it in many and all-various ways ; different men engaging in different actions, and partaking of a different cjestiny and fortune. And the desire of good, indeed, is common to all, but one man no more obtains the object of his investigation than another: just as those who in the dark search for silver and gold, not being able to try by sound that for which they search, but, forming an uncertain conjecture by the weight and the touch, fall on each other, no one daring to relinquish what he has got, lest it should be that which he wants, nor yet to cease from the labour of searching, lest he should not obtain it*. Hence tumult and contention arise, together with exhortations, and the voices of those that seek, groan, pursue, lament, seize, and plunder. And all, indeed, exclaim and exult, as having found the good which they sought, though no one possesses it, but through incredulity each explores what his neighbour has discovered.
This passion disturbs both the land and the sea, this convenes assemblies, this collects together courts of justice, this fills prisons, this builds ships, this brings forth three-ranked galleys, this
All men pursue good, either real or apparent ; but the multitude, who only pursue apparent, which at the same time they fancy to be real good, may be aptly compared, according to the simile of Maximus, to men searching for silver and goli in the dark.
composes the tumult of war, this places knights on their horses, charioteers in their cars, and tyrants in the acropolis. Through this foreign and hireling soldiers are collected :
' The men they kill, the town in ashes lay, And the fair dames and children lead away *."
And there are ten thousand other evils which men er\dure through no other cause than^thc hope and ignorance of good. For divinity implanted in the human race the expectation of good, as a certain spark, but he concealed the invention of it :
Its root is black, its flower is white as milk f.
For Homer will not deceive me by the name. I see the moly, I understand the enigma, and I clearly know how difficult it is for this thing to be discovered
" By mortals, but th' immortals all things know J."
But now Apollo speaks to men concerning an absurd kettle boiling in Lydia§; he speaks to them about a wooden wall ||, a narrow isthmus, a future earthquake, an impending war, and an
+ AyJ^okr* yi SyuTOio*** Scoi ^e ti v»rr» Juwwa*. Odyss. x. ver. 306. Maximus, therefore, in order to adapt this line to his purpose, for the last word iwotrrcu has substituted iouci,
§ Maximus alludes to the, story of Croesus ; for the particulars of which see the first Dissertation. II See the beginning of the third Disserution.
approaching pestilence ; but he does not deliver an oracle more venerable than these, how war may be prevented, how walls may be rendered unnecessary, how pestilence may not be dreaded. Apollo does not deUver oracles about these things frbm Delphi, nor Jupiter from Dodona, nor any other god from any other land, but philosophy alone predicts concerning them. O beautiful oracle, and most abundantly useful divination ! I shall believe in the prediction, if I find it is nbt dissonant. Deliver to me an according oracle; for I require such a divination as may enable me to live securely. Where then do you send the race of men ? In what paths ? To what end ? Let this end be one, let it be common. But now I see many colonies of philosophy sent different ways, just as Cadmus was sent to Boeotia, Archias * to Syracuse, Phalanthus f to Tarentum, Neleus J to Miletus, and Tlepolemus § to Rhodes. It is necessary, indeed, that the earth should be
Archias was a Corinthian, descended from Hercules. He founded Syracuse.
+ Phalanthus was a Lacedaemonian, who founded Tarentum in Italy, at the head of the Partheniae.
J Neleus, or N ileus, was a son of Codrus, who conducted a colony of lonians to Asia, where he built Ephesus, Miletus, Priene, Colophon, Myus, Teus, Lebedos, Clazomenae, &c.
§ A son of Hercules and Astyochia, bom at Argos. Festivals were established at Rhodes in his honour, called Tlepolemeia, in which men and boys contended ; and the victors in these contests were rewarded with poplar crowns.
distributed by places, and that different parts of it should be inhabited by different men ; but good is one, indivisible, abundant, unindigent, and sufficient to every rational and dianoetic nature ; just as one sun is the one good of a visible nature, one music of a nature capable of hearing, and one health of a nature invested with flesh. But with respect to other animals, one good is distributed to every herd for its preservation, and those of a similar species partake, with their like, of an equal life, and of one end, each with each, whether they fly, or walk, or creep, or live on flesh or grass ; whether they are gregarious, tame, or wild ; and Avhether they are horned, or without horns : and if you change the lives of these you act illegally towards nature. With respect, however, to the herd of men, which is observant of law, most mild, most social, most rational, there is not only reason to fear that vulgar desire, irrational appetites, and vain loves may dissolve and divulse it ; but philosophy, also, the most stable of things, produces many tribes, and ten thousand legislators, and thus divulses and disperses the herd, and sends its votaries to different pursuits ; Pythagoras to music, Thales to astronomy, Heraclitus to solitude, Socrates to love, Carneades * to ignorance,
Carneades was the founder of the third, or new academy, and contended that nothing could be known. It is here necessary to observe, that philosophy was only cultivated in purity and perfection by the intellectual philosophers, such as Pythagoras, Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, &c. But the other sects, as Philosophy in Boethius de Consolatione beautifully re-
Diogenes to labours, and Epicurus to pleasure. Do you not see the multitude of the leaders ? Do you not see the multitude of the standards? Where can any one turn himself? To which of these shall I betake myself. Which of their precepts shall I obey ?
marks, havmg^ in endeavouring to force her to their side, torn the garments which she wove with her own hands, departed with the fragments, vainly thinking they had obtained the whole of her. Let it also be observed, that the end of philosophy^ which Maximus has left undetermined^ is an assimilation to divmity \a as great a degree as is possible to man ; for with such an assimilation felicity is necessarily connected.
DISSERTATION XX.
WHETHER THE LIFE OF A CYNIC IS TO BE PRE- FERRED
T AM desirous, conformably to the "wisdom of the Lydian *, to compose for you a fable. The speakers in it, however, will not be a lion, nor an eagle, nor things still less vocal than these, oaks ; but they will be as follows : Jupiter was, heaven and earth, and the citizens of heaven, indeed, were the gods ; but men, the nurselings of the earth, had not yet emerged into light. Jupiter, therefore, called Prometheus, and ordered him to colonize the earth with an animal, simple, and approaching in his mind very near to the gods : but let its body, said he, be slender, erect, and full of symmetry, its countenance mild, its hands prompt to operation, and its step firm. Prometheus obeyed the mandates of Jupiter, made men, and with them colonized the earth. But they, after
i. e. j£sop : for though most ancient authors call Msop a Phrygian^ yet, as Markland well observes, since Lydia and Phrygia were neighbouring nations, it did not appear to the ancients to be of much consequence (conformably to their general custom) whether they called iBsop a Lydian or a Phrygian.
their birth, lived without diflSiculty ; for the earth supplied them with aliment, rich meadows, longhaired mountains, and abundance of fruits, such as she is accustomed to bear when undisturbed by husbandmen. The nymphs also supplied them with pure fountains, pellucid rivers, and easilypervious and copious sources of other streams. To these things also was added a bland heat from the sun, which afforded a solace to bodies by its circumfluent symmetry; and cooling breezes from rivers refreshed them in the summer. To the inhabitants of the earth, thus living in an abundant supply of spontaneous good, hostility was unknown. Poets appear to me. to be veiy near to this our fable, who obscurely signify that there was a life of this kind under Saturn, the king of the gods; a life without war, without iron, without a guard, peaceful, healthful, unindigent: and Hesiod, as it seems, (strenuously alluding to such a life as this) calls it the golden * age.
Here, however, let the fable end, and let our discourse, arising out of it, compare in its progress life with life, the latter with the former, whether some one may think proper to denominate it iron, or to give it some other appellation. When men,
Maximus is mistaken in his interpretation of the meaning of the golden age. For Hesiod by this intended to signify an intellectual life, because such a life is pure, impassive, and free from sorrow ; and of this impassivity and purity gold is an image, through its never being subject to rust or putrefaction. When any of the human species live a life of this kind on the earth, they are said to live under the dominion of Saturn, because Saturn is the first of the intellectual gods.
therefore, being allotted the earth, had distributed different portions of it among themselves, they enclosed themselves with fortifications and walls,, rolled soft bandages round their bodies, and defended their feet with skins. Some, too, adorned their necks, others their heads, and others their fingers with depending gold, an auspicious and pleasing bond. They also built houses, and devised valves, and halls, and vestibules. Hence, too, they began to molest the earth by digging into it for metals ; nor did they leave the sea undisturbed, but in this constructed boats, which might be the vehicles of war, or voyaging, or merchandize. The air, likewise, experienced their incursions : for this they plundered by ensnaring flocks of birds with bird-lime, and nets, and all-various devices. But they neither abstained from tame animals through their imbecility, nor from savage animals through fear, but through blood and slaughter, and alUvarious gore, pursued the gratification of the belly. They likewise always explored some novelty in pleasure ; and by despising ancient, and pursuing recent delight, they fell into misery. Hence they aspired after wealth, but always considered that portion of it which was present as indigence, when compared with that which was absent, and what they possessed as less than what they expected ; fearing poverty, but incapable of being filled ; dreading death, but neglecting the care of life ; and shunning diseases
Mark land justly observes^ that this description of human folly appears to be taken from the beautiful epistle of Hippocrates to Damagetus concerning Democritus.
but not abstaining from noxious aliment. They also suspected others, and devised stratagems against many. They were dreadful to the unarmed, but timid towards the armed ; and though they hated tyranny they desired themselves to tyrannise. They blamed base actions, but did not abstain from them. They admired prosperity, but did not admire the virtues y and they commiserated misfortunes, but did not avoid improbity. When their affairs were attended with success they were audacious, but when they were adverse they were dejected. They proclaimed, indeed, the dead to be blessed, but yet were anxious to live. And again, they hated to live, and yet dreaded to die. They were averse to war, and yet unable to live in peace. In a state of servitude they were abject, but in liberty they were confident. In a democracy they were dissolute, but in a tyranny timid. They desired children, but neglected them when they had them. They prayed to the gods, as to those who were able to supply their wants, and yet despised them, as if they were unable to punish. And again, they dreaded them as avenging powers, but violated their oaths, as if the gods had no existence.
Such, thea, bemg the sedition and discord with which this second life is replete, to which kind of life shall we give the palm of victory ? Which of them shall we say is simple, prosperous, and full of liberty ? and, on the contrary, which of them is not simple, but compelled, lamentable, and full of misfortune ? Let two men then approach, one from each of these, to our discourse as an arbi-
ter ; and let it interrogate each of these, and, in the first place, him from the former life, that naked man, who was without a house and without art, the citizen and inhabitant of the whole earth. But let us ask him, (opposing to him the life and manners of the second) whether he chuses to continue in the possession of his pristine nutriment and freedom, or, receiving the pleasures of the other life, to possess the molestations with which they are attended ? After this man let the other approach, and let the judge oppose to him the diet and liberty of the former, and ask him whetlier he chuses to remain as he is, or to change his condition, and transfer himself to that peaceful and unrestrained life, which is void of fear, and unattended with pain ? Which of the men will abandon his place of abode ? Which of them will change life for life ?
What man, therefore, is so stupid, inelegant, and unhappy , as, through the love of trifling and diurnal pleasures, ambiguous good, immanifest hope, and dubious prosperity, not to migrate, nor transfer himself to acknowledged felicity; especially, since he knows that by the change he shall be liberated from a multitude of evils which adhere to the second life, and is not ignorant how uncertain, unhappy, and very unfortunate these evils render the condition of living ? So that I shall assimilate each of these lives, and, in the first place, this which is so noble and all-various, to a dreadful prison of unhappy men, confined in a dark recess, with large iron fetters round their feet, a great weight about their neck, and a troublesome
bond hanging from their hands, and thus passing their time in filth, in torment, and in weeping *. Through time, however, and custom, they devise for themselves in the prison certain felicities, and means of procuring tranquillity, by sometimes becoming intoxicated, singing all together, distending their belly with food, and indulging in venery ; though neither can they be quietly filled with these, through fear, through distrusting their felicity, and through the recollection of their present evils ; so that you may hear the prison, at one and the same time, resounding with lamientation and singing, with groans and joyful paeans. On the contrary, I assimilate the other life to a man passing his time in pure light, whose hands and feet are free, who can turn his neck everywhere, can extend his eyes to the sun, survey the stars, distinguish night from day, expect the seasons of the year, feel the winds, and inhale pure and free air. At the same time, however, he is deprived of those pleasures which subsisted in conjunction with bonds, so that he neither becomes intoxicated, nor indulges in venery, nor pampers his appetite, nor groans, nor sings the song of triumph, nor laments, nor is satiated, but, merely satisfying the w^ants of nature, his belly is in an attenuated and temperate condition. Which of these images
In the original ^vriofjuvuv, ahstersorum^ which certainly has no meaning here. It is singular that neither Mark land, nor Davis, nor Reiske should have consulted the version of Paccius in this place : for it is evident that in his manuscript he found o^i;^o/A{ya;y, as he has fientes here, which is, doubtless^ the true reading.
shall we proclaim blessed, which of the lives shall we bewail, which of them shall we chuse ? Will it be that which is confined in a prison, which is mixed and obscure, and which is ensnared by bitter and lamentable pleasures :
" Where joyful shouts and groans promiscuous rise *"
of men rejoicing and at the same time lamenting. Far be it from thee, O miserable soul !
Let us, however, leave these images together with fables, and direct our attention to a man, who did not live under the reign of Saturn, but in the midst of this iron f race, and who was made free by Jupiter and Apollo. But this man was jieither Attic nor Doric ; he was neither a pupil of Solon, nor formed from the discipline of Lycurgus, (for neither places nor laws elect the virtues) but he was from Sinope, in Pontus; and, having consulted with Apollo, he divested himself of all calamitous circumstances, liberated himself from his fetters, and travelled round the earth without restraint, like a bird endued with intellect, fearing no tyrant, compelled by no law, employed by no polity, neither oppressed by the education of children, nor suffering restraint through wedlock, nor detained by agriculture, nor disturbed by military affairs, nor driven from place to place by merchandize ; but he derided all who are thus employed and their pursuits, just as we do little children, when we see them seriously employed" about their
t As by the golden age an intellectual life is signified, so by the iron age a life eminently corporeal, dire, and tyrannic, it implied.
play-thingS) and striking and plundering eacli otlier. He, indeed, lived the life of a fearless and free king, not passing his time during the winter in Babylon ^, nor fatiguing himself in summer among the Medes ; but, together with the seasons of the year, he passed over from Attica to the Isthmus, and again from the Isthmus to Attica. His kingdoms were temples, and gymnasia, and sacred groves, and his wealth was the most abundant, the most secure, and the most free from stratagems ; for it consisted of the whole earth and its fruits, together M'ith fountains, the offspring of the earth, more copious than all the Lesbian and Chian wine. He was also a friend, and accustomed to the air, after the manner of lions, nor did he withdraw himself from the seasons appointed by Jupiter, nor attempt to oppose him, by contriving bland heat in winter and refrigeration in summer ; but he was so accustomed to the nature of the universe that from this mode of living he became healthy and strong, and old in the extreme ; neither being in want of medicine, nor sword, nor fire, nor Chiron, nor Esculapius, nor his descendants, nor the oracles of diviners, nor the lustrations of priests, nor the incantations of sorcerers. When Greece also was at war, and all were attacking all,
Each now contends with each in dreadful fight f/
He alone formed a league, being unarmed among the armed, and a confederate with all that were at war. From him the unjust, tyrants and syco-
ITiis was the custom of the Persian kings.
phants refrained their hands. For he confuted indeed, the depraved, yet not with the sophisms of words, which form the most troublesome kind of confutation, but by the example of his daily actions, this being the most useful and the most peaceful of reprehensions. Hence neither did any Melitus, nor Aristophanes, nor Anytus, nor Lycon, rise against Diogenes.
How is it possible, therefore, that such a life as this should not have been preferred by Diogenes, which he voluntarily chose, which Apollo had given him, which Jupiter applauded, and which those endued with intellect admire ? Or do we think that adverse circumstances are any thing else than the use of action not voluntarily chosen by the possessor ? Ask him who has a wife, on what account he married, he will answer, for the sake of children. Ask him who educates his children, on what account he begot them, he will reply, for the sake of succession. Ask the soldier, why he fights, he will say, that he may increase his fortune; the husbandman, why he is busied in agriculture, he will say, for the sake of fruits ; the merchant, why he engages in traffic, he will reply, for the sake of opulence ; and the statesman, why he gives himself up to politics, and he will say, for the sake of honour. Of these loves, however, most are abortive and end in the contrary ; and prosperity is the work of fortune *, not of coun-
In the original tvxn^t l>ut the sense evidently requires we should read rvxni l and this emendation is confirmed by the version of Paccius. This^ however, is not noticed by any of the editors of Mazimus.
scl or art. But every one who makes these things the object of his choice passes through Hfe in- Tolved in a certain calamity, and endures misery which is voluntary, and which does not arise from an ignorance of self-eligible goods. For who among these will any one say is free ? The demagogue ? You speak of the slave of many despots. The rhetorician ? You speak of the slave of bitter judges. The tyrant ? You speak of the slave of intemperate pleasures. The leader of an army ? You speak of the slave of uncertain fortune. The sailor ? You speak of the slave of unstable art. The philosopher ? Of which among them do you speak ? For I praise, indeed, Socrates, but I hear him saying : " I obey the laWj I willingly go to prison, and I wiUingly drink the poison." O Socrates, do you see what you say ? Willingly or unwillingly do you oppose yourself in so becoming a manner to adverse fortune ? You reply, in obedience to the law. But to what law ? For if to that of Jupiter I praise the legislator; but if to that of Solon, in what was Solon better than Socrates * ? Let Plato also answer me for philosophy, if no one disturbed him ; neither the exile of Dion, nor the threats of Dionysius, nor the Sicilian and Ionian seas, tlirough which he was compelled repeatedly to sail. And, if I pass on to Xenophon, I see also his life full of wandering, of ambiguous fortune, necessary mili-
Socrates obeyed the law, not because it was made by Solon ^ but because it was the law of his country, to which a good man, in circumstances like those of Socrates, will always be obedient. See my translation of the Apology of Socrates.
tary expeditions, involuntary command of armies, and dignified exile. I say, therefore, that all these calamities are avoided by that life, through which Diogenes was more elevated than Lycurgus and Solon, Artaxerxtjs, and Alexander, and more free than Socrates himself, since he was neither led to a court of justice, nor detained in prison, nor celebrated from calamities *.
^ If the practical was the sublimest form of life, Diogenes, who appears to have excelled all men i^ a life of this kind, would be the prince of philosophers ; but as the contemplative is far superior to the practical life, Diogenes was inferior to Plato and other heroes of the intellectual choir. If, indeed^ the intellectual virtues could be obtained and exercised in conjunction with a cynic life, every truly wise man would immediately become a cynic ; but as such a lif;e requires to its perfection some portion of the goods of fortune, this conjunction is impossible.
ADDITIONAL NOTES.
VOL. I.
r. 8. — Shall not we also ascending by reasoning into a certain elevated part of the soul dare to survey the footsteps of deity, ^c.
That the reader, whose intellectual eye is capable of gaining a glimpse of the ineffable principle of things, may see what are the steps which will scientifically lead him to this most arduous and most felicitous vision, the following extract from the General Introduction to my translation of Plato's Works, it earnestly recommended to his most serious attention. This, at well as other extracts from the abovementioned work, are given in these additional notes, not only on account of their great excellence and importance, all of them being derived from ancient sources, but also for the sake of those who have not that work in their possession.
" Let us therefore investigate what is the ascent to the ineffable, and after what manner it is accomplished according to Plato, from the last of things, following the profound and most inquisitive Damascius"^ as our leader in this arduous investigation. Let our discourse also be common to other principles, and to things proceeding from them to that which is last ; and let us, beginning from that which is perfectly effable, and known to sense, ascend to the ineffable, and establish in silence, as in a port, the parturitions of truth concerning it. Let us then assume the following axiom, in which, as in a secure vehicle, we may safely pass from hence thither. I say, therefore, that the unindigent is naturally prior to the indigent. For that
This most excellent philosopher, whose MS. treatise mt^t o,^{tn it a treasury of divine science and erudition, is justly called by Simplicius ftjTi5(iwTa7of, most inquisitive. See a very long and beautiful extract from this work in (he additional notes on the third volume of my Plato.
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which is in want of another, is naturally adapted from necessity to be subservient to that of which it is indigent. But if they are mutually in want of each other, each being indigent of the other in a different respect, neither of them will be the principle. For the unindigent is most adapted to that which is truly the principle. And if it is in want of any thing, according to this, it will not be the principle. It is, however, necessary that the principle should be this very thing, the principle alone. The unmdigent, therefore, pertains to this, nor must it by any means be acknowledged that there is any thing prior to it. This, however, would be acknowledged, if it had any connection with the indigent.
Let us then consider body, that is a triply extended substance, endued with quality ; for this is the first thing effable by us, and is sensible. Is this then the principle of thbgs.^ But it is two things, body, and quality which is in body as a subject. Which of these, therefore, is by nature prior ? For both are indigent of their proper parts: and that also which is ia a subject is indigent of the subject. Shall we say then that body it* self is the principle and the first essence ? But this is impossible. For in the first place, the principle will not receive any thing from that which is posterior to itself. But body, we say, is the recipient of quality. Hence quality, and a subsistence in conjunction with it, are not derived from body, since quality is present with body as something different. And in the second place, body is every way divisible, its several parts are indigent of each other; and the whole is indigent of all the parts. As it is indigent, therefore, and receives its completion from things which are indigent, it will not be entirely unindigent.
Farther stilly if it is not one but united, it will require, as Plato says, the cotmecting one. It is likewise something common and formless, being as it were a certain matter. It requires therefore ornament, and the possession of form, that it may not be merely body, but a body with a certain particular quality ; as for instance, a fiery or earthly body, and in short, body adorned and invested with a particular quality. Hence the things which accede to it finish and adorn it. Is then that which accedes the principle ? But this is impossible. For it does not abide in itself, nor does it subsist alone, but is in a subject, of which also it is indigent. If, however, some one should assert, that body is not a subject, but one of the elements in each, as
for instance^ animal in horse and man, thus also each will be indigent of the other, viz. this subject and that which is in the subject ; or rather the common element, animal, and the peculiarities, as the rational and irrational, will be indigent. For elements are always indigent of each other, and that which is composed from elements is indigent of the elements. In short, this sensible nature, and which is so manifest to us, is neither body; for this does not of itself move the senses; nor quality ; for this does not possess an interval commensurate with sense. Hence, that which is the object of sight, is neither body nor colour; but coloured body, or colour corporalized, is that which is motive of the sight, and universally that which is sensible, which is body with a particular quality, is motive of sense. From hence it is evident that the thing which excites the sense is something incorporeal. For if it was body, it would not yet be the object of sense. Body therefore requires that which is incorporeal, and that which is incorporeal, body. For an incorporeal nature is not of itself sensible. It is however different from body, because these two possess prerogatives different from each other, and neither of these subsists prior to the other; but being elements of one sensible thing, they are present with each other ; the one imparting interval to that which is void of interval, but the other introducing to that which is formless, sensible variety invested with form, in the third place, neither are both these together the principle ; since they are not unindigent. For they stand in need of their proper elements, and of that which conducts them to the generation of one form. For body cannot effect this, since it is of itself impotent, nor quality, since it is not able to subsist separate from the body in which it is, or together with which it has its being. The composite therefore either produces itself, which is impossible, for it does not converge to itself, but the whole of it is multifariously dispersed, or it is not produced by itself, and there is some other principle prior to it.
Let it then be supposed to be that which is called nature, being a principle of motion and rest, in that which is moved and at rest, essentially and not according to accident. For this is something more simple, and is fabricative of composite forms. If, however, it is in the things fabricated, and does not subsist separate from nor prior to them, but stands in need of them for its being, it will not be unindigent; though it possesses some-
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thing transcendent with respect to them, viz. the power of fashioning and fabricating them. For it has its being together with them, and has in them an inseparable subsistence; so that when they are it is, and is not when they are not, and this in consequence of perfectly verging to them, and not being able to sustain that which is appropriate. For the power of increasing, nourishing, and generating similars, and the one prior to these three, viz. nature, is not wholly incorporeal, but is nearly a certain quality of body, from which it alone differs, in that it imparts to the composite to be inwardly moved and at rest. For the quality of that which is sensible imparts that which is apparent in matter, and that which falls on sense. But body imparts interval every way extended ; and nature, an inwardly proceeding natural energy, whether according to place only, or according to nourishing, increasing, and generating things simi" lar. Nature however is inseparable from a subject^ and is indigei^t so that it \yill not be in short the principle, since it is indigent of that which is subordinate. For it will not be wonderful, if being a certain principle it is indigent of the principle above it; but it would be wonderful, if it were indigent of things posterior to itself, and of which it is supposed to be the principle.
By the like arguments we may show that the principle cannot be irrational soul, whether sensitive^ or orectic. For if it appears that it has something separate, together with impulsive and gnostic energies, yet at the same time, it is bound in body, and has something inseparable from it ; since it is not able to convert itself to itself, but its energy is mingled with its subject. For it is evident that its essence is something of this kind ; since if it were liberated, and in itself free, it would also evince a certain independent energy, and would not always be converted to body ; but sometimes it would be converted to itself. Or, though it were always converted to body, yet it would judge and explore itself. The energies therefore of the multitude of mankind, though they are conversant with externals, yet at the satne time they exhibit that which is separate about them. For they consuh how they should engage in them, and observe that deliberation is necessary, in order to effect or be passive to apparent good, or to decline something of the contrary. But the impulses of other irrational animals are uniform and spontaneous, are moved together with the sensible organs,
and require the senses alone that they may obtain from sensibles the pleasurable, and avoid the painful. If, therefore, the body communicates in pleasure and pain, and is affected in a certain respect by them, it is evident that the psychical energies (i. e. energies belonging to the soul) are exerted, mingled with bodies, and are not purely psychical, but are also corporeal ; for perception is of the animated body, or of the soul corporalized, though in such perception the psychical idiom predominates over the corporeal ; just as in bodies the corporeal idiom has dominion according to interval and subsistence. As the irrational soul therefore has its being in something different from itself, so far it is indigent of the subordinate. But a thing of this kind will not be the principle.
Prior then to this essence, we see a certain form separate from a subject, and converted to itself, such as is the rational nature. Our soul, therefore, presides over its proper energies, and corrects itself. This however would not be the case, unless it was converted to itself. And it would not be converted to itself, unless it had a separate essence. It is not, therefore, indigent of the subordinate. Shall we then say, that it is the most perfect principle ? But it does not at once exert all its energies, but is always indigent of the greater pan. The principle, however, wishes to have nothing indigent. But the rational nature is an essence in want of its own energies. Some one, however, may say that it is an eternal essence, and has never failing essential energies, always concurring with its essence, according to the self-moved and ever vital, and that it is therefore unindigent, and will be the principle. To this we reply, that the whole soul is one form and one nature, partly unindigent and partly indigent ; but the principle is perfectly unindigent. Soul, therefore, and which exerts mutable energies, will not be the most proper principle. Hence it is necessary that there should be something prior to this, which is in every respect immutable, according to nature, life, and knowledge, and according to ail powers and energies, such as we assert an eternal and immutable essence to be, and such as is much-honoured intellect, to which Aristotle having ascended, thought he had discovered the first principle. For what can be wanting to that which perfectly comprehends in itself its own plenitudes (wXngwiucaTa), and of which neither addition nor ablation changes any thing belonging to it ? Or is
not this also^ one and many, whole and parts, containing in itself, things first, middle, and last ? The subordinate plenitudes also stand in need of the more excellent, and the more excellent of the subordinate, and the whole of the parts. For the things related are indigent of each other, and what are first of what are last, tlirough the same cause ; for it is not of itself that which is first. Besides, the one here is indigent of ike manyy because it has its subsistence in the many. Or it may be said^ that this one is collective of the many, and this not by itself, but in conjunction with them. Hence there is much of the indigent in this principle. For smce intellect generates in itself its proper plenitudes, from which the whole at once receives its completion, it will be itself indigent of itself, not only that which is generated of that which generates, but also that which generates of that which is generated, in order to the whole completion of that which wholly generates itself. Farther still, intellect understands and is understood, is mtellective of, and intelligible to itself, and both these. Hence the intel« lectual is indigent of the intelligible, as of its proper object of desire; and the intelligible is in want of the intellectual, because it wishes to be the intelligible of it. Both also are indigent of either, since the possession is always accompanied with indigence, in the same manner as the world is always present with matter. Hence a certain indigence is naturally co-essentiallized with intellect, so that it cannot be the most proper principle. Shall we therefore, in the next place, direct our attention to the most simple of beings, which Plato calls the one being, ly oy ? For as there is no separation there throughout the whole, nor any multitude, or order, or duplicity, or conversion to itself, what indigence will there appear to be in the perfectly united ? And especially what indigence will there be of that which is subordmate ? Hence the great Parmenides ascended to this most safe principle, as that which is most unindigent. Is it not, however, here necessary to attend to the conception of Plato, that the united is not the one itself, but that which is passive^ to it > And this being the case, it is evident that it ranks after the one ; for it is supposed to be the united, and not the one itself. If also being is composed from the elements bound and infinity, as appears from the Philebus of Plato,
See the Sophista of Plato, where this is asserted.
where he calls it that which is mixt, it will be indigent of its elements. Besides, if the conception of being , is different from that of being united, and that which is a whole is both united and being, these will be indigent of each other, and the whole which is called one being is indigent of the two. And though the one in this is better than beings yet this is indigent of being, in order to the subsistence of one being. But if being here supervenes the one, as it were form in that which is mixt and united, just as the idiom of man in that which is collectively rational— mortal — animal, thus also the one will be indigent of being. If however, to speak more properly the one is twofold, this being the* cause of the mixture, and subsisting prior to being, but tAat conferring rectitude on being — if this be the case, neither will the indigent perfectly desert this nature. After all these, it may be said that the one will be perfectly unindigent. For neither is it indigent of that which is posterior to itself for its subsistence, since the truly one is by itself separated from all things ; nor is it indigent of that which u inferior or more excellent in itself ; for there is nothing in it besides itself ; nor is it in want of itself. But it is one, because neither has it any duplicity with respect to itself. For not even the relation of itself to itself must be asserted of the truly one ; since it is perfectly simple. This, therefore, is the most unin^igent of all things. Hence this is the principle and the cause of all ; and this is at once the first of all things. If these qualities, however, are present with it, it will not be the one. Or may we not say that all things subsist in the one according to the one f And that both these subsist in it, and such other things as we predicate of it, as for instance, the most simple, the most excellent, the most powerful, the preserver of all things, and the good itself? If these things however are thus true of the one, it wiU thus also be indigent of things posterior to itself, according to those very things which we add to it. For the principle is, and is said to be the principle of things proceeding from it, and the cause is the cause of things caused, and the first is the first of thmgs arranged posterior to it*. Farther still, the simple subsists according to a transcendency of other things, the most powerful according to power with relation to die tub
For a thing cannot be said to be a prindple or cause without the subsistence of the things of which it is the principle or cause. ' Hence so far as it is a principle or cause it will be indigent of the snbtistence of
these.
jectf of it ; and the good^ the desirable, and the preserving, are 80 called with reference to things benefitted, preserved, and desuing. And if it should be said to be all things according to the pre-assumption of all things in itself, it will indeed be said to be so according to the one alone, and will at the same time be the one cause of all things prior to all, and will be this and no other according to the one. So far, therefore, as it is the one alone, it will be unindigent ; but so far as unindigent, it will be the first principle and stable root of all principles. So far, however, as it is the principle and the first cause of all things, and is pre-established as the object of desire to all things, so far it appears to be in a certain respect indigent of the things to which it is related. It has, therefore, if it be lawful so to speak, an ultimate vestige of indigence, just as on the contrary matter has an ultimate echo of the unindigent, or a most obscure and debile impression of the one. And language indeed appears to be here subverted. For so far as it is the one, it is also unindigent, since the principle has appeared to subsist according to the most unindigent and the one. At the same time, however, so far as it is the one, it is also the principle ; and so far as it is the one, it is unindigent, but so far as the principle, indigent. Hence so far as it is unindigent, it is also indigent, though not according to the same ; but with respect to being that which it is, it is unindigent ; but as producing and comprehending other things in itself it is indigent. This, however, is the peculiarity of the one ; so that it is both unindigent and indigent according to the one. Not indeed that it is each of these, in such a manner as we divide it in speaking of it, but it is one alone ; and according to this is both other things, and that which is indigent. For how is it possible it should not be indigent also so far as it is the one? just as it is all other things which proceed from it. For the indigent also is something belonging to all things. Something else therefore must be investigated which in no respect has any kind of indigence, fiut of a thing of this kind, it cannot with truth be asserted that it is the principle, nor can it even be said of it that it is most unindigent, though this appears to be the most venerable of all assertions^. For this signifies transcendency, and an exemp-
See the extracts from Damascius, in the additional notes to the third volume of my Plato, which contain an inestimable treasury of the most profound conceptions concerning the ineffable.
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tion from the indigent. We do not, however, think it proper to call this even the perfectly exempt; but that which is in every respect incapable of being apprehended, and about which we must be perfectly silent, will be the most just axiom of our conception in the present investigation ; nor yet this as uttering any thmg, but as rejoicing in not uttering, and by this venerating that immense unknown. This then is the mode of ascent to that which is called the first, or rather to that which is beyond every thing which can be conceived, or become the subject of hypothesis.
There is also another mode, which does not place the unindigent before the indigent, but considers that which is indigent of a more excellent nature, as subsistmg secondary to that which is more excellent. Every where then that which is ia capacity is secondary to that which is in energy. For that it may proceed into energy, and that it may not remain in capacity in vain, it requires that which is in energy. For the more excellent never blossoms from the subordinate nature. Let this then be previously defined by us, according to common unper* verted conceptions. Matter, therefore, has, prior to itself, material form ; because all matter is form in capacity, whether it be the first matter which is perfectly formless, or the second which subsists according to body void of quality, or in other words, mere triple extension, to which it is likely those directed their attention who first investigated senslbles, and which at first appeared to be the only thing that had a subsistence. For the existence of that which is common in the different elements, persuaded them that there is a certain body void of quality. But since among bodies of this kind, some possess the governing principle inwardly, and others externally, such as things ar» tificial, it is necessary besides quality to direct our attention to nature, as being something better than qualities, and which is pre-arranged in the order of cause, as art is of things artificial. Of things, however, which are inwardly governed, some appear to possess being '^lone, but others to be nourished and increased, and to generate things similar to themselves. There is, therefore, another certain cause prior to the above mentioned nature, viz. a vegetable power itself. But it is evident tliat all such things as are ingenerated in body as in a subject, are of themselves incorporeal, though they become corporeal, by the participation of that in which they subsist, to that they are said
to be and are material in consequence of what they suffer from matter. Qualities^ therefore, and still more natures, and in a still greater degree the vegetable life, preserve the incorporeal in themselves. Since, however, sense exhibits another more conspicuous life, pertaining to beings which are moved according to impulse and place, this must be established prior to that, as being a more proper principle, and as the supplier of a certain better form, that of a self-moved animal, and which naturally precedes plants rooted in the earth. The animal, however, is not accurately self-moved. For the whole is not such through the whole ; but a part moves, and a part is moved. This therefore is the apparent self-moved. Hence prior to this, it is necessary (here should be that which is truly self-moved, and which according to the vrhole of itself moves and is moved, that the apparently self-moved may be the image of tliis. And indeed the soul which moves the body, must be considered as a more proper self-moved essence. This however is twofold, the one rational, the other irrational. For that there is a rational soul is evident. Or has not every one a co-sensation of himself, more clear or more obscure, when converted to himself in the attentions to and investigations of himself, and in the vital and gnostic animadversions of himself } For the essence which is capable of this, and which can collect universals by reasoning, will very justly be rational. The irrational soul also, though it does not appear to investigate these things, and to reason with itself, yet at the same time it moves bodies from place to place* being itself previously moved from itself; for at different times it exerts a different impulse. Does it therefore move itself from one impulse to another? or is it moved by something else, as for mstance, by the whole rational soul in the universe ? But it would be absurd to say, that the energies of every irrational soul are not the energies of that soul, but of one more divine; since they are infinite, and mingled with much of the base and impeifect. For this would be just the same as to say, that the irratioual energies are the energies of the rational soul. I omit to mention the absurdity of supposing that the whole essence is not generative of its proper energies. For if the irrational soul is a certain essence, it will have peculiar energies of its own, not imparted from something else, but proceeding from itself. The irrational soul therefore will also move itself, at different times to different impulses. But if it moves itself, it will
be converted to itself. If, however, this be the cafe, it will have a separate subsistence, and will not be in a subject. It it therefore rational, if it looks, to itself: for in being converted to» it surveys itseE For when extended to things external, it looks to externals, or rather it looks to coloured body, but does not see itself, because sight itself is neither body, nor that which it coloured. Hence it does not revert to itself. Neither, therefore, is this the case with any other irrational nature. For neither does the phantasy project a type of itself, but of that which is sensible, as for instance of c<^oured body. Nor does irrational appetite desire itself, but aspires after a certain object of desire, such as honour, or pleasure, or riches. It does not therefore move itself.
But if some one on seeing that brutes exert rational energies^ should apprehend that these also participate of the first selfmoved, and on this account possess a soul converted to itself, it may, perhaps, be granted to him that these also are rational natures, except that they are not so essentially, but accord* ing to participation, and this most obscure, just as the rational soul may be said to be intellectual according to participation, as always projecting common conceptions without distortion. It must however be observed that the extremes are, that which is capable of being perfectly separated, such as the rational form, and that wldch is perfectly inseparable, such at corporeal quality, and that in the middle of these nature subsists, which verges to the inseparable, having a small representation of the separable, and the irrational soul which verges to the separable ; for it appears in a certain respect to subsist by itself, separate from a subject; so that it becomes doubtful^ whether it is self-motive, or alter-motive. For it contains an abundant vestige of self-motion, but not that which is true, and converted to itself, and on this account perfectly separated from a subject. And the vegetable soul has in a certain respect a middle subsistence. On this account, to some of the ancients it appeared to be a certain soul, but to others, nature.
Again, therefore, that we may return to the proposed object of investigation, how can a self-motive nature of this kind, which is mingled with the alter-motive, be the first principle of things? For it neither subsists from itself, nor does it in reality perfect itself; but it requires a certain other nature both for ttt subsistence and perfection* And prior to it is that whidi it
truly self-moved. Is therefore that which is properly selfmoved the principle^ and is it indigent of no form more excellent than itself? Or is not that which moves always naturally prior to that which is moved ; and in short, does not every form which is pure from its contrary subsist by itself prior to that which is mingled with it ? And is not the pure the cause of the co-mingled? For that which is co-essentialized with another, has also an energy mingled with that other. So that a selF- moved nature will indeed make itself; but thus subsisting it will be at the same time moving and moved, but will not be made a moving nature only. For neither is it this alone. Every form however is always alone according to its first subsistence ; so that there will be that which moves only without being moved. And indeed it would be absurd that there should be that which is moved only, such as body, but that prior both to that which is self-moved and that which is moved only, there should not be that which moves only. For it is evident that there must be, since this will be a more excellent nature, and that which is self-amoved, so far as it moves itself, is more excellent than so far as it is moved. It is necessary, therefore, that the essence which moves unmoved should be first, as that which is moved, not being motive, is the third, in the middle of which is the self-moved, which we say requires that which moves in order to its becoming motive. In short, if it is moved, it will not abide, so far as it is moved ; and if it moves, it is necessary it should remain moving so far as it moves. Whence then does it derive the power of abiding f For from itself it derives the power either of being moved only, or of at the same time abiding and being moved wholly according to the same. Whence then does it simply obtain the power of abiding ? Certainly from that which simply abides. But this is an immoveable cause. We must therefore admit that the immoveable is prior to the self-moved. Let us consider then if the immoveable is the most proper principle. But how is this possible? For the immoveable contains as numerous a muhitude immoveably, as the self-moved self-moveably. Besides, an immoveable separation must necessarily subsist prior to a selfmoveable separation. The unmoved therefore is at the same time one and many, and is at the same time united and separated ; and a nature of this kind is denominated intellect. But it is evident that the united in this, is naturally prior to and
more honourable than the separated. For separation ii al" ways indigent of union ; but not> on the contrary, union of separation. Intellect, however, has not the united pure from iti opposite : for intellectual form is co-essentialized with the sepa<* rated through the whole of itself. Hence that which is in a certain respect united requires that which is simply united; that which subsists with another is indigent of that which sub* sistsby itself; and that which subsists according to panicipation of that which subsists according to essence. For intellect being self-subsistent produces itself as united and at the same time separated. Hence it subsists according to both these. It is produced, therefore, from that which is simply united and alone united. Prior, therefore, to that which is formal is the uncircumscribed and undistributed into forms. And this is that which we call the united > and which the wise men of antiquity denominated beirtg, possessmg in one contraction muhi' tude subsisting prior to the many.
Having, therefore, arrived thus far, let us here rest for awhile, and consider with ourselves whether being is the investigated principle of all things : for what will there be which does not participate of bemg ? May we not say, that this, if it is the united, will be secondary to the one, and that by participating of the one it becomes the united } But in short, if we conceive the one to be something different from being, if being is prior to the one it will not participate of the one. It will, therefore, be many only, and t.hese will be infinitely infinites. But if the one is with being, and being with the one, and they are either co-ordinate or divided from each other, there will be two principles, and the above-mentioned absurdity will happen. Or they will mutually participate of each other, and there will be two elements. Or they are parts of something else consisting from both. And if this be the case what will that be which leads them to union with each other. For if the one unites being to itself (for this may be said) the one also will energize prior to being, that it may call forth and convert being to itself. The one, therefore, will subsist from itself self-perfect prior to being. Farther still, the more simple is always prior to the more composite. If, therefore, they are similarly simple, there will either be two principles, or one from the two, and this will be a composite. Hence the simple and perfectly incomposite is prior to thit| which must be either one, or not
one; and if not one, it must either be many or nothing. But with respect to nothing, if it signifies that which is perfectly void it will signify something vain. But if it signifies the arcane^ this will not even be tliat which is simple. In short, we cannot conceive any principle more simple than the one. The one, therefore, is in every respect prior to being. Hence this it the principle of all things, and Plato, recurring to this, did not require apy other principle in his reasonings. For the arcane in which this our ascent terminates is not the principle of reasoning, nor of knowledge, nor of animals, nor of beings, nor of unities, but simply of all things, being arranged above every conception and suspicion that we can frame. Hence Plato indicates nothing concerning it, but makes his negations of all other things except the one from the one. For that the one is he denies in the last place, but he does not make a negation of the oif0. He also, besides this, even denies this negation, but not the one. He denies, too, name, and conception, and all knowledge, and what can be said more, whole itself and every being. But let there be the united and the unical, and, if you vdll, the two principles bound and the infinite. Plato, however, never in any respect makes a negation of the one which is beyond all these. Hence in the Sophista he considers it as the one prior to being, and in the Republic as the good beyond every essence ; but at the same time the one alone is left. Whether, however, is it known and effable, or unknown and ineffable } Or is it in a certain respect these and in a certain respect not ? For by a negation of this it may be said the ineffable is affirmed. And again, by the simplicity of knowledge it will be known or suspected, but by composition perfectly unknown. Hence neither will it be apprehended by negation. And, in short, so far as it is admitted to be one, so far it will be co-arranged whh other things which are the subject of position : for it is the summit of things which subsist according to position. At the same time there is much in it of the ineffable and unknown, the unco-ordinated, and that which is deprived of position, but these are accompanied with a representation of the contraries ; and the former are more excellent than the latter. But everywhere things pure subsist prior to their contraries, and such as are unmingled to the co-mingled. For either things more excellent subsist in the one essentially, and in a certain respect the contraries of these also will be there at the same time ; or they sub
sht according to participation^ and are derived ^m that which is first a thing of this kind. Prior to the one, therefore, is that which is simply and perfectly inefTable, without position, udco-ordinated, and incapable of being apprehended, to which also the ascent of the present discourse hastens through the clearest indications, omitting none of those natures between the first and the last of things.
P. 9. — But inteUigibles are, indeed, unknown to the mul^ titude, fyc.
InteUigibles, or the proper objects of intellectual vision, are no other than those incorporeal forms resident in deity, which are called by Plato ideas, and are the paradigms or patterns of every thbg in the universe which has a perpetual subsistence according to nature. These divine forms, too, are not only paradigmatic but likewise paternal^ and are by their very essence causes generative of the many. They are also perfecttive, possess a guardian power, and connect and unite all 8e« condary natures.
The following are the arguments which the Platonic philo-^ sophy affords in proof of the existence of tliese luminous beings, of which the eye of modem philosophic hasnot, nor ever can have, the smallest glimpse. The whole is nearly extracted from the manuscript commentary of Proclua on the Parmenidesof Plato, and is also to be found in the introduction to my translation of that dialogue.
This visible world is either selfsubsist en t, or it derives its subsistence from a superior cause. But if it is admitted to be self-subsistent many absurd consequences will ensue. For it is necessary that every thing self-subsistent should be impartible ; because every thing which makes and every thing which generates is entirely incorporeal: for bodies make, through Incorporeal powers, fire by heat and snow by coldness. But if it is necessary that the maker should be incorporeal, and in things self-subsistent, the same thing is the maker and the thing made, the generator and the thing generated, that which is self-subsistent will be perfectly impartible. But the world is • not a thing of this kind: for every body is every way divisible,, and consequently is not self-subsistent. Again, every thing
telf-subsistent is also self-energetic : for as it generates itself, it is, by a much greater priority, naturally adapted to energize in itself ; since to make and to generate are no other than to energize. But the world is not self-motive because it is corporeal. No body, therefore, is naturally adapted to be moved, and at the same time to move according to the whole of itself. For neither can the whole at the same time heat itself and be heated by itself. For because it is heated, it will not yet be hot, in consequence of the heat being gradually propagated through all its parts ; but because it heats it will possess heat, and thus the same thing will be and yet will not be hot. As, therefore, it is impossible that any body can move itself according to internal change, neither can this be effected by any other motion. And, in short, every corporeal motion is more similar to passion than to energy ; but a self-motive energy is immaterial and impartible : so that if the world is corporeal it will not be self-motive. But if not self-motive neither will it be selfsubsistent. And if it is not self-subsistent it is evident that it is produced by another cause.
For, again, that which is not self-subsistent is twofold ; viz. it is either better than or mferior to cause. And that which is more excellent than cause *, as is the ineffable principle of things, has something posterior to itself, such as is a self-subsistent nature. But that which is subordinate to cause is entirely suspended from a self-subsistent cause. It is necessary, therefore, that the world should subsist from another more excellent cause. But with respect to this cause, whether does it make according to free-will and the reasoning energy, or produce the universe by its very essence? for if according to free-will its energy in making will be unstable and ambiguous, and will subsist differently at different times. I'he world, therefore, will be corruptible : for that which is generated from a cause moving differently at different times, is mutable and corruptible. But if the cause of the universe operated from reasoning and enquiry in producing the world his energy could not be spontaneous and truly his own ; but his essence would be similar to that of the artificer, who does not derive his productions from himself but procures them as something adventitious
This is demonstrated by Proclus in his Elements of Theology.
by learning and enquiry. Hence we Infer that the world It eternal, and that its maker produced it by his very essence. For> in short, every thing whkh makes according to free-will has also the essential •energy. Thus our soul, which energizes in many things according to free-will, imparts at the same time life to the body by its very essence, which life does not depend on our free wUl ; for otherwise the animal from every adverse circumstance would be dissolved, the soul on such occasions condemning its association with the body. But not every thing which operates from its very essence has also another energy according to free-will. Thus fire heats by its very essence alone, but produces nothing from the energy of will, nor is th» effected by snow, nor in short by any body, so far as body. If, therefore, the essential energy is more extended than that of free-will, it is evident that it proceeds from a more venerable and elevated cause. And this very properly. For the creative energy of natures that operate from their very essence is unit* tended with anxiety* But it is est)ecially necessary to coa* ceive an energy of this kind in divine natures ; since we also then live more free from anxiety, and with greater ease, when our life is divine, or according to virtue. If, therefore, there is a cause of the universe operating from bis very essence, he is that primarily which his production is secondarily ; and that which he is primarily he imparts in a secondary degree to hit production. Thus fire both imparts heat to something else» and is itself hot, and soul imparts life and possesses life ; and this reasoning will be found to be true in every thing whidi operates essentially. The cause of the universe, therefore, far bricating from his very .essence, is that primarily which the world is secondarily. But if the world is fullt)f all-variout forms, these will subsist primarily in the cause of the world : for it is the same cause which gave subsistence to the sun and moon, to man and horse. These, therefore, are primaiily ia the cause of the world ; another sun besides the apparent, another man, and in a similar manner every other form. There are, therefore, forms prior to sensibles, and demiurgic causes of the phaenomena presubsistmg in the one cause of the universe
But if any one should say that the world has indeed a cause, yet not producing but final, and that thus all things are orderly disposed with relation to this cause, it is so far well, indeed, that they admit the good to preside over the universe. Vut it
may be asked, whether does the world receive any thing froth this cause or nothing, according to desire : for if nothings the desire by which it extends itself towards this cause is vain. But if it receives something from this cau&e> and this cause not only imparts good to the world, but imparts it essentially, by a much greater priority, it will be the cause of existence to the universe, that it may impart good to it essentially ; and thus it will not only be the final, but the producing cause of the universe.
In the next place, let us direct our attention to the phaenomena, to things equal and unequal, similar and dissimilar, and air such sensible particulars as are by no means truly denominated. For where is there equality in sensibles which are mingled with inequality ? where similitude in things filled with dissimilitude ? where the beautiful among things of which the subject is base ? where the good in things in which there is capacity and the imperfect ) Each of these sensible particulars, therefore, is not that truly which it is said to be. For how can things, the nature of which consists in the impartible and in privation of interval, subsist perfectly in things partible and endued vnth interval ? But our soul is able both to conceive and generate thmgs far more accurate and pure than the phaenomena. Hence it corrects the apparent circle, and points out how far it falls short of the perfectly accurate. And it is evident that in so doing it beholds another form more beautiful and more perfect than this. For unless it beheld something more pure it could not say that this is not truly beautiful, and that is not in every respect equal. If, therefore, a partial soul, such as ours, is able to generate and contemplate in itself things more perfect than the phamomena, such as the accurate sphere and circle, the accurately beautiful and equal, and in a similar manner every other forpn, but the cause of the universe is neither able to generate n<>r contemplate things more beautiful than the phaenomena, hOw is the one the fabricator of the universe but the other of a part of the universe ? For a greater power is effective of things more perfect, and a more immaterial mtellect contemplates more excellent spectacles. The maker of the world, therefore, is able both to generate and understand forms much more accurate and perfect than the phaenomena. Where, then, does he generate, and where does he behold them^ Evidently in himself ; for he coatemplatei himself. So that by
beholding and generating himself^ he at the same time generates in himself, and gives subsistence to forms more immaterial and more accurate than the phenomena.
In the third place, if there is no cause of the universe, but all things are from chance, how are all things coK)rdinated to each other, and how do things perpetually subsist ? and whence is it that all things are thus generated according to nature with a frequency of subsistence ? For whatever originates from chance does not subsist frequently, but seldom. But if there is (me cause, the source of co-ordination to all things, and this cause it ignorant of himself, must there not be some nature prior to this« which byknowing itself imparts being to this cause ? For it is impossible that a nature which is ignorant should be more excellent than that which has a knowledge of itself. If, therefbre^ this cause knows itself, it is evident that, knowing itself to be a cause, it must also know the things of which it is the cause ; to that it will also comprehend the things which it knows. If, therefore, intellect is the cause of the universe, it also co-ordinated all things to each other : for there is one artificer of all things. But the universe is various, and all its parts do not participate either of the same dignity or order. Who is it, then, that measures the dignity of these, except the power that gave them subsistence ? who distributed every thing in a convenient order, and fixed it in its proper seat ; the sun here, and there the moon ; the earth here, and there the mighty heaven^ except the Being by whom these were produced ? who gave coordination to all things, and produced one harmony from all, except the Power who imparted to every thing its essence and nature. If, therefore, he orderly disposed all things, he cannot be ignorant of the order and rank which every thing maintains in the universe. For to operate in this manner would be the province of irrational nature, and not of a divine cause, and would be the characteristic of necessity, and not of intellectual providence. Since if, intellectually perceiving himself, he knows himself; but, knowing himself, and the essence which he is allotted, he knows that he is an immoveable cause,, and the object of desire to all things, he will also know the natures to which he is desirable : for he is not desirable from accident but essentially. He will, therefore, either be ignorant of what he is essentially, or, knowmg this, he will also know that he it the object of desire ; and, together with thii, he will know that
all things desire him, and what the natures are by which he itf desired. For of two relatives^ to know one definitely, and the other indefinitely, is not the characteristic of science, and much lets of intellectual perception. But knowing definitely the tilings by which he is desired, he knows the causes of them, in consequence of beholding himself, and not thmgs of a posterior nature. If, therefore, he does not in vain possess the causes of all things, he must necessarily, according to them, bound the order of all things, and thus be of all things the immoveable cause, as bounding their order by his very es* lence.
But whether shall we say, that because he designed to make aU things, he knew them, or because he understands all things, on this account he gave subsistence to all things. But if, in conse* quence of designing to make all things, he knows all things, he will possess inward energy, and a conversion tci himself subordinate to that which proceeds outwardly, and his knowledge of beings will subsist for the sake of things different from himself. But if this is absurd, by knowing himself he wil> be the maker of all things. And if this be the case he will make things external similar to those which he contains in himself. Fof such is the natural order of things that externally proceeding should be suspended from inward energy, the whole world from the all** perfect monad of ideas, and the parts of the visible imiverse from monads which are separated firom each other.
In the fourth place we say that man is generated from man,. and from every thing its like. After what manner, therefore, ve they generated ? for you will not say that the generation of these is h'om chance : for neither nature nor divinity makes any thing in vain. But if the generation of men is not horn chance, whence is it ? you will say, it is evidently from seed. Let if be then admitted that man is firom seed ; but seed possesses productive powers in capacity and not in energy. For since it ift a body it is not naturally adapted to possess productive powers impartibly and in energy. For everywhere a subsistence in ener^ precedes a subsistence in capacity ; since, being imperfect, it requires the assistance of something else endued with a perfective power* This something else, you will say, is the nature of the mother ; for this perfects and fashions the offspring by tt» productive powers. For the apparent form of the mother does not make the infant, but nature, which is an
incorporeal power and the principle of motion. If, therefore, nature changes the productive powers of seed from capacity to a subsistence in energy, nature must herself possess these productive powers in energy. Jlence being irrational and without imagination she is at the same time the cause of physioal reasons. As the nature of man, therefore, contains human pro* ductive powers, does not alsp nature in a lion contain those of the lion ; as, for instance, the reasons or productive powers of the head, the hair, the feet, and the other parts of the lion ? or whence, on shedding a tooth, does another grow in its place, unless from an inherent power which is able to make the teeth? how, likewise, does it at the same time make bone and flesh, and each of the other parts ? for the same thing energizing according to the same would not be able to fashion such a variety of organization. But does not nature in plants also possess productive powers as well as in animals ? or shall we not say, that in these, likewise, the order of generation and the lives of the plants evince that they are perfected from orderly causes ? It is evident, therefore, from the same reasoning, tliat the natures of these also comprehend the apparent productive powers. Let us, then, ascend from these to the one nature of the earth, which generates whatever breathes and creeps on its surface, and which, by a much greater priority, contains the productive powers of plants and animals. Or whence the generation of things from putrefaction } (for the hypothesis of the experi'^ mentalists is weak and futile) whettce is it that different ^ds of plants grow in the same place, without human care and atten* tion ? is it not evident that it is from the whole nature of the earth, containing the productive powers of all these in herself? And, thus proceeding, we shall find that the nature in each of the elements and celestial spheres comprehends the productive powers of the animaU which it contains. And if from the celestial spheres we ascend to the nature of the universe itself, we may also enquire respecting this, whether it contains forms or not, and we shall be compelled to confess, that in this also the productive and motive powers of all things are contained. For whatever is perfected from inferior subsists in a more excelleat and perfect manner from more universal natures. The nature of the universe, therefore, being the mother of all things, comprehends the productive powers of all things : for otherwise it
would be abfurd that art, imitating natural reasons, should operate according to productive principles, but that nature herself should energize without reasons and without inward measures. But if nature contains productive principles it is necessary that there should be another cause prior to nature, which is comprehensive of forms. For nature verging to bodies energizes in them, just as if we should conceive an artist verging to pieces of timber, and inwardly, by various operations, reducing them to a certam form. For thus nature, merged together with and dwelling in corporeal masses, inspires them with her productive powers and with motion; since things which are moved by others require a cause of this kind, a cause which is properly irrational, indeed, that it may not depart from bodies, which cannot subsist without a cause continually residing with them, but containing the productive powers of bodies, that it may be able to preserve all things in their proper boundaries, and move every thing in a convenient manner. Nature, therefore, belongs to other thmgs, being merged in or co-ordinated with bodies. But it is requisite that the most principal and 'proper cause should be exempt from its productions : for by how much the maker is exempt from the thing made, by so much the more perfectly and purely will he make : and, in short, if nature is irrational it requires a leader. There is, therefore, something prior to nature, which contains productive powers, and from which it is requisite that every thing in the world*«hould be suspended. Hence a knowledge of generated natures will subsist in the cause of the world more excellent than the knowledge which we possess, so far as this cause not only knows but gives subsistence to all things ; but we possess knowledge alone. But if the demiurgic cause of the universe knows all things, if he beholds them externally, he will again be ignorant of himself, and will be subordinate to a partial soul ; but if he beholds them in himself he will contain in himself all forms both intellectual and gnostic.
In the fifth place, things produced from an immoveable cause are immoveable and without mutation, but things produced from a moveable cause are again moveable and mutable, and subsist differently at different times. If this be the case, all such things as are essentially eternal and immutable must be the progeny of an immoveable cause ; for if from a moveable
cause, they will be mutable, which is impossible. Are notf therefore, the form of man and the form of horse from a cauM if the whole .world subsists from a cause? from what caate^ therefore ? is it from an immoveable or from a moveable cause ? But if from a moveable cause the human species will, some time or other, fail ; since every thing which subsists from m, moveable cause ranks among things which are naturally adapted to perish. We may also make (he same enquiry rctpecting the sun and moon and each of the stars ; for if these are produced from a moveable cause, in these also there will be a mutation of essence. But if these, and all such forms as eternally subsist in the universe, are from an immoveable cause, where does the immoveable cause of these subsist ? for it is evidently not in bodies, since every natural body is naturally adapted to be moved : it therefore subsists proximately in nature. But nature is irrational ; and it is requisite that causes, properly to called, should be intellectual and divme. Hence the immoveable causes of these forms subsist primarily in intellect, secoii* darily in soul, in the third gradation in nature, and, lastly, in b<5diti. For all things either subsist apparently or unappar rently, either separate or/inseparable firom bodies ; and, if le* parate, either immoveably, according to essence and energy^ or immoveably according to essence, but moveably according to energy. Those things, therefore, are properly immoveable^ which are immutable both according to essence and energy^ such as are intelligiblcs ; but those possess the second rank which are immoveable, indeed, according to essence, but moveable according to energy, and such are souls ; in the third place, things unapparent, indeed, but inseparable from the phenomena, are such as belong to the empire of nature ; and those rank in the last place which are apparent, subsist in sensibletf and are divisible : for the gradual subjection of forms proceed* ing as far as to sensibles ends in these.
In the sixth place, let us speculate after another manner con* ceming the subsistence of forms or ideas, beginning firom demonstrations themselves. For Aristotle has proved, in his latt analytics, and all scientific men must confess that demonstrations are entirely^from things which have a priority of subsistence, and which are naturally more honourable. But if the things from which demonstrations consist are universale; £ar every demonstration is from these; hence thesa mutt be
c^scs to the things which are unfolded from them. When, therefore, the astronomer says that the circles in the heavens bisect each other, since every greatest circle bisects its like, whether does he demonstrate or not ? for he makes lus conclusion firom that which is universal, ikit where shall we find the causes of this section of circles in the heavens^ which are more universal than the circles } for they will not be in bodies> tince every thing which is in body is divisible. They must, therefore, reside in an incorporeal essence; and hence there must be forms which have a subsistence prior to apparent forms, and which are the causes of subsistence to these, in consequence of being more universal and more powerful. Science, thero* Ipre, compels us to admit that there are universal forms, which have a subsistence prior to particulars, are more essential and more causal, and from which the very being of particulars is derived.
• By ascending from motion we may also, after the same man* ner, prove the existence of ideas. Every body from its own proper nature is alter-moti\re, or moved by another, and is indigent of motion externally derived. But the first, most proper, md principal motion is in the power which moves the mundane .wholes. For he possesses the motion of a mover, and body the motion of that which is moved, and corporeal motion is the inftage of that which pre* subsists in this power. For that is perfect motion because it is energy ; but the motion in body is imperfect energy, and the imperfect derives its subsistence from the perfect.
From knowledge, also, we may perceive the necessity of the same conclusion. For last knowledge is that of bodies, whether it be denominated sensible or imaginable. For all such knowledge is destitute of truth, and does not contemplate any thing universal and common, but beholds ail thmgs invested with figure, and all things partial. But more perfect knowledge is that which is without figure, which is immaterial, and nvhich subsists by itself and from itself; the image of which is fense, s'mce this is imperfect knowledge subsisting in another, and not originating from itself. If, therefore, as in motion, so -also in knowledge and in life, that which participates, that which is participated, and that which is imparticipable, are diiferent from each other, there is also the same reasoning with respect ta other forms. For matter is one thing, the form
which it contains another^ and still different from either is tlie separate form. For God and nature do not make things im«* perfect, which subsist in something different from themselves, and which have an obscure-<and debile existence, but have ac^ produced things perfect, and which subsist from themselves^ but by a much greater priority they have given subsistence to these, and from these have produced things which are parttct* pated by and merged in the darkness of matter.
But if it be requisite summarily to relate the cause that in-i duced the Pythagoreans and Plato to adopt the hypothesis of ideas, we must say that all these visible natures^ celestial and sublunary, are either firom chance, or subsist from a cause. But that they should be from chance is impossible : for things more excellent will subsist in things subordinate ; viz. intellect, rea« son, and cause, and that which proceeds from cause. To which we may add, as Aristotle observes, that, prior to causes according to accident, it is requisite that there should be things which have an essential subsistence ; for the accidental is that in which the progressions <^ these are terminated. So that a subsistence from cause will he more ancient than a subsistence from chance, if the most divine of things apparent are the pro* geny of chance. But if there is a cause of all things there will either be manyunconjoined causes, or one cause. But if many, we shall not be able to assign to what it is owing that the world is one, since there will not be one cause according to which ali^ things are co-ordinated. It will also be absurd to suppose that this cause is irrational. For, again, there will be something among things posterior better than the cause of all things ; viz. that, which being within the universe, and a part of the whole, operates according to reason and knowledge, and yet derivet this prerogative from an irrational cause. But if this cause ii rational and knows itself, it will certainly know itself to be the cause of all; or, being ignorant of this, it will be ignorant of its own nature. But if it knows that it is essentially the cause of the universe it will also definitely know that of which it is the cause ; for that which definitely knows the one will also defi*^ nitely know the other. Hence he will know every thing which the universe contains, and of which he is the cause. And, if thit be the case, beholding himself, and knowing himself, he knows things posterior to himself. By immaterial reasons, therefore, and forms, he knows the mundane reasons and forms from which the universe consists, and the universe i» contained in him as in
t cause separate from matter. This, Prorlus adds, was the doctrine of the Eleatic Zjeno, and the advocates for ideas. Nor did these men alone, says he, form conceptions of this kind respecting ideas, but their doctrine was also conformable to that of the theologists. For Orpheus says, that after the abtorption of Phanes in Jupiter, all things were generated ; since, prior to this, the causes of all mundane natures subsisted unitedly in Phanes, but secondarily and with separation in the demiurgus of the universe. For there the sun and the moon, heaven itself, and the elements, love the source of union, and, in short, all things, were produced : for there was a natural conflux of all things in the belly of Jupiter. Nor did Orpheus stop here, but he also delivered the order of demiurgic forms, tlirough which sensible natures were allotted their present distribution. Proclus further adds, the gods also have thought fit to unfold to mankind the truth respecting ideas, and have declared what the one fountain is whence they proceed ; where ideas first subsist in full perfection, and how in their progression they assimilate all things, both wholes and parts, to the father of die universe. What Proclus here alludes to is the following Chaldaic oracle :
Nov; tckI^o; t^^oi^nat yoyjaa; ax^juu^i $ov>.^ Jlafxixo^fov; iha;. irnyri; it fxtag aitoiilaa-ui E^sOo^oy' 'TtaT^oQiy yao tny SovXijli riXog rt.
Ex; aWag yotoa^* xoa-fXM yao ava^ woXi;|w.o^^u; TI^ovBrtniy voigov rvnov a^Oiroy ov xa7a xocrfjt.ai Ixvo; tftuyoixiYo; (xo^ri; fxtrn xoo-jw.o; t^ayBri, TIetyloiatg titaig xiya^io-fAtyogf wv fxiu Ttfiytit £^ vi; ^oi^owleu fxifxt^ia-fxtyat aXkai a7rXtj7oi, TnyyVfAiyai xoerfjiou irt^i <ra-|ixa<7iy, at Trtgt xoXiroug ZjU,(gJaX{ot;f, fffxtiytaaiy lotxviai ^o^toyrcct, Townovtn iti^t r* afx^i mu^ ayj^oy aWvii; aXX»i Erroiai voiea* mtryng wa7gix»i; a»o, woXw A^rlofjiiyai w^g aySog axjoifxrirov %govoi/, axtjcn A^/^tyovovg liiug ir^l^ muT^og t^Xvai rag ct AuTOTfXtj; wnyi.
I. e. The intellect of the father made a crashing noise, understanding with unwearied counsel omniform ideas. But with winged speed they leaped forth from one fountain : for both the counsel and the end were from the father. In consequence, too, rf being allotted an intellectual fire they are divided mto other
intellectual forms : for the king previously placed in the multiform world an intellectual incorruptible impression^ the vestige of which hastening through the world causes it to appear invested with form, and replete with all-various ideas, of which there is one fountain : from this fountain other immense-distributed ideas rush with a crashing noise, bursting forth about the bodies of the world, and are borne along its terrible botomt like swarms of bees. They turn themselves too on all sides, and nearly in all directions. They are intellectual conceptions from the paternal fountain, plucking abundantly the flower of the fire of sleepless time. But a self-perfect fountain pours forth primogenial ideas from the primary vigour of the &ther.
Through these things, says Prochis, the gods have clearly shown where ideas subsist, who the divinity is that comprehendi the one fountain of these, and that from this fountain a multitude proceeds. Likewise how the world is fabricated according to ideas ; that they are motive of all mundane systems ; that they are essentially intellectual; and that they are all-various according to their characteristics.
If, therefore, he adds, arguments persuade us to admit the hypothesis respecting ideas, and the wise unite in the same design; viz. Plato, Pythagoras, and Orpheus, and the gods clearly bear witness to these, we should but little regard sophistical arguments, which are confuted by themselves, and assert nothing scientific, nothing sane. For the gods have manifestly declared that they are conceptions of the father : for they abide in his intelligence. They have likewise asserted that they proceed to the fabrication of the world, for the crashing noise signifies their progression: that they are omniform, as comprehending the causes of all divisible natures; that firom fontai ideas others proceed, which are allotted the fabrication of the world, according to its parts, and which are said to be similar to swarms of bees; and, lastly, that they are generative of secondary natures.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
C. WHITTIN GH AM, Pr/a/rr, Dean Street.
I
DISSERTATIONS
MAXIMUS TYRIUS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK
THOMAS TAYLOR.
jyuth would you teach, or save a sinking land,
AU hear, none aid you, and few understand. ?ope«
LONDON:
PRINTED BY C. WHmiNCHAM, DMBStrttt,
FOR THE TRANSLATOR ;
d"f'
DISSERTATION XXI.
WHETHER THE LIBERAL DISCIPLINES CONTW- BUTE ANY THING TO VIRTUE.
COCRATES, in the Piraeum, discoursing with political characters, fashions in words, as in a drama, an image of a good city and polity. He also establishes laws, educates children, and appoints guardians for the city, and delivers over both the bodies and souls of the citizens to music and gymnastic ; for this purpose appointing good preceptors and select judges of both these disciplines, as being the leaders of the flock, and denominating these leaders guardians * ; thus forming a city in a dream and not in reality, as it will appear to some one of a more rustic genius. This, however, was the manner of the ancient philosophy, which was similar to oracles. But, if you please, we will dismiss Socrates, and call on the Athenian guest to answer us: for I hearf him
See the second book of the Republic of Plato.
t Maximus here alludes to Plato's Laws, to my translation of which I refer the reader.
VOL. II. B
discoursing in Crete, in the cavern of Dictaean Jupiter, to Megillus the Lacedaemonian, and Clinias the Cnossian, and establishing laws for a Doric city, in order that the Cretans might be persuaded to introduce music into the study of fortitude, and thus mitigate the ferocity of anger by melody, lest virtue among them should become mutilated or imperfect in consequence of preparing themselves to act valiantly, endure labours, and die without deserting their station in battle, but imparting na remedy against the sedition in the souls of their citizens.
What then do you say, O Attic guest ? Is good so narrow, grovelling, difBcult to be obtained, immanifest, and replete with molestation, that we cannotobtain.it without singing, and drawing geometrical lines, and consuming our time in these,, as if it were our intention to become something else, and not to be good men ? Though divine virtue, indeed, according to its use, is sublime and great, and near to every one, but, according ta its possession, is not difficult to him who but once wishes to be obedient to the beautiful in conduct, and to oppose whatever is base. The Athenian guest, however, will answer, that this, which is called the law of the city, without the obedience of those that use it, is promulgated in vain, and that it is necessary the people should submit to it voluntarily ; but the people * in the soul are nu-
The people in the soul consist, 1. Of multiform desires, which divide the soul about the body^ and cause it to energize about externals. 2. Of the sensei ; for these are multiform^
merous and foolish, who, nevertheless, when they once yield their assent to the law, and follow where it commands, produce the most excellent polity in the soul, and which men denominate philosophy.
Come, then, let philosophy approacl^ after the manner of a legislator, adorning the disorderly and wandering soul as if it were the people in a city* Let her also call as her coadjutors other arts ; not such as are sordid by Jupiter, nor such as require manual operation, nor such as contribute to procure us things little and vile ; but let one of these be that art which prepares the body to be subser-^ yient, as a prompt and robust vehicle, to the mandates of the soul, and which is denominated gymnastic. Let another art be that which is the angel of the conceptions of the soul, and which is called rhetoric ; another, that which is the nurse and tutor of the juvenile mind, and which is deno* minated poetry ; another that which is the leader of the nature of numbers, and which is called arithmetic ; and another that which is the teacher of computation, and is called logistic. Let geometry, also, and music follow, who are the associates of philosophy and conscious of her arcana, and to each of which she distributes a portion of ' her labour.
and perceive nothing accurate or true. 3. Of imaginations, which draw down the soul to a passive intelligence. And 4. Of opinions, because these are various and infinite, tend to externals^ and are mingled with phantasy and sense.
And of her labours, indeed, perhaps we may discourse hereafter ; but let us now assert what is reasonable about music, the most ancient of all the studies in the soul ; that it is a pursuit, beautiful indeed to a man, and again, that it is also beautiful to a city and to the whole human race, by which, through the destiny of the gods, it is studied. I do not speak of that music which proceeds into the soul through flutes and singing, through choirs and dancing, unaccompanied with words, and which is honoured for the delight it procures to the ears : for human error, it seems, embraced this in consequence of pursuing the apparently pleasant, and through this love adulterate ing the accuracy of music. Indeed this accuracy is now no longer to be found : but the music which we have at present, abandoning its sane and ancient beauty, deceives us like doves, by exhibiting a counterfeit and not a native flower ; and thus, associating with nothing but an image ' of music, we ignorantly think that it is the true Heliconian muse, which was the friend of Homer, the preceptor of Hesiod, and the mother of Orpheus, neither possessing this, nor having any knowledge of it. The illegitimate usurpation, however, gradually insinuating itself into the soul, drew it into this misfortune both privately and publicly. For when the Dorians, who inhabit Sicily, leaving at home that mountain and simple music which they used among their herds and flocks, became enamoured of Sybaritic pipes, and studied such danc-
ing as the Ionian flute excites, then, to speak the most favourably, they became less wise, but, to speak most truly, they became more intemperate. But the ancient Athenian muse consisted of choirs of boys and men ; and the husbandmen being collected in tribes, who had not yet wiped away the dust which they had collected in the field from the harvest and sowing, poured forth the extemporaneous song. This muse, however, gradually decUning into the art of insatiable grace in the scepe and in theatres, became the source to the Athenians of political error. But the true harmony which the choir of the muses sings, and of which Apollo Musagetes is the leader, saves the soul, saves a house, saves a city, saves a ship, saves an army.
If, indeed, we are persuaded by Pythagoras, as it is fit we should, the heavens themselves sing
^ It is well observed by Simplicius^ in his Commentary on the second book of Aristotle de Coelo, that alj things are not mutually commensurate with each other, nor every thing sensible to every sensitive nature : for dogs scent animals at a distance^ of which men have no smell. Much more, therefore, must it be true to say that the sound of divine bodies (and such are those in the heavens) is not audible by terrene ears, since celestial and earthly bodies differ in the same proportion from each other, as things incorruptible ifirom such as are corruptible. He adds ; but the sound of divine and immaterial bodies is neither percussive nor destructive, but excites the powers and energies of the sounds in the sublunary region, and perfects the kindred sense by which it is perceived. What Simplicius here observes accords with what Maximus says concerning the ce» Jestial harmony.
sweetly, not being struck like a lyre, nor inflated like a flute ; but the revolution of the elegant and harmonious bodies which they contain being commensurate and equally balanced, produces a certain divine sound. The beauty of this song is, indeed, known to the gods, but is not perceived by us, through its transcendency and our penury. This, also, Hesiod appears to me to have obscurely signifled when he speaks of a certain Helicon, and the divine choirs of gods which it contains; the coryphaeus, of which is the sun, or Apollo, or by whatever other name it may be proper to denominate that most splendid and harmonic fire. But with respect to human music, which proceeds about the soul, what else will it be than a method of instructing the passions, soothing them as it were by enchantment when they are too elevated and impetuous ; and, on the contrary, exciting and exalting them when they are too remiss and dissipated ? This it is which is skilful in mitigating sorrow, repressing the emotions of anger and the ebullitions of rage, moderating desire, healing grief, consoling love, and alleviating calamity. This is a good assistant in sacrifices, a companion in banquets, a commander in war. This is skilled to give delight in festivals, to dance at the rites of Bacchus, and to impart inspiration in the mysteries. It is also skilled to mingle political manners with measure. Thus the study of the flute, accompanied with Pindar singing to its harmony, rendered the rustic Boeotians mild ; the
Terses of T3nrt8sus excited the Spartans; the numbers of Telesilla * the Argives ; and the song of Alcsens the Lesbians. Thus, aJso, Anacreon, among the Samians, softened the manners of Polycrates, mingling with his tyranny the love of Smerdias, the locks of Cleobulus, the beauty of Bathyllus, and the Ionic song. •^
But why is it requisite to speak of things mote ancient than these i Orpheus, indeed, was the son of Oeagrus and Calliope herself, and was born in Thrace, in the mountain Pangsem, which is inhabited by those Thracians who are called Odrysi, a rustic race, given to plunder, and void of hospitality. The Odrysi, however, willingly followed Orpheus as their leader, being charmed by the beauty of his song. This, therefore, is the meaning of the assertion, that he drew rocks and trees, assimilating the ignoble manners of those that were allured to inanimate bodies. There was also another noble harper f in Boeotia, who did not, as the fable says, draw stones by his art (for how could a wall be raised by song ?) but by emlMU> terion and tactic melody collecting the Bceotiaii young men into a phalanx, he surrounded Thebes
Teksilla was a lyric poetess of Argos, who bravely defended her country against the Lacedaemwuans, and obliged them to raise the uege. A statue was raised to her honour in the temple of Venus. Pausan. iL c. 20. See also Plutarch on the virtues of women^ vol. iL p. 345. Polyaenus viu. 33. and Suidas.
f Maximus here speaks of Amphion, who was fabled to have moved stones and raised the wsUls of Thebes by the harmony of his lyre.
with an invincible wall. This was such a wall as that which Lycurgus devised for the Spartans, who ordered the young men to march to battle with the flute for their leader, and they followed fighting to the law of the dance. Themistocles, possessing this flute, led the Athenians to their ships, when some rowed, and others fought, under the inspiring influence of the flute; but both were victorious. The Eleusinian goddesses applauded this choir. Hence monuments of victory were raised; hence Laconic and Attic, marine and continental trophies, accompanied with beautiful inscriptions. With this choir the Lacedaemonians conquered ; this choir Leonidas taught.
What occasion is there, however, to say any thing further, or to be prolix in speaking of music? since it is an excellent governor in peace, a good leader in battle, a good associate in a polity, and an excellent nurse of children. For the hearing is the most rapid of the senses, swiftly fiends what it apprehends to the soul, and compels her to sound and be excited in conjunction with its passions. Whence souls, foreign from the muses and destitute of elegance, having abandoned themselves to every thing apparently pleasant, never become partakers of right law, though they denominate their pleasure music, through a similitude, not of the end, but of the occupation abpiit melodies ; just as if any one should call the art. medicinal which pays no attention to the salubrious, but is wholly busied in the search of remedies. Thu^, too, with respect to geometry, which is a
most noble part of philosophy, it is considered by the multitude as a vile thing, and as conducive to a vile end, since they look only to its subserviency to the necessities of life ; such as measuring the earth, raising a wall, and every thing else pertaining to manual operation, to which it contributes ; and their views extend no further than this. It is, however, far otherwise. For the earth >Vould not be worse inliabited though it should not be accurately measured by needy husbandmen. And this, indeed, is the vilest part of geometry ; but its proper employment, like a certain renledy which sharpens the vision of the dianoetic power, consists in imparting to this power a strength by no means ignoble in its contemplation of the universe. The multitude, however, do not perceive this its proper use ; just as if an inhabitant of the continent, on seeing a ship in a port, and admiring the contrivance, should make use of it while it is in the port, moving all its instrumental parts, and conceiving this to be the end of the ship.
To such a man, Minerva (the inventress of this work) would, I think,, say: ** Do you see tho broad and immense sea which is poured round the earth and connects its boundaries, of which before you had never heard, and of the sight of which you had no hope ? Prior to this contrivance each man knew only tlie place of his abode, in the same manner as reptiles their dens ; but friendship, the mingling with others, communion, and an exclianc^c. of commodities were unknown till I devised for you this invention, a ship. For this
elevated vehicle, like a bird, flies everywhere. If you doubt the truth of this, learn by experience that it is so.*' In like manner some one of the gods, or Minerva herself, may say, concerning geometry: " Look yonder! Do you see this spectacle above your head, beautiful, various, circularly spreading and revolving round the earth, carrying the sun, containing the moon ? Of this you are ignorant, though you desire to see and know what it is. But I, O inhabitant of earth ! will raise you thither. For, by the assistance of geometry, I will fashion for you a light vehicle, which will at first raise you into the port, that you may not be giddy and terrified at the prospect of the sea ; but afterwards, leading you out of the port, it will bring you to the pure and tranquillyflowing sea of real beings *,
Where the gay morn resides in radiant bowers. And keeps her revels with the dancing hours ; Where Phoebus, rising in th' etherial way. Through heav'n's bright portals pours the beamy day ;f'
and where the moon and the other undecaying bodies diffuse their light. But as long as you are without the vision of these, you will remain without the participation, and without a portion, of true felicity J."
♦ In the original rm orruv but I read ruv ovtwj orrwv ; and in 80 doing I am justified by the version of Paccius.
:j; The mathematical disciplines awaken the dormant knowledge of the soul. Hence Plato justly asserts of theoretic arith
metic, that it imparts no small aid to our ascent to real being, and that it liberates us from the wandering and ignorance about a sensible nature. Geometry, too> is considered by him as most instrumental to the knowledge of the ineffable principle of things, when it is not pursued for the sake of practical purposes, but as the means of ascent to an intelligible essence. Astronomy also is useful for the purpose* of investigating the fabricator of all things, and contemplating, as in most splendid images, the ideal world and its immense cause. And, lastly, music, when properly studied, is subservient to our ascent ; viz. when firom sensible we betake ourselves to the contemplation of ideal and divine harmony. It is beautifully, therefore, said by Plato, in the 7th book of his Republic, *' that the soul, through these disciplines, has an organ purified and enlightened, which is blinded and buried by studies of a diiferent kind, an orgaa better worth saving than ten thousand eyes, since truth becomes visible through this alone."
DISSERTATION XXII.
WHETHER ANY ONE MAY BECOME A GOOD MAN THROUGH A DIVINE ALLOTMENT.
TTOMER, speaking to Telemachus in the person of Mentor *, observes concerning him : ** I do not think that you was bom and educated -with the gods averse to you." He also calls all good men divine f ; because, as it appears to me, their goodness was not the effect of art but the work of Jupiter, I also suspect that his verses concerning Demodocus were composed by him respecting his own fortune, though he ascribes them to that bard. • But the verses are as follow :
Dear to the muse' who gave his days to flow . With mighty blessings mix'd with mighty woe: With clouds of darkness quench*d his visual ray. But gave him skill to raise the lofty lay J."
I agree with him, indeed, that he was dear to the
In the original Nsrogoj, Nestor ; but this is evidently cither an error of Maxiraus or of his transcriber. For it is Mentor who says this. See Odyss. iii. ver. 28.
f In order that the Elnglish reader may understand the meaning of Maximus^in this place, it is necessary to observe, that the word used here for divine is in the original Aouj, dious, and that the genitive of Jupiter is J*oj, dios.
J Odyss, viii. ver, 63. The translation by Pope.
muse, but I do not accord with liim respecting his calamity ; for the gift is not harmonic. Demodocus^ also, is not to be believed when he thus says of himself:
" Self-taught am I, the gods impart the song*."
But how, O best of poets ! can you be self-taught, and at the same time receive your song from the gods, who are the most faultless of preceptors ? Demodocus may answer that which the rich, who have received a paternal inheritance, may say to those who are busily employed in the acquisition of wealth, that their riches are spontaneous, and not acquired by the art and labour of others.
Can we, indeed, think that Hesiod, when he \^'as feeding sheep about Helicon in Bceotia, met with the Muses singing f j who reprobated the shepherds' art ; and that, receiving from them a branch of laurel, he began immediately to sing, becoming from a shepherd a poet; just as they say those who are inspired by the Corybantes,
In the original.
This line is not at present to be found in Homer. Phemiui, indeed^ says the same thing of himself in different words :
IlayTowj EVE^ow." Odyss. xxii. ver. 347.
I am, however, inclined to think, that the line quoted by Maximus formerly existed in Homer.
t Maximus alludei lo the Theogony of Hesiod, ver. 21, et seq.
when they hear the sound of the pipe, are agitated with divine fury, and are no longer in the same state of mind as before ? By no means. But Hesiod, I think, obscurely signified the spontaneous nature of his art, ascribing the cause of it to the choir of the Muses ; just as if some one, becoming a brazier without art, should refer to Vulcan the spontaneity of the workmanship. But what with respect to the Cretans ? Does it not appear to you, that, being beautifully instructed by Minos, and delighted with virtue, they celebrated him as having Jupiter for his preceptor, and asserted, that for nine years he associated with Jupiter in Ida, in the cavern of the god, and was there disciplined by him in political concerns? For such are the assertions of the Cretans.
There was also among the Athenians an Eleusinian, whose name was Melesagoras *. This man, as the Athenians say, not by art, but from the inspiration of the nymphs, was, by a divine allotment, a wise man and a prophet. Another man, likewise, a Cretan, whose name was Epemenides, came to Athens, he too not being able to tell who was his preceptor ; but he was skilful in divine concerns, so that by expiatory sacrifices he saved the republic of the Athenians from pestilence and sedition, with which it was at that time infested. He was skilful in these things, not from having learnt them, but a long sleep narrated them to
There were formerly many historians of this name ; but no ancient writer except Maximut makes any mention of Melesagoras the prophet.
him, and a dream \fas his preceptor. There was also in Proconnesus a philosopher, whose name was Aristeas *, in whose wisdom all men at first disbelieved, because he could not adduce any one as his preceptor in it. For this incredulity, therefore, he invented the following remedy : He said, that his soul having left the body, immediately winged its way to aether, wandered round the Grecian and barbarian lands, every island, river, and mountain ; and that the land of the Hyperboreans became the boundary of his circuit. He added, that in his flight he surveyed all legal institutions, political manners, the nature of different regions, the mutations of the air, the flux and reflux of the sea, and the gates of rivers ; and that his view of the heavens was much clearer than that of the realms beneath. Aristeas, too, in asserting these things, more readily gained assent than Anaxagoras or Xenophanes, or any other who has unfolded the manner in which things subsist : for men did not clearly understand this circuitous wandering of his soul, nor with what eyes he saw all these particulars ; but they thought that the soul must in reality travel in order to give a true account of every thing.
Are you willing, therefore, that, dismissing Aristeas, Melesagbras, and Epemenides, and leaving the enigmas of poets to fables, we turn our attention to the philosophers from the Lyceum
This Aristeas was also a poet. He wrote an epic poem on the Arimaspi, in three books ; and some of his verses are quoted by Longinus.
and t!ie elegant academy : for these neither mythologize, nor speak in enigmas, nor embrace the portentous, but employ a popular diction and popular conceptions ? But, if you please, we will thus address the leader of these : ** That you honour, O Socrates ! science more than every thing, I hear you frequently asserting, when you recommend ditfercnt young men to different preceptors ; as when you exhort Callias to send his son * to Aspasia the Milesian, a male to a female. You, too, though you was so great a man, went to her, nor was this preceptress sufficient for you ; but you collected knowledge in amatory afftiirs from Diotima, in music from Connus, in poetry from Evenus, in agriculture from Ischomachus, and in geometry from Theodorus. And these things, indeed, I praise, whether they are to be taken ironically, or seriously, or in whatever way they are to be considered. But when I hear you discoursing with Phaedrus, or Charmides, or Theaetetus, or Alcibiades, I suspect that you do not attribute every thing to science, but that you think there is a more ancient preceptress to men, nature herself; and that it is this which in so careless a manner you insinuate in your conferences when you say, my association with Alcibiades f is from a divine allotment ; and again, when you call Phaedrus J a divine head, and prophesy concerning
Viz. Philebus. See the Phllebus of Plato. f See the first Alcibiades of Plato. • X Phaedrus is thus called by Socrates in the dialogue by Plato of that name.
Isocrates *, when he was a very young mari. What do you mean by these things, O Socrates ? If you please I will dismiss you, and betake myself to the author of these assertions, that friend from the academy ; and let him answer us, very earnestly enquiring if men become good by a divine allotment. My question, however, is confined to good men ; for I do not speak of poets, lest you should adduce Hesiod, nor diviners, lest you should speak of Melesagoras, nor of expiators, lest you should narr'ate Epimenides; but dismissing the name of art from each, add virtue, by which they were good men with respect to the works of men^ dextrous in the government of a family, and skilled in political concerns ; about this inform me, whether it is imparted by divinity to any one without art. Or let me also dismiss you ; and let reason answer itself for itself, as one man to another^ boldly, in the following manner :
O miserable man ! why do you thus trifle, by thinking that what is most excellent in human goods is rapidly derived from human art, but with the utmost difficulty from divine virtue? And yet you will not say that the divining, telestic f, and poetic arts, expiations, and the uttering of oracles, and in short every thing of this kind, are of equal worth with virtue. Add to this, yoU think these are mingled in human souls by a certain divine inspiration; but that which is more
See the Phaedrus of Plato.
t Viz.. The art per^inmg to sacred mysteries,
rare than these, virtue, you conceive to be the work of mortal art. Divinity is, indeed, according to you, a very exalted nature, since he conducts himself towards things that are vile in a beautiful and munificent manner, but is parsimonious towards things of a more excellent condition. I omit to mention, that if each of these receives its completion, this must necessarily be the case with that which is of a superior nature. For divinity is not circumscribed bv one art, in the same manner as a brazier cannot teach a carpenter, or in the same manner as the husbandman is unskilled in the pilot's art, the pilot in the medical art, and so on in the other arts and their professors ; but if any thing is derived to us from him, with respect to the power of the human soul, it will be the measure of art ; but with respect to the preparation of divine science it will be a part of the whole. See then, whether divinity, if he is able to allot and distribute to you things of this kind, will not, by a much greater priority, be both able and willing to distribute virtue.
But consider this as follows : You will certainly admit that divinity is most perfect, most sufficient to himself, and most powerful ; so that if you take away any one of these you will injure the whole. For if he is not perfect neither will he be sufficient to himself ; if he is not sufficient to himself he will not yet be perfect ; and if he is neither sufficient to himself nor perfect how will he be powerful ? But being sufficient to himself, perfect, and strong, according to perfection indeed, he must will that
which is good, according to self-sufticiency possess, and according to power be able to effect it. And being willing, possessing, and able to impart good, why should he not impart it ? For he who possesses and does not bestow good is not willing to bestow it : he who is wilUng, but does not possess it, is not able to impart it ; but how is it possible that he should be deprived of power who both possesses and is able to bestow it ? If, therefore, he possesses good he will possess the most perfect ; but virtue is the most perfect good : and hence he will give that which he possesses. So that there is no occasion to fear lest any other good should be imparted to men which does not originate from divinity ; for, indeed, there is not any thing good to men which is not derived from the gods. But it may be said, after what manner is virtue imparted by divinity ? The whole of the human nature receives from the beginning a twofold division, into an aptitude to virtue and an aptitude to depravity ; of which two, depravity indeed, requires punishment, but virtue preservation. For a depraved nature when it obtains a good ruler, law, or custom, derives this advantage, that it does not injure its neighbour; and makes a proficiency, not by the accession of good but by the diminution of evil. Souls, however, of the most excellent nature, being established as in a port in the confines of the ijaost exalted virtue and / extreme depravity, require the co-operating aid of ' divinity in their strenuous tendency to the better part. For the lapse to things base is the work of '
spontaneous imbecility, which, flattering worthy souls through pleasures and desires, draws them into the same paths with the depraved. Hear, therefore, Jupiter himself, who says *,
'' O strange that mortals should the gods accuse ! On us their ills they charge, though them Fate for their crimes precipitates in woe,"
But you will not hear him asserting any thing of this kind about good men, nor denying the cause of their worth, nor abandoning the care of them, but the very contrary :
'* Divine Ulysses how can I forget,
Whose soul in ev'ry toil is prompt and bold.
And whom the power of wisdom deigns to love f ? '
Who, therefore, will not acknowledge that Ulysses was a good man through a divine allotment, of whom Jupiter was mindful, Minerva solicitous, and Mercury the leader ; and who was beloved by Calypso, and saved by Leucothea ? But if he was a good man (as he was) because he,
' Wand'ring from clime to clime, observant ^tray'd. Men's manners noted, and their states survey'd X t
And because
'* He greatly suffered on the stormy main,"
How is it possible these exercises should not have
f The first only of these verses is ascribed to Jupiter by Homer, in Odyss. i. ver. 65 ; but the three are to be found conjointly in Iliad x. ver. 243, seq. The memory, therefore, of Maximus here failed him, as Stephens well observes.
been assigned to him by a divine allotment^ through which he both was and appeared to be a worthy man ? On this account a divine power surrounded him with so many antagonists ; among the barbarians, with the Trojans ; among the Greeks, with those illustrious chiefs Palamedes and Ajax ; in his own palace, with robust and most intemperate suitors ; among the Cyclops, with one the most savage ; among the Thracians, with the most inhospitable ; among enchantresses, with one the most dreadful ; and among wild beasts, with one possessing the most numerous heads *. And, besides all these, he sailed over a great length of sea, encountered dreadful storms and frequent shipwrecks ; was compelled to wander and become a mendicant, to be clothed with rags, to ask for fragments of bread, to wrestle with a beggar, be kicked and derided by the intoxicated } all which divinity exposed him to with benevolent inten* tions ; neither Neptune being enraged because he
" blinded his much-lov'd son f ,'
nor the sun on account of his herds. For neither has Neptune so much friendship for a savage man :|: and inhospitable son, nor is the sun so
Meaning the rock Scylla,
t See my explanation of the wanderings of Ulysses in the History of the Restoration of the Platonic Theology, at the end tf vol. ii. of Froclus on Euclid.
needy and parsimonious of oxen ; but these were the mandates of Jupiter. For is it not this divinity, also, who did not suffer his own son Hercules to live in indolence and luxury, but drew him from the midst of pleasures, into which he hurled Eurystheus, and surrounded Hercules with wild boars and lions, potentates and tyrants, robbers and long journies, desert lands, and impervious rivers ? Or can you suppose that Jupiter was able to beget three sons in one night, but that he was not able to liberate from these labours of life him whom he had begotten in this night ? But he was unwilling to do so. For it is not lawful that Jupiter should will any thing else than that which is most beautiful. Thus, then, Hercules, Bacchus *, and Ulysses were worthy men. And, that I may not lead you far from things before your feet, do you think that Socrates himself became a good man from art, and not from a divine allotment ? According to art, indeed, he was a statuary, re* ceiving this allotment from his father j but, ac-
Every deity, according to the ancient tlieology, beginning from on high, produces his own proper series to the last of things ; and this series comprehends in itself many essences differing from each other. Thus, for instance, the sun produces angelical^ damoniacaly heroical, nymphical, pantcaly and suchlike powers, each of which subsists according to a solar cliaracteristic : and the same reasoning must be ap* plied to every other divinity. Hence the most exahed characters among men, in consequence of knowing the divine series, of which they formed a part, called themselves by thp names of the les^ders of those series.
cording to the election of divinity, he abandoned his art and embraced virtue *.
In order thoroughly to understand the subject of this dissertation, it is necessary to refer the reader to the Meno of Plato, which is a dialogue concerning virtue. At present, therefore, I shall only observe from that dialogue, that not every soul is capable of virtue ; that a certain predisposition is requisite ; and that the parts of the soul must be well-proportioned to each other in their natural frame. In the next place^ it must be observed, that virtue is not acquired by mere practice or habit ; that it consists not merely in a good disposition, without being well-cultivated, and, consequently, comes not by nature, nor in any particular science or sciences ; and, therefore, is not acquired by learning, and is not to be taught in the ordinary method of instruction or discipline. Hence it may be col« lected, that it consists in true wisdom, not only derived originally from Divinity by participation, but inspired immediately hy him through continual communication ; presupposing, as a fit subject for the reception of this wisdom, a soul well disposed by nature, cultivated by right discipline, and strengthened by constant care and attention. But as the two first requisites, a good natural disposition and right institution, depend on the Divine Providence ; and, as the last, the constant practice of virtue depends on the divine assistance; all these co-operating causes of virtue are called by Plato 9ei» f40(^»> the divine allotment.
DISSERTATION XXIIL
IF GOOD IS GREATER THAN GOOD *. IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT IT IS NOT.
T DO not assent to Homer when he blames the
Lycian Glaucus for changing t his golden aims
for those of Diomed, which were brazen, and giv-^
In order to solve the question which is discussed in this and the next Dissertation^ it is necessary to observe, that all thmgs are not synonymous which subsist according to one form, nor do they after the same manner participate of their common cause ; but some things participate of it primarily and others ultimately. For every form is the leader of a certain series, which begins from on high, and gradually descends as far as to the last of things. It is by no means, therefore, wonderful that the same form of good should presubsist as the cause both of divine and mortal goods ; of such as are true and real, and of such as are false and delusive. To which we may add, that as the characteristics of true good are, as Plato observes in the Philebus, the desirable, the sufficient, and the perfect, the first and most excellent beings participate of all these, but the last of things of the desirable only ; and on this account, as they do not participate of the whole of good, they are good homonymously, and not synonymously. Let the reader also observe, that good, considered as 2. form or idea, is differ r ent from good considered as the ineffable principle of things : for, according to Plato, the former ranks among beings but the latter is superessential : and the former is simply called good, but the latter the good,
ing the value of a hecatomb for the worth of nine
oxen. For this is properly the accusation of a merchant :
' Some mean sea-farer in pursuit of gain ; Studious of freight, in naval trade well skill'd * :"
&nd not of a poet, who was thought worthy to be the disciple of Calliope, and to whom It was neither lawful to praise any thing base, nor to blame any thing beautiful. It was fit, indeed, that Glau* cus, since he was descended from Hippolochus^ Bellerophon, Sisyphus, and iEolus, all of whom were excellent characters, when he met with a man who appeared to be an enemy according to the fortune of war, but who was a friend according to paternal hospitaUty, — it became him, on recognising ancient friendship, and the famiUarity of their ancestors, to measure the exchange of arms by the occasion and not by their worth ; nor to compare gold with brass, in the same manner as those who buy wine from Lemnos :
' Each in exchange proportioned treasures gave ; Some brass or iron ; oxen «)me, or hides f .
For compensation consists in the necessity of things before our feet, and the more is opposed to the less in things which are dissimilar with respect to honour. He, therefore, who is blindfold may know that a talent is worth more than ten minss^
Odyss. viii. ver. 162. The translation by Pope.
and that a drachma is more vahiable than an obohis ; and in the possession of land, according to Herodotus^-, poor husbandmen measure it bypaces, the more wealthy by stadia ; and those who are much more agricultural tlian these, such as the Egyptians, by ropes. In the possession of cattle, also, Dardanus was much more opulent than Polyphemus :
'* Three thousand marcs about his pastures fed f.*'
But he who, not removing things necessary to life, compares them with good, will find that these, in opportunity and law, pleasures, manners, and fortunes, are, by a continual flux, changed into honour and infamy ; but that good is firm, stable, undeviating, equiponderant, common, impartible, copious, unindigent, neither admitting increase nor being subject to defect J. For that which is increased is increased by addition ; but if good accedes to good, you must not conceive that good becomes more good by this accession, for it was good before. But if that which acceded to the increase was not good you speak of a dire thing, since thus there will be a certain good which will become greater by the addition of evil. For that which is indigent is indigent by deficiency ; and if the good is indigent by the absence of good, it was not good, since it is indigent ; but if it is indigent by the absence of something else, and not by
It must be carefully observed, that these are the characteristics of true good, and not of that good which is only equi^ vocally 80 called.
the absence of good, this deficiency does not injure the good.
But what! do you not thus consider what is said? Do you call health of body any thing? Certainly, you will say. And do you not also call disease something ? Answer, then, respecting each of these : is not health a certain measure of the congruity of bodies, when contraries accord with each other in the most excellent temperament ; fire with water, earth with air, and again, both with both, and all with all ? Does, therefore, health appear to you to be a diversified and allvarious thing, and not that which is simple and consentaneous* ? For when you speak of measure you speak of stability ; since in things commensurate there is no transition from one to the other, but their boundaries are accurate. On the other hand, what else is disease than the dissolution and perturbation of the corporeal league, when the parts, which were hitherto harmonized, hastily fall on each other, and are tumultuously moved, and the body through these is corrupted, dilaccrated, and violently agitated ? Canyon, therefore, think that this war is simple and one ? If it was, indeed, the medicinal science would be but of little worth. But now the abundant distribution and garrulity of this war of bodies, which we call disease, generates an all-various art, and which is full of various instruments, many medicines, and a great diver-
Health, accurately defined, is symmetry, and a tub« listence according to nature.
sity of aliments and modes of living. If, also, you proceed to music, here, indeed, that which is harmonized is one, neither becoming superior nor subordinate to itself ; but that which is discordant is abundant, all-various, and distributed. Thus, too, an according choir is one ; but when it does not accord it is divulsed, diffused, and dissipated, and becomes a multitude. In like manner a threeranked galley, which is rowed to the sound of the flute, conjoins the numerous hands by which it is impelled along through the similitude of the rowing ; but if you take away the flute you dissolve the labour of the hands. Thus, also, a chariot is driven by the charioteer in a right and common course, and with one impetus ; but if you take away the charioteer you disperse the chariot. Thus, likewise, an army is arranged under one standard ; but if you take away the standard you dissolve the phalanx into a crowd.
What, then, is the good of bodies ? health. What is the evil of bodies ? disease. And health, indeed, is one thing, but diseases are many. What is the good in music ? harmony : and that which is harmonised is one thing, but the discordant is manifold. In a choir, too, the consent is one, but the dissonance all-various. In a three-ranked galley the flute is one, but disobedience many: and in a chariot the art of the charioteer is one, but unskilfulncss all various. But what is the good in a phalanx ? the defence of the standard. And this, indeed, is one thing, but anarchy all-various.
And in the nature of the one^ indeed I see neither excess nor defect : for it is stable, and can endure no transition, neither into flight nor pursuit ; but when I fall into multitude and number then am I able to measure their natures. For of a long road the boundary is one, but the distances are many. If you should go to Babylon, the Assyrian is nearer to it than the Armenian, the Armenian than the Lydian, the Lydian than the Ionian, and the Ionian than an islander. No one of these, however, is yet in Babylon ; neither the Assyrian, nor the Armenian, neither the Lydian nor the Ionian, nor the islander. If, also, you should go to Eleusis, Peloponnesus here * is next to it, after this Megara, and after Megara the Isthmus. But are you uninitiated ? For if so, though you should be in Megara, you will be similarly uninitiated with the Peloponnesian, while you do not yet enter into the temple. I think, also, that life is a certain long road leading to Eleusis or Babylon ; but that the boundary of this road are palaces and temples, and the greatest \ of the mysteries. Con-
Markland justly observes, it may hence be conjectured that this Dissertation was composed in some city of Peloponnesus.
t In the original teXethv, which I have translated '* the greatest of the mysteries;" because Suidas informs us that 'FiKun signifies " a mysterious sacrifice, the greatest and most honourable.*^ Proclus, too, in speaking of the Eleusinian, which he calls the most holy of the mysteries, always denominates them TcXETai. Maximus, likewise, in calling the end of life the greatest of the mysteries^ admirably accords with the
ceive, likewise, that this road, through the multitude of travellers, is full of men running, pushing each other, labouring, resting, lying down, turning out of the path, and wandering. For the impcwliments and follacies are many, some of which lead to precipices and profundities, others to the Sirens, others to the Lotophagi, and others to the Cimmerians. There is one path, ho^vever, which
remark contained in the following extraordinary passage from Themistius, preserved in the Sentences of Stobccus ;
" To Ss woco^eiv TraOoj, Oiov o( rtXiTociq i^tyocXonq xaro^yia- ^OfAivoi' ^(0 xxi TO ^t]a« Til} ^ri^Tky Koci TO t^yov tu> i^ta tov
VOitVTOCV KXi TEXEtO'Sat TT^OO'EOiXE. irXotVOik TX V^UTOe, KOOk TTE^t^^o/xra
xosr»^et;> xat cm ckotov^ Ttvo; wovloi vo^uxi xa» arEXsroi* ura Tt^o TOV teXov; auTou t» $nva leocnoc, <p^txri, xou T^o/tAO^y xflM i^^faq, KOtk dajmCo;* ex Si toutoV) (fug Tk dau/xao'toy ccTnvTri(riV9 ctfjt,¥(/rnTOO<; aKOVCfJi.oe.TUv a^uvj koli f avroo'/xa.'lay ayim E;^oyTE$> Wf ai^ 0 TrayTEXn? 7)^7} xat ixifivrifxtw^ eXei/9e§o^ yEyovw^y xa» afcTo; 9rE^t(wy En^0(yft>/x£yo; o^yiotl^it' xai o-uyEnv oo'iOi; xai xcc* in death just as it is in the initiation into the great mysteries^ and word answers to word as well as thing to thing : for te* ieutan is, to die, and teleisthai to be initiated. The first stage consists of wanderings and laborious circuits, and of a suspicious and rude march through a certain darkness. In the next place, before this darkness is dispersed every thing dreadful presents itself to the view, accompanied with horror, trembling, sweating, and astonishment. But after this a certain admirable light discloses itself, and pure places and flowery meadows receive them, replete with mystic sounds and dances, the doctrines of sacred knowledge, and reverend and holy visions. And now, become perfect and initiated, they are free, and no longer under restraints ; but, crowned, they walk about celebrating divine orgies, and converse with pure and holy
men."
is narrow, and straight, and rough, and is not much frequented, but which leads to the end of the journey. Weary and laborious souls, who aspire after the region to which this road conducts, who love the mysteries and predict their beauty, scarcely, and with much molestation, labour, and sweat, arrive through this path at the desired end. But when they have arrived thither they rest from their labour and cease to desire. For what other initiation is more mystic than this, and what other place is more worthy than this of strenuous exertion ? But what Eleusis is to the uninitiated that is this region the good to men. Come, then, be initiated, ascend to this region, embrace the good, and you will not desire any thing greater than this.
If, however, you denominate the good by the nature of things which are not good, such as the health and elegant form of bodies, the ornaments of gold and silver, the renown of ancestors and political honour, things which are naturally adapted to be measured by pleasure rather than by good, you divulge the mysteries, you sin against divinity. You desire to partake of such kind of goods as were the mysteries -of Alcibiades *, who, when intoxicated, was the torch-bearer j from a banquet was the hierophant f, and in jest the perfector,
Alcibiades was accused by Androcles for imitating tlie mysteries ia his own house. See Plutarch, torn. i. p. 200 D.; and Cornelius N epos in his Life of Alcibiades, cap. 3.
t In the mysteries the initiating priest was called the hitrophant^ which signifies a revealer of holj/ things. The
But you tv'ill not find that good is more ardanc than good, as neither is beauty more graceful than beauty; for, if you take away any thing from these, that which is not yet beautiful will no longer be beautiful, and that which is not yet good will no longer be good. Do you not see this heaven which is above our head, and the stars which it contains, aether which is under it, air which is under this, the sea which is under air, and earth which is under the sea ? Measure the natures of these. Earth is a part of the whole, broad, abundantly nourishing, bearing trees, and being the nurse of animals ; but if you compare it with the sea it is less than the sea, the sea is less than the air, the air than aether, and sether than heaven. Thus far the parts proceed, surpassing and surpassed. But, when you have arrived thither, beauty together with magnitude proceeds no farther. For what can be more beautiful than the heavens ; what more splendid than the stars ; what more vigorous than the sun ; what more abundantly nourishing * than the moon ; what more elegantly arranged than the choir of the other stars ; what more venerable than the gods themselves ?
torch-hearer was one of the assistants of the hierophant ; but in what the office of the perfector (t6?leot»jj) consisted, it is, perhaps, at present in vain to inquire.
According to ancient theologists the moon is the self-vi* sive image of nature ; {avivif\o* tuj $i/<re«j oyaX/ua) and hence she is celebrated by Apulcius, as " nourishing with moist fires the joyful seeds of plants/
Meti, however, try to weigh honours for the gods as they do for things that are good. Who is he ? Jupiter. It is his province to govern. Who is he ? Saturn. It is his province to be bound. To Vulcan it belongs to operate in brass, to Hermes to announce, to Minerva to weave. For, in my opinion, men are ignorant that to all the gods there is one law, one life, and one mode of subsistence, without separation and without sedition ; all of them being rulers, all of the same age, all saviours, and living together through the whole of time with equal honours and with equal authority, and of whom there is one nature * but many names. For, through our ignorance of the divinities, we denominate them from the benefits which they impart, different men giving a different name to deity : just as with respect to the parts of the sea; this is the ^gean, that the Ionian, this the Myrtoan t> and that the Crissaean J ; while, in the meantime, the sea is one, homogeneous, co-passive, and co-mingled. Thus,
According to the arcana of ancient theology the union of the divinities with each other is so profound, in consequence of each being characterized by unity , that all are in all : for it it a union of unities. At the same time, however, as they are the causes of all the diversities of being, their distinction from each other is no less transcendent than their union..
f The Myrtoum Mare is a part of the ^gean sea, which lies between Euboea, Peloponnesus, and Attica.
:|: I have adopted the emendation of Markland here, who substitutes Crisseean for Crettean, The Crissaeus Sinus is a bay on the coasts of Peloponnesus, near Corinth.
VOL. II. D
also, the good is one, similar to itself, and on all sides equal ; but, through our imbecility and ignorance of it, we distribute it in our opinions. Callicles is rich, and he is blessed in good ; but Alcibiades is more beautiful than Callias. Let us oppose the goods, wealth to beauty. Which of them is worth an hecatomb ; which of them is worth nine oxen ; which of them shall we choose ; for which of them shall we pray ? The Phoenician, therefore, and the Egyptian will pray for the good of Callias ; but the Elean and the Boeotian for that of Alcibiades. Pausanias was of noble birth, but Eurybiades was more renowned. Let us oppose birth to glory. Which will vanquish ; to which shall we give the palm of victory ? Socrates was poor, Socrates was deformed, Socrates was inglorious, Socrates was of ignoble birth, Socrates lived with ignominy. For how is it pos* sible he should not be deformed, without honour, of ignoble birth, inglorious, and poor ; who was the son of a statuary, flat-nosed, and paunch-bellied ; who was reviled in cojnedies, and cast into j)rison ; and who died there, where Timagoras * died ? O what a solitude of good ! for I am afraid to mention the multitude of evils. What shall we oppose to tliese ; what shall we say ? Compare Socrates with the antagonists in the
Timagoras was an Athenian, who was capitally punished for paying homage to Darius, according to the Persian manner of kneeling on the ground, when he was sent to Persia as ambassador.
possession of good. Do you not see that he is vanquished in wealth by Callias, in body by Alcibiades, in honour by Pericles, in glory by Nicias, in the theatre by Aristophanes, in the court of justice by Melitus ? In vain, therefore, did Apollo give him the palm of victory; in vain did he proclaim him the wisest of men.
DISSERTATION XX IF.
IF GOOD IS GREATER THAN GOOD : IN WHICH IT
IS SHOWN THAT IT IS.
OINCE, however, you accuse Homer for blaming Ghuicus for the exchange which he made ; whether shall we apologize to you for Homer, or to Homer for Glaucns ? To the latter by Jupiter ; for Homer must be honoured by me before others, and even in preference to your judgment. Let Glaucns, therefore, speak as follows: " If in a certain respect, O Homer ! good was less than gooil, or less than something greater, Jupiter would be justly accused by you for depriving me of intellect ; but in the exchange of gold for brass, do not yet entirely accuse either Jupiter or me. For neither docs he who receives gold possess more, nor he who receives brass in exchange for gold less ; but both are well adapted to both, since tiie inequality of the matter is compensated by the equality of intention in the gift." Let Glaucus, however, depart ; and let Ulysses, who was wiser than him, approach, and disclose to us his opinion concerning the possession of good. For is it not he who proclaimed the bouse of
Alcinous * blessed for its hilarity and singing, who wished that he might enter into according wedlock with Nausicaa f ; and who proclaimed Calypso t happy for her immortality? But I think that he, if he had come to some one whose felicity did not consist in the song and the banquet, and who was not blessed according to the harmony of wedlock but from the possession of goods still greater than these, — I think that he would have spoken pertinently concerning them. Since, however, you adduce beauty as having its subsistence in unity of measure, I will briefly an- * swer you concerning this. For it appears to me, that if you had been in the place of the Trojan shepherd, and Mercury had come to you, sent from Jupiter, leading three goddesses to you as to a judge, that you might decide concerning their beauty, you would have admired Venus in the same manner as Paris did, and would have condemned Juno and Minerva as deformed. For if the beautiful is one in all beauty, and one from the three goddesses vanquishes the rest, it is necessary that those who are vanquished should be defprmed.
O most happy of judges ! do not act in this manner, but be sparing of base appellations, and gradually descend from the highest to the lowest, that I may not once more adduce Homer against you, who calls Juno white-armed, Aurora rosy-
fingeredjMinerva azure-eyed, Thetis silver-footed; and Hebe fair-footed ; from no one of which must you takeaway the beauty, though it should subsist in a part, if you wish to speak in a becoming manner of divine natures, and by no means to sin against them. Hear him, also, describing a rustic choir of nymphs sporting on the mountain, with Diana for their leader :
' The goddess treads with more majestic pace, The nymphs surpassing in her head and face '^,"
says Homer, and
' Distinguish'd beauty in the goddess shines."
Or . will you deride Homer for preferring the beauty of Diana to that of the nymphs ? But do you not, also, hear how he speaks about the beauty of Menelaus, when he says that, being wounded, the blood flowed down his thigh, the beauty of which he compares to the art of a woman, staining ivory with purple, for the trappings of a horse :
'* So Menelaus show'd thy sacred blood,
As down thy snowy thigh distill'd the streaming flood, f "
And yet he also says that his legs and the inferior parts of his feet were beautiful. But again, when he praises the beauty of Agamemnon, he is not in want of a Lydian or Carian image, nor of ivory
f Iliad, iv. ven 142. The translation from Pope.
dyed with purple by a barbarian woman, but he assimilates his head and his eyes * to those of Jupiter, by which it is evident that Agamemnon was more beautiful than Menelaus : for the beauty of the former consisted in his head and eyes, but of the latter in his thighs and the lower parts of his feet. But he who is beautiful in the superior parts is more beautiful, and he who is beautiful in the inferior is not yet deformed but is less beautiful. Again, in the Grecian army, does not Achilles surpass in beauty, while the beauty of Nireus only ranks in the second degree ? And you being the judge, will it follow that because Nireus is less beautiful than Achilles he differs in no respect from Thersites ? And, that I may not alone speak to you concerning beauty, Ajax will not contend with Achilles about valour, nor Diomed with Ajax, nor Sthenelus with Diomed, nor Menestheus with Sthenelus ; and yet no one will deprive Menestheus of valour on account of Sthenelus, nor Sthenelus on account of Diomed, nor Diomed on account of Ajax, nor Ajax on account of Achilles; but there is here a path of virtue which does not leap over the natures situated in the middle, but descends gradually from the most excellent to the
more inferior.
That we may, however, leave the consideration of bodies in which strength and beauty are mingled together, if you compare Andromache with Penelope, are not both of them chaste and afTec-
tionate wives ? And yet you will prefer Penelope, Dot as a Grecian to a barbarian woman, but as attributing greater excellence to that which surpasses in virtue. Nestor gives counsel to Agamemnon ; was it, therefore, as a wise to a stupid man ? You certainly will not speak so opprobriously of the king of all the Greeks, who was Jovebegotten and the shepherd of the people ; and yet, though he was wise, he required the assistance of a wiser counsellor, Nestor. But you will not be in any respect more persuasive, if, in speaking concerning good, you are unwilling to compare similars with similars, according to inequality of participation, through which they receive the more and the less ; since you admit that health is something simple. This, however, is less simple than any thing else. For the natures of bodies are much more abundant than those of the soul with respect to the measure of health. Hence, in a manner entirely contrary to that which you adduce, he who pursues the highest degree in health pursues a fugitive thing, and which in its flight can neither be captured by Esculapius nor Chiron ; but he who, in the inequality of that which can be obtained, is contented with what he receives, is more equitable with respect to art, and is not without hope of attaining the summit. This, also, is the case with good. For since there are three things by which any one may form a judgment of the present speculation, the first of which pertains to truth, the second to the possible, and the third to the useful, let us consider each of these,
beginning in an inverse order from the useful : for it will not yet be possible to determine whether the assertion is true, that good is greater than good. Let us, however, consider its utility : for many things which are neither true nor possible are advantageous when they obtain credibility.
Does not, indeed, Socrates, when he circumscribes the essence of the good, in the most excellent alone, exclude the multitude from the road which leads to it ? But he who permits certain steps and resting-places in the midst of the journey, together with many recesses, causes the multitude to wander very widely from the good, as thus obtaining the moderately excellent, and consoles them with the acquisition of it, as having now arrived at that which is best. He proclaims, him, however, who reaches the summit as the best among the good. But* does not the other of the assertions crown the most strenuous combatant among the timid and the most robust among the imbecile ? And, in short, is it not evident, that it does not give antagonists to the most brave, nor explore the virtues among similars ? And thus much concerning utility ; let us now consider the possible. An inferior kind of gold, and not lead, proves gold of the most excellent quality. Thus, also, silver is proved by silver, and brass by brass. And, in short, the examinations of all things are effected in the comparison of the similar according to essence, but of the dissimilar according to transcendency. But if, comparing good itself with evils, you thus investigate, how is it possible
that the least of goods should not appear to you in the place of the greatest. For as by night the light from a fire appears to be more vivid than that which beams from day, through the abundant darkness with which it is surrounded, but the same light in sun-shine is obscure and imbecile, in consequence of being opposed to a more robust antagonist ; thus, also, good, though it should be merely casual, if compared with evils, is most excellent, mostgreat, and most transcendent, like a small spark in profound darkness, like a little light in a starless night. If, however, you permit it to run and contend with its like, you will then perceive that which is truly the best ; but now you confound and disturb the investigation. Do you not see that the moon, a star amphibious with respect to night and day, is splendid in the night but obscure in the radiance of the sun ? By day, therefore, the sun, the best and most robust of the celestial bodies, is victorious; but the moon, the most imbecile of them all, vanquishes by night. In like manner good, if you compare it with the night, and darkness and obscurity of evil, vanquishes, though its light be most debile ; but if you compare good with good it is necessary that the more splendid should be victorious.
I quit the possible, and pass on to the true. Is the life of man to be considered as any thing else than a vital transition mingled from soul and body and fortune ? From the harmony of these, welltempered, each at the same time having reached the summit of its strength, the aggregate is called
felicity ; the soul commanding like a general, but the body obeying like a common soldier, and fortune co-operating like arms, from all which victory is obtained. But if you take away fortune you disarm the soldier, and if you take away the soldier you deprive the general of his authority. The common soldier, however^ is more honourable than arms, and the general than the common soldier. But if, honouring the general, you despise the rest, what use will the general make of fortune ? Or if, though introducing these, you should distribute to them equal honour, what use will fortune make of the general? The soul should command, the body should act the part of a soldier, and fortune should co-operate in the contest. I praise all, I admit all ; but I deprive them of equality of honour. Do you not see a marine navigation, in which the pilot governs, in the same manner as the soul does the body ; but the ship is governed in the same manner as the body by the soul, and the winds impel as fortune does the virtues ? But if a storm arises, while the ship remains and the pilot remains, there is hope of safety ; and though the ship should be driven in a wrong course by the impulse of the winds, yet, by the assistance of art, it may be prevented from sinking. But if you begin from the pilot, and take him away, the ship is useless though it remains, and the winds are useless, however prosperously they may blow. Hence in the sea, in a ship, and in navigation, the pilot is the most honourable^ next to him the ship, and next to the ship external
aid ; but in the race of the present life the soul is the most honourable, next to this the body, and the third is fortune*. The goods, however, of
♦ Fortune in this place appears to be considered by Maximus in the popular sense of the word, as a certain capricious cause of good and evil ; but, philosophically considered^ it is that divine power which disposes things differing from each other^ and happening, contrary to expectation, to beneficent purposes. Or it may be defined to be that deific distribution which causes every thing to complete the allotment assigned to it by the condition of its being. Simplicius on Aristotle's Physics, lib. ii. p. 81, gives the following beautiful description of this divinity, the original of which the reader will £nd in vol. iii. p. 311, of my translation of Pausanias's Description of Greece : '* The power of Fortune particularly disposes in an orderly maimer the sublunary part of the univer$e> in which the nature of the contingent is contained, and which bebg essentially disordered. Fortune, in conjunction •with other primary causes, directs, places in order, and governs. Hence she is represented guiding a rudder, because she governs things sailing on the sea of generation. Her rudder, too, is fixed on a globe, because she directs that which is unstable in generation. In her other hand she holds the horn of Amalthea, which is full of fruits, because she is the cause of obtaining all divine fruits. And on this account we venerate the fortunes of cities and houses and of each individual ; because, being very remote from divine union, we are in danger of being deprived of its participation, and require, in order to obtain it^ the assistance of the goddess Fortune, and of those natures superior to the human (i» e, daemons and heroes) who possess the characteristic of this divinity. Indeed every fortune is good, for every attainment respects something good, nor does any thing evil subsist firom divinity. But of goods some are precedaneous, and others are of a punishing or avenging characteristic, which we are accustomed to call evils. Hence we speak of two fortunes, one of which we denominate good, and which is the cause of our obtaining precedaneous goods, and the other evil, which prepares us to receive punishment or revenge."
that which is more honourable possess a greater degree of honour than those which are less so.
I, indeed, also take away equality of honour in the senses. Homer was blind, but he heard Calliope : Atys was deaf, but he saw the sun. Transpose the calamities : let Atys hear, but not see ; let Homer see and not hear. Calliope, indeed, will not sing to Atys, but you will not deprive Homer of his preceptress. I, likewise, take away equality of honour in the gods : for I am persuaded by Homer, when he says,
' Triply are all tilings ranked, but each his share Of honour is decreed *."
Not equal honour, for neither is the dominion equal ; as neither is the division of heaven equal to that of the sea, nor the division of the sea to that of Hades. And yet Pluto, Neptune, and Jupiter are equally gods, and equally the sons of Saturn : just as Lysander is a Spartan, but Agesilaus, Heraclides, or one descended from Hercules. In the virtues, likewise, I prefer one genus to another : for does not a tamer of horses love horses that are well born ?
" The race of those which once the thundering god For ravish'd Ganymede on Tros f bestow'd."
Does not the huntsman, also, love whelps that are well-born ; and will not he who is a lover of man, and who delights to educate this animal, explore
Iliad. XV. ver. 189, These lines refer to the distribution of the universe among the three brother deities, Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto.
t Iliad. T. ver. Q65* The translation from Pope.
his race ? Not^ indeed, narrating that of Artaxerxes, the son of Xerxes (for you speak of a cowardly race) nor that of Croesus, the son of Alyattis (for you speak of an imbecile race) nor that of Hippias the son of Pisistratus (for you speak of a base race;) but if you speak of Leonidas and Agesilaus, I know their virtue, I call to mind Hercules, and I praise the nobility of their birth. I wish that the race of Aristides, I wish that the race of Socrates was to be found in Athens ; for I should honour these in the same manner as the Heraclidae, as the Persidse, as the Patricii. Or will you praise rivers if they flow pure from their fountains, and plants, though their bodies grow old, but their seeds remain ; and will you not praise human nobility, if it originates from virtue as from a pure fountain, if it remains genuine, if it remains unmingled ? And thus far you act in a manly manner, and your assertions are worthy of belief. But if I should ask you concerning wealth, what will you say ; in what manner will you arrange the thing ; in what place ? Speak, with your head uncovered *, the language of the soul : say what you assert wealth to be. Is it a bad thing ; why then do you love it ? is it a good thing ; why then do you avoid it ?
Though the tongue swears the mind unsworn remains f-"
You should, however, consider it as a thing nei-
Maximus here, doubtless, alludes to Socrates uncovering his head when discoursing about divine beauty, in the Phaedrus of Plato.
f This is from EAiripidea in Hippolyto, ver. 612.
ther good nor bad, but situated in the conBnes and in the middle region between both. Rank it among things indifferent, and do not proceed any farther, lest you should pass beyond the boundaries. If, however, you change the name, you should not call it good, but you should call it that which leads the way to good ; for thus you will change the appellation but honour the thing.
DISSERTATION XXV.
SINCE DIVINITY PRODUCES GOOD, WHENCE DO
EVILS ORIGINATE ?
THHEY say that Alexander the Macedonian, when he came to the temple of Jupiter Ammon, and was called by Ammon his son, believed in the god conformably to the doctrine of Homer, who denominates Jupiter the father of gods and men ; and that, having received the oracle, he did not think fit to interrogate his father about any thing else after this, neither about the flight of Darius, nor the impending battle, nor the calamities of Greece, nor the tumults of Asia ; but, as if all his other concerns were in a prosperous condition, he enquired of the god, whence the Nile* originating descended into Egypt. Was this one thing, therefore, perfectly necessary to his felicity ; and, having learnt this, would he be sufficiently blessed ? He would not, by Jupiter,
According to other writers, however, Alexander did not consult Jupiter Ammon about the source of the Nile, but enquired of the god, whether the empire of the whole earth w^as destined to him, and whether all his father Philip's murderers had been punished. See Quintus Curtius, Diodorus Siculus, and Plutarch.
though, together with the Nile, he had known the source of the Ister, and could tell whether the ocean itself is a certain river spreading round all the earth, or is the principle and fountain of our sea, or a lake which receives the setting sun and moon, or something else, such as the poets pro* phetically announce concerning it. At the same time, however, it was permitted him to suffer the rivers to flow whither Jupiter sends them ; but he might have betaken himself to Ammon, or to the Threspotian land, and the oak which is there, or to Parnassus and the Pythian oracle, or to Ismenius *f and the divine voice which it contains, or to Delos and its choirs, or to* any other prophetic place, either in Greece or the land of the barbarians, and might there have requested Jupiter or Apollo to deliver to him an oracle which should be common and public to the whole human race. For such a request would have been much more generally beneficial to mankind than when the Dorians consulted the oracle about Peloponnesus, or the Athenians about Ionia, or the Corinthians about Sicily.
Come, then, imitating those common ambassadors, who were sent to oracles on account of the human race, let us enquire of Jupiter, who is the father and supplier of human good, what are its principles, what its fountains, and whence originating it flows. Unless it is not proper to disturb
Ismenius was a river of Boeotia, near to which there was an oracle of Apollo.
VOL. II, E
divinity about things of this kind, since the supply is apparent to our senses, and we perceive the cause, understand the fountain, and know the fiu ther and fabricator, the governor of heaven, the charioteer of the sun and moon, the coryphceus of the revolution and whirling motion, of the harmonic dance and course, of the stars, the dispensator of the seasons, the moderator of the winds, the maker of th^ sea, the fabricator of the earth, the supplier of rivers, the nurse of fruits, the generator of animals, the guardian of births, the source of rain, the giver of fruits, paternal and the progenitor, and whose intellect is entire and unwearied, and pervading to every nature with an inconceivable swiftness, like the projecting beams of the sight, adorns everything with which it comes into contact ; in the same manner as the rays of the sun, when they fall on the earth, give splendour to every thing which they supervene. What the mode, however, of this contact is I am unable to tell ; but Homer obscurely indicates it, when he says,
With his dark eyebrows Jove then nods assent *.
But, together with the nod of Jupiter, the earth subsists, and whatever the earth produces, the sea subsists, and all its progeny, the air subsists, and whatever it contains ; and heaven subsists, with all its moving orbs : these are the works of the nods of Jupiter, Thus far I am not in want of an ora-
cle ; I am persuaded by Homer, I believe in Plato, and I pity Epicurus.
But, if I betake myself to the conceptions of evils, I ask, whence came they hither ; what are their fountains or generations ; whence did they originate ? Shall we say from Ethiopia, as pestilence; from Babylon, as Xerxes ; from Macedonia, as Philip ? For, by Jupiter, they did not originate from heaven, not from heaven ; for envy is not admitted in the divine choir. Here, then, here, I have need of an oracle ; let us, therefore, implore the gods: O Jupiter and Apollo, and whatever other god is prophetic, and the curator of the human race, declare to us, who are in want of your aid, what is the principle, what the cause of evils, how we may guard against, how we may escape them.
' The flight from evils none can reprehend *."
Or do you not see what dreadful circumstances, falling into the destiny of men, roll about the earth, and fill it with all-various sighs and lamentations ? The body of man laments, perceiving itself surrounded by diseases as by a wall, and deplores the insecurity of its safety and the immanifest condition of its life. For when is it that the human body is not obnoxious to evil ? As soon as man is born, and plucked from his mother's womb, his body is wet and miry, and full of lamentation and crying. In the course of time, when it puts forth
its flower, it is foolish and intemperate ; and, if It should arrive at puberty, it cannot be restrained, through the ardour with which it is impelled. But, if it should reach old age, it gradually dies, and becomes extinguished, and is a useless habita* tion to the soul, morose, miserable, employed with difficulty, neither capable of enduring rain, nor wind, nor the sun, blaming the seasons of heaven, and rebelling against Jupiter. In winter it is invested with additional clothing, in summer it seeks re^ irigeration ; when full desires to be empty, and when empty to be full. Like the alternately-ebbing and flowing Euripus, it never stops, it never rests, but is insatiable, unrestrained, voracious, indigent of garments, in want of shoes, of ointments, and medicines. Many hands and many arts minister to one body ; though one equerry is sufficient to a thousand horses, one shepherd to as many sheep, and one herdsman to as many oxen. Nor yet is this multitude adequate to the wants of the human body. For what human artifice can avert the incursions of pestilence, or restrain showers descending from heaven, or stop earthquakes, or extinguish fire rising from the earth? You see the course and the succession of evils, and the continuity of dangers :
' Earth nothing nourishes more weak than man *."
And if you proceed to the soul, there, also, you will see a crowd of diseases pouring in upon it.
If you repel sorrow, fear creeps in : if fear departs, anger is excited ; and if anger ceases, envy accedes. Calamities are before our feet, evils are neighbours ; and there is no accurate intermission of maladies.
What, then, will Jupiter, or Apollo, or any other prophetic god, answer to these things ? Let us hear what their interpreter says * :
O strange, that mortals should the gods accuse ! On us their ills they charge, tho' them Fate, for their crimes, precipitates in woe."
What, then, is the cause of this perverseness ? Since heaven and earth are two habitations, the former must be considered as void of evil, but the latter as mingled from good and evil; so that good, indeed, descends from the one, but evils rise from spontaneous depravity. Improbity, also, is twofold, the one being the property of matter, the other the licence of the soul. Let us, therefore, first speak concerning the former of these. You see matter, then, about which the operations of a good artificer are employed, and which derives its ornament from art. But if any thing subsists with confusion (since things on the earth are full of disorder) do not accuse art as the cause : for that which is inartificial is by no means the wish of the artist, as neither is injustice the wish of the legislator. But a divine intellect attains its end in a much greater degree than human art.
As, therefore, in the manual operations of the arts, some things are precedanepusly performed by art regarding the end, but others are consequent to manual operation, not being the works of art but the properties of matter, as sparks from an anvil, ashes from a furnace, and the like, and which are, indeed, necessary to the operation, but are not the leading design of the artist ; — in like manner, with respect to the calamities about the earth, which we call the invasions of human evils, art must not be accused as the cause ; but it must be admitted that these things are, as it were, certain necessary natures consequent to the fabrication of the universe. For the things which we call evils and corruptions, and which are the subjects of our lamentations, these the artist calls the salvation of the whole 5 for his attention is directed to the whole, for the sake of which it is necessary the part should be connected with evil. The Athenians are aiSicted with pestilence, the Lacedaemonians with an earthquake, the Thessalians with an inundation, and i£tna is subject to eruptions of fire. But when did Jupiter promise the Athenians immortality ? For, if there had not been a pestilence, would not Alcibiades have led the people to Sicily ? When did Jupiter promise the Lacedaemonians a land free from earthquakes; when the Thessalians, a land free from inundation ; when the Scihans, a land exempt from fiery eruptions ? These things are the destiny of bodies. You see, therefore, the participated properties, which you, indeed, call corruption^ in consequence
of regarding the departure of things ; but which I call salvation, in consequence of looking to the succession of things in futurity. You see the mutation of bodies, and the transition of generation, a path upwards and downwards according to He* raclitus ; and again, as he says, one thing living the death, but dying the life of another. Thus fire lives the death of earth, and air lives the death of fire ; water lives the death of air, and earth lives the death of water. You see a succession of life, and a mutatioB of bodies, both which are the renovation of the whole.
Let us now direct our attention to the other principle, spontaneous, which the licentious power of the soul conceives and brings to perfection, and the name of which is depravity. Of this, the fault is in him that chooses it, but divinity is without blame *. For since it was necessary that earth should be produced, the bearer of fruits, the nurse of animals, and abounding with cattle, but inwardly containing evils confined in herself; these, being expelled from heaven, were mingled in this terrene abode. But divinity produced many and all-various allotments of animals, and gave a twofold division to their nature, so that the one might be diversified in their lives and bodies, might be irrational, void of prudence, mutually destructive of each other, without any intellectual conception of deity, destitute of virtue, fed, and popularly allured by diurnal sense, and
Sec the tenth book of the Republic of Plato.
strong in body, but perfectly imbecile in the rea* soning power. On the contrary, the other nature, T^hich is the human, he made to be homogeneous, obedient to law, and one ; infirm, indeed, in body, but victorious in reason, having an intellectual knowledge of divinity, being a partaker of political government, a lover of communion, and having a taste of justice, law, and friendship. It was necessary, therefore, that this genus should be superior to every herd of animals on the earth, but inferior to divinity. Death*, however, is not the cause of . this inferiority : for this very thing, which the muU titude call death, is the beginning of inmiortality, and the birth of a future life; bodies, indeed, being corrupted by the very law and time of their existence, but the soul being recalled to her pro* per place and life. But God devised the following mode of rendering the human condition inferior to the divine : He placed the soul in a terrestrial body, as a charioteer in a chariot f , and, delivering the reins to the charioteer, dismissed it to the race; the soul possessing, indeed, from divinity the strength of art, but possessing also the liberty of acting without art. When the happy and
The true cause of the inferiority of the human to the divine nature is, not ^om corporeal death, or the separation of the body from the soul, but from the death of the soul, arising from its union with the body. For the soul, by animating the body, enkindles, indeed, a light in her dark receptacle, but becomes herself situated in obscurity, and dies in proportion as she converts herself to the body.
t Se^ the Fhsdrut of Plato, from which Maximus derived this simile.
blessed soul, therefore, ascends into the chariot, being mindful of divinity, who placed it in this vehicle, and gave it this ruling power, it seizes the reins, governs the chariot, and corrects the impulses of the horses. But these in reality are allvarious, and are impelled to run in different directions ; one of them being intemperate, voracious, and insolent, but another irascible, impetuous,^ and stupified ; one being sluggish and effeminate, but another illiberal, pusillanimous, and humble« Hence the chariot, being driven in different directions, disturbs the charioteer. And if, indeed, he is vanquished by the horses, the axis is hurried away according to the impetus of the domineering horse; the whole chariot at one time, too-ether with the charioteer, being dragged along by the intemperate horse to insolence, intoxication, and venery, and to other pleasures, which are neither elegant nor sincere ; but at another time by the irascible horse to all-various calamities *.
The true answer to this most important question, which is but imperfectly solved by Maximus, is as follows: The habitude or relation which divinity has to things differs from that of ours ; and again, things are related to divinity in a manner different from their relation to us : for there is one kind of relation of wholes to parts and another of parts towards each other. With reference to divinity, therefore, nothing is evil, not even among things which are called evils, for these he employs to beneficent purposes. But, on the other hand, with respect to partial natures, there is a certain evil with which they are naturally connected ; and the same thing is evil to a part, but to the universe and to wholes good. For so far as a thing has being, and so far as it participates of order, it is good.
In shorty there is no evil which is not, in a certain respect good, because the beneficent illuminations of Providence extend to all things, and even irradiate the dark and formless na« ture of matter. Evil, therefore, neither subsists in intellectual natures, for the whole intellectual order is void of evil, nor in souls or bodies which rank in the universe as wholes ; for all wholes are free from evil on account of their perpetually subsisting according to nature. Hence evil must either subsist in partial souls, or in partial bodies, but yet not in the essences of these, because all their essences are of divine origin ; nor in their powers, for these subsist according to nature. It remains^ therefore, that evil must subsist in their energies. But among souls it cannot be in the energies of such as are rational, for all these aspire after good ; nor in the energies of such as are ir^ rational, for these energize according to nature ; but it must take place in the privation of symmehy between the two. And with respect to bodies, evil can neither subsist in their form, for it desires to rule over matter, nor in matter, for it aspires after the supervening irradiations of form ; but in the asymmetry of form with respect to matter. From hence, likewise, it is evident that every thing evil has nothing more than a shadowy kind of bemg ; that at the same time it is coloured by good ; that, consequently, all tlungs are good through the will of divinity ; and that even evil is necessary to the perfection of the universe, as without its shadowy nature generation could not subsist. See more on this very interesting subject in the introduction to my translation of five books of Plotinus. The above observations are extracted horn that introduction, and are derived from the very adytum of Platonic philosophy.
DISSERTATION XXVI.
WHAT THE DiEMON * OF SOCRATES WAS.
"r\ O you wonder that a daemoniacal power as* sociated with Socrates, a power which was a friend to him, prophetic, always attendant on him, and all but mingled with his mind ; with Socrates, I say, a man pure in body, good in soul, accurate in diet, skilful in wisdom, musical in speech, pious towards divinity, and holy in human affairs ? Why, then, do you not wonder that a Delphic t wonaan in Pytho, or a Threspotian man
In the original to ^anjuoinov , by which word Maximut signifies indiscriminately both a daemon^ properly so called, and a god. For, according to the theology of Plato, divine daemons^ though essentially different from the gods, may be called gods from their contact with the divinities ; just as good men are sometimes called by Plato gods, according to similitude, or from their resemblance to a divine nature.
f The following beautiful explanation of divination by oracles is given by Jamblichus, which satisfactorily shows how prophecy is communicated by divinity to mankind :
" It is acknowledged by all men that the oracle in Colophon gives its answers through the medium of water : for there is a fountain, in a subterranean dwelling, from which the prophetess drinks ; and, on certain established nights, after many sacred rites have been previously performed, and she has drank of the fountain, she delivers oracles, but is not visible to those that are present. That this water, therefore, is prophetic is from hence manifest ; but how it becomes so, this (according ^0 the proverb) is not for every man to know« For it appears
in Dodona, or a Libyan in the temple of Ammon^ or uu Ionian in Claros, or a Lycian in Xanthus, or a Boeotian in Ismenus; why do you not wonder that all these daily associate with a divine power, and not only have a knowledge of their own affairs,
as if a certain prophetic spirit pervaded the water. This is not, however, in reality the case : for a divine nature does not pervade through its participants in this manner, according to interval and division, but comprehends as it were externally, and illuminates the fountain, and fills it &om itself with a prophetic power. For the inspiration which the water affords is not the whole of that which proceeds from a divine power, but the water itself only prepares ut, and purifies our lucifbrm spirit, so that we may be able to receive the divinity ; while, in the meantime, there is a presence of divinity prior to this, and illuminating from on high. And this, indeed, is not absent from any one, who through aptitude is capable of being conjoined with it. But this divme illumination is immediately present, and uses the prophetess as an instrument ; she neither being any longer mistress of herself, nor capable of attending to what she says, nor perceiving where she is. Hence, after prediction, she is scarcely able to recover herself : and before she drinks the water she abstains from food for a whole day and night ; and retiring to certain sacred places, inaccessible to the multitude, begins to receive in them the divinely inspired energy. Through her departure, therefore, and separation from human concerns, she renders herself pure, and by this means adapted to the reception of divinity: and hence she possesses the inspiration of the god shining into the pure seat of her soul, becomes fiill of an unrestrained afflatus, and receives the divine presence in a perfect manner, and without any im* pediment.
♦' But the prophetess in Delphi, whether she gives oracles to mankind through an attenuated and fiery spirit, burstmg from the mouth of the cavern ; or whether, being seated in the adytum upon a brazen tripod, or on a stool with four feet, she becomes sacred to the god ; whichsoever of these is the case the entirely gives herself up to a divine spirit, and is illumi
but deliver oracles to others both privately and publicly ? Or why do you not wonder that the prophetess sitting on the tripod, and being filled with a divine spirit, sings oracles; but that the prophet in Ionia, having drawn and drank fontal water, possesses a divining power ; and that those
nated with a ray of divine fire. And when, indeed, fire ascending from the mouth of the cavern circularly mvests her in collected abundance, she becomes filled from it with a divine splendour, fiut when she places herself on the seat of the god she becomes accommodated to his stable prophetic power ; and from both these preparatory operations she becomes wholly possessed by the god. And then, indeed, he is present with and illuminates her in a separate manner, and is different from the fire, the spirit, the proper seat ; and, in short, firom all the apparent apparatus of the place, whether physical or sacred.
' Tlie prophetic woman, too, in Branchidae, whether holding in her hand a wand, which was at first received from some god, she becomes filled with a divine splendour ; or whether, seated on an axis, she predicts future wants ; or dips her feet, or the border of her garment in the water; or receives the god by imbibing the vapour of the water, — ^by all these she becomes adapted to partake externally * of the god.
" But the multitude of sacrifices, the institution of the whole of sanctimony, and such other things as are performed in a divine manner, prior to the prophetic inspiration ; viz. the bath* of the prophetess, her fasting for three whole days, her retiring into the adyta, and there receiving a divine light, and rejoicing for a considerable time — all these evince that the god is entreated by prayer to approach, that he becomes externally present ; and that the prophetess before she comes to her accustomed place is inspired in a wohderful manner ; and that in the spirit which rises firom the fountain another more ancient god, who is separate from the place, appears, and who is the cause of the place, of the country, and of the whole of divination."
That is, of an Ulumination which has no vyj^vi;, or habitude to any 1hxa§ ioateriaL
worshippers of the oak in Dodona *, who lie on the ground, and whose feet are unbathed, deliver oracles according to the report of the Thcsprotians, in consequence of the prophetic skill which they derive from the oak ?
The oracle of Jupiter at Dodona was the most ancient of all the oracles of Greece prior to the flood, and was restored by Deucalion after it. The Scholiast on the 16th Iliad, ver. 233, &c. informs us from a very ancient author^ Thrasybulus, that Deucalion after the flood, which happened in his time, having got safe upon the firm land of Epirus, prophesied in an oak ; and by the admonition c^ a miraculous dove having gathered togedier such as were saved frem the flood, caused them to dwell together in a certain place or country, which from Jupiter, and Dodona, one of the Oceanides^ they called Dodona,
Hermias the philosopher, in his manuscript commentary on the Fhaedrus of Plato, gives us the following satisfactory information concerning this oracle : " Different accounts are given of the Dodonacan oracle ; for it is the most ancient of the Grecian oracles. According to some an oak prophesied in Dodona; but according to others, doves. The truth however is, that priestesses, whose heads were crowned with oak, prophesied ; and these women were called by some peleiades or dovet. Perhaps, therefore, certain persons, being deceived by the name, suspected that doves prophesied in Dodona ; and as the heads of these women were crowned with oak, perhaps from this circumstance they said that an oak prophesied. But this oracle belongs to Jupiter, and that in Delphi to Apollo. With great propriety, therefore, are these oracles considered as allied to each other. For Apollo is said to be the assistant of Jupiter in the administration of things: and often when the Dodonsean oracle appeared to be obscure, the oracle in Delphi has been consulted, in order to know the meaning of that of Jupiter. Often too, Apollo has interpreted many of the Dodonaean oracles. Priestesses, therefore, when in an enthusiastic and prophetic condition, have greatly benefited mankind, by predicting, and previously correcting, future events ; but when
In the cavern of Trophonius too, (for there is an oracle of the hero Trophonius f, in Bceotia, about the city Lebadia,) he who wishes to consult the divine power, being invested with a purple robe, which reaches to his feet, and having cakes in his hand, enters supine through the narrow mouth of the cavern, and seeing some things, and hearing others, again emerges into light, a prophetic enunciator of these to others. There was, also, in Italy, about Magna Graecia, near Aornos, a lake so called, a prophetic cavern, and evocators of souls presiding over it, who were thus denominated from the work which was there effected. Here he
in a prudent state, they were similar to other women." For the original of this passage, see p. 11. of the collection of Oracles by Opsopoeus. See also p. 333 of my I^Iotes on Pausanies (from which this note is extracted) for further particulars concerning this oracle of Jupiter at Dodona.
I only add, that the circumstance mentioned by Maximut, o^ the worshippers of the oak in Dodona lying on the ground » and having their feet imbathed^ is also mentioned by Homer in the following lines, forming part of the prayer of Achilles^ just before the departure of Fatroclus to assist the Greeks. Iliad
" Oh thou Supreme I high tbron'd'all height above ; Oh great Pelasgic, Dodonxan Jove ! Who, midst surrounding frosts, and vapours chill, Fresid'st on bleak Dodona's vocal hill : Whose groves the Selli, race austere^ surround, Their feet unwash'd, their slumbers on the ground ; Who hear from rustling oaks thy dark decrees. And catch the fates, low-whisper'd in the breeze.
FOPK.
t See the additional notes to this volume.
who came for the purpose of consulting the oracle^ having prayed, slain the victims, and poured forth the sacrifice, recalled the soul of any one, either of his ancestors or friends* After this, an image presented itself to his view, obscure, indeed, and du* bious, but vocal and prophetic, and which, after answering the questions that were asked, disappeared. Homer * seems to me to have known this oracle, and to have conducted Ulysses to it^ though he very poetically places it beyond our sea.
If these things, then, are true, as they are (for even now f some of these oracles are preserved such as they formerly were, and of the religious cultivation of the others vestiges still remain ;) if these things are wonderful, yet no one thinks them absurd and unusual, no one is dubious concerning them; but, giving credibUity to time, every one who is desirous of interrogating an oracle enters the place whence it is delivered, hearing, believes, believing, consults, and consulting, venerates it. But if a man, who by nature is most generous, who employs the most temperate discipline, the most true philosophy, and the most auspicious fortune, should be thought worthy by divinity to associate
t Vulgo quidam oracula, Chrlsto nascente, prorsus siluisse jactitant ; sed banc opinionezn redarguunt et hicce locus, et alii veterum plurimi. Davis, i, e, "It is commonly boasted r that on the birth of Christ oracles were entirely silent; but both this place, and many others of the ancients, confute thi» opinion."
with a demoniacal power, shall it appear wonderful and incredible that this man, so far as was sufficient for him, should deliver oracles ; not to the Athenians, by Jupiter, consulting about the Grecian evils ; nor to the Lacedaemonians interrogate ing about military expeditions ; nor to some one^ who being about to contend in the Olympic games, * should ask concerning victory ; nor to one enquiring in a court of justice if he should gain his cause ; nor to the lover of wealth, asking if he shall be rich ; nor to any other busily employed in enquiring about things of no worth, and for which men daily disturb the gods ? For, perhaps, indeed, the daemon of Socrates was dapable of knowing these things, since he possessed a prophetic power. For he is the best physician who is sufficient for himself and others ; and this, also, is the case with a carpenter and a shoemaker, and in the other arts and professions. But in this Socrates surpassed others, that being present with his intellect to the language of the gods, through this association with a deemoniacal power, he disposed his own aflairs in a becoming manner, and exhibited himself to others without envy, and as far as necessity required.
Be it so, some one may say, I am persuaded that Socrates, from the virtue of his manners, and the nobility of his disposition, was thought worthy of a dsemoniacal association ; but I am desirous of knowing what this daemon was. First, however, inform me, my friend, whether you think there is a daemoniacal genus in the nature of things, as
VOL- II. F
there is of gods, as there is of men, and as there is of wild beasts, or whether you are of a contrary opinion. For it will be ridiculous to enquire what the d^mon of Socrates was, at the same time being ignorant whether daemons have any subsistence. This, indeed, would be just as if an inhabitant of an island, who had never seen, and had no knowledge of horses, on hearing that the king of Macedonia had a thing in his possession called Bucephalus, on which he could ride, but no other person, should immediately ask what kind of a thing Bucephalus was. For the narrator must be dubious what he should say to a man who had never seen a horse, in consequence of wanting a conspicuous image.
But those, indeed, who now doubt about the daemon of Socrates have never read what Homer * relates concerning Achilles, that, when in a military assembly, he was so enraged with Agamemnon, that, having drawn his sword, he was on the point of assaulting him, he was prevented by a divine power, which Homer calls Minerva. For he says that she was present with Achilles enraored :
" Behind she stood, and by the yellow hair Achilles seiz'd f.'
See my introduction to the second book of the Republic, in the first volume of my translation of the works of Plato, in which what Maximus now mentions from Homer is satisfactorily explained.
He also calls this same power Minerva, when he says of Diomed,
' From mortal mists thine eyes are purg'd by me. That god and man thou may'st distinctly see*.*'
Again, to Telemachus, when approaching a king more advanced in years, and being bashful and dubious how he should address him, his compa* nion. Mentor says :
' Some thoughts thy mind will in itself conceive, The daemon others will suggest f ,'
And, afterwards, he adds the cause of this expectation from a daemon iacal power :
Nor bom wert thou, nor nurtur'd, I conceive. With gods averse."
Again, of another, he says,
" The white-arm'd goddess Juno in his mind This thought inspir'd J."
And of another,
Pallas, Minerva, strength and boldness gave To Diomed, from Tydeus sprung §."
And again, of Diomed, he says,
' His hands and feet the goddess render'd light. And ev'ry limb, with vigour from on high ||.'
You see the multitude of those who associated with a divine power.
Are you willing, therefore, that, dismissing Socrates, we enquire of Homer, What do these things mean , O most noble of poets ? For the dsemoniacal power which attended Socrates, was one, and simple, private, and not public ; which recalled him either when he was passing over a river*, or when he deferred the love of Alcibiades f ; and which impeded him when he wished to make an apology, but did not impede him when he deliberately intended to die. But in Homer a dsemoniacal power is present, neither to one person, nor for one purpose ; nor is this power one, nor is it present on trifling occasions ; but it is all-various, and frequently exhibits itself in many names, and many appearances, and in a variety of voices. Do you, therefore, admit any of these things, and do you think that Minerva is any thing, or Juno, or Apollo, or Strife, or any other Homeric daemon ? Do not, however, think that I ask whether you conceive Minerva to be such as Phidias has fashioned her, in no respect inferior to the description of Homer, a virgin beautiful, azureeyed, tall, begirt with the aegis, and having a helmet, spear, and shield ; nor whether you conceive Juno to be such as the Argive Polycletus has exhi* bited, with white arms, ivory elbows, beautiful eyes, her garments elegantly disposed, royal, and sitting on a throne of gold; nor, again, whether you conceive Apollo to be such •as he is repre-
See the Phaedrus of Plato,
+ See the first Alcibiades of Plato.
sented by painters and statuaries, a youth partly naked, irom the manner in which his robe is disposed, with a bow and arrows, and with his feet in the attitude of one running. I do not ask you this, for neither do I think you so vile with respect to the assimilation of truth as that you cannot change an enigma into its genuine meaning ; but I ask you, whether you think in reality that these names and these representations obscurely signify certain divine powers, which associate ^vith men of the most fortunate destiny, both when awake and when asleep. But if you are of opinion that there are no such powers, you will be at war %vilh Homer, you will subvert oracles, disbelieve in the answers of the gods, reject dreams, and bid farewell to Socrates. If, again, you neither think these things incredible nor impossible, but are dubious concerning Socrates, changing the question, I ask you whether you think Socrates was not worthy to have a daemon allotted to him, or that what is possible elsewhere is here destitute of power. If you admit, however, the possibility of this, you must also admit it here, and you will not take away the worthiness of Socrates. If, therefore, the thing is possible, and Socrates was worthy, it remains that you must no longer be dubious concerning Socrates, but consider universally what is the nature of a daemoniacal power.
And this, indeed, will be discussed by me again ; but now purify yourself from this opinion, that these things may become to you the proteleia of the future discourse ; viz. that the gods have distri^
buted virtue and vice to men as to the champions in the stadium, the latter as the reward of a depraved nature and base mind, but the former of a worthy mind and robust nature, when it is victorious in probity. With these divinity is willing to be present, to be the defender of their life, and to protect them with his hand. Hence he saves one of these by oracles, another by auguries, another by dreams, another by a voice, and another by sacrifices. For the human soul is imbecile with respect to the rational investigation of every thing, as being surrounded in this second life with profound darkness, conversant with loud noise and abundant tumult from terrestrial evils, and suffering perturbation from them. For what traveller is so swift and secure as not, in the course of his journey to meet with obscure profundities, or an immanifest trench, or a precipice ? What pilot is so skilful and sagacious as to sail over the sea without experiencing storms and tempest, the impetus of the winds, and the turbulency of the air ? What physician is so conversant with his art as not to be disturbed by some obscure and unexpected disease, since different diseases have a different origin, and thus subvert all the rules of art ? And what man is so worthy as to pass through life securely and without blame, since life is like a diseased body, an uncertain voyage, or a road full of profundities : what man, this being the case, is so good as not to require the piloting, and medical skill, and helping hand of divinity ? For virtue is, indeed, a beautiful thing, her paths are easy, and
her power is most efficacious ; but she is mingled with a base and obscure matter, which is full of the immanifest, and which men call fortune, a thing blind and unstable. It is this which ambitiously opposes, rises against, and contends with yirtue, and which by this opposition frequently disturbs her ; just as aetherial clouds, which, running under the rays of the sun, conceal its light ; for then, indeed, the sun is beautiful, but is to us immanifest. In like manner the incursions of fortune cut oflp* virtue from the view; and virtue, indeed, is then in itself no less beautiful, but, falling into an obscure cloud, it is overshadowed and obstructed. Here, then, there is need of divinity, as the coadjutant, as the joint combatant, and as the guardian in the contest.
Divinity, therefore, being established in his proper region, governs the heavens, and the order which they contain. But there are secondary immortal natures proceeding from him, which are called secondary gods, arranged in the confines of
Plotmus, in his book on Felicity, to my translation of which 1 refer the reader, beautifully observes concerning the truly worthy man, '* That he is never oppressed with evil through ignorance of his own concerns, nor changed by the fortunes of others, whether prosperous or adverse ; but when his pains arc vehement, as far as it is possible to bear he bears them, and, when they are excessive, they may cause him to be delirious; yet he will not be miserable in the midst of the greatest pains. For his intellectual splendor will assiduously shine in the penetralia of his soul, like a bright light secured in a watch-tower, which shines with unremitted splendor, though surrounded by stormy winds and raging seas/'
earth and heaven. These are, indeed, less powerful than divinity, but more powerful than man. They are, also, the ministers of the gods, but the governors of men ; and they are very near to the gods, but the curators of mankind. For the mortal with respect to the immortal would be separated by too great an interval from the survey of celestial beings and an association with them, unless this dsBmoniacal nature, through its alliance to each of these, harmoniously bound human imbecility to divine strength. For as the Barbarians are separated firom the Grecians by the ignorance of language, but the race of interpreters, receiving the language of each, and associating with both, conjoins and comingles their converse; in like manner it appears to me the race of daemons must be conceived to be mingled with gods and men : for it is this race which appears to and converses with men, is rolled in the midst of the mortal nature, and extends from the gods those things of which mortals must necessarily be in want. But the herd of daemons is numerous :
' For thrice ten thousand are th' immortal poweri. On Jove attendant in the foodful earth *.'
Of these, some are the physicians of diseases, others counsellors in things dubious, others the messengers of things unapparent, others the cooperators in art, and others the companions of the way. Others, again, are conversant in cities,
others in the country, others in the sea, and others in the continent. Different daemons, too, are al* lotted the habitation of different bodies, this So* crates, but that Plato, this Pytliagoras, but ano* ther Zeno, and another Diogenes* One of these, likewise, is terrible, another philanthropic, another political, and another military. For as numerous as are the dispositions of men, so numerous, also, are the natures of daemons :
' Gods, to the view resembling stranger guests, Wander thro' cities in all-various forms *."
But if you point out to me a depraved soul, this is untenanted, and destitute of an inspective guardian
Odyss. xvii. ver. 485. See this explained in my intnw duction to the second book of the Repubhc of Plato.
DISSERTATION XXVI I.
AGAIN, CONCERNING THE DiEMON * Or
SOCRATES.
/"tOME, then, let us interrogate this dsemoniacal power itself (for it is philanthropic, and is accustomed to answer through the human mouth, just as the art of Ismenias through the pipe) let us interrogate him as follows with the Homeric Ulysses :
'* A god art thou, or of the mortal race t ? For if some god, th' inhabitant of heav'n,'
an answer is not necessary, since we know what you are :
" But if some mortal, habitant of earth,'
Are you subject to the like passions that we are ? do you speak in the same manner that we do ?
As Maximus is not accurate in what he says of daemons in general, and does not inform us what were the characteristic properties of the daemon of Socrates in particular, the reader is referred to the additional Notes on this volume, in which he will find a copious and accurate account, derived from ancient sources, of both these.
and is your birth and the extent of your duration the same as that of ours? or, are you, indeed, according to your mode of living, a domestic of the earth, but according to your essence superior to it ? For daemons are not of a fleshly nature, (since they order me to answer for them) nor do they consist of bones, or blood, or any thing else which is of a dissipated nature, and which may be dissolved, or liquified, or glide away. What then does a daemon consist of? Let us, in the first place, survey the necessity with which the existence of a daemoniacal essence is attended. The impassive is contrary to the passive, the mortal to the immortal, the irrational to the rational, the insensible to the sensible, and the animated to the .'nanimate. Every thing, therefore, which possesses a soul is composed from both these : for it is cither impassive and immortal, or immortal and passive, or passive and mortal, or rational and sensitive, or animated and impassive ; and through these nature gradually proceeds, descending successively from the most honourable to the vilest animals. But if you take away any one of these you mutilate nature ; just as, in the harmony of sounds, the middle produces the concord of the extremes ; since it causes the mutation by adhering to the intermediate sounds, from the sharpest to the flattest note, to become consonant both to the hearing and the hand of the musician.
Conceive that this, which takes place in the most perfect harmony, is also effected in nature : and establish divinity, indeed, according to the
impassive and immortal, but a daemon according to the immortal and passive * ; man according to the passive and mortal ; a beast according to the irrational and sensitive ; and a plant according to the animated and impassive. And the consideration of the others, indeed, we shall now omit : but since we speculate the nature of daemons, which we say is a medium between man and divinity, let us see whether it is possible to take this away and yet preserve the extremes. Is, therefore, divinity immortal, indeed, but passive ? by no means : for he is immortal but impassive. And what is man ; is he mortal and impassive ? Neither must this be admitted ; for he is mortal, indeed, but not impassive. Where, therefore, shall we place that which is immortal and at the same time passive ? For it is necessary that a common essence should be composed from both these, which is more excellent than man, but inferior to divinity, in order that the extremes may be in proportion to each other. For there can be no mixture of two things which are naturally separated, unless a certain common boundary is the recipient of both.
Thus, for instance, we say that fire is dry and hot ; but the contrary to the hot is the cold, and to the dry the moist. It is, however, impossible for fire to be changed into water and water into fire: for neither can cold be changed into heat nor moisture into dryness. But nature managed
Thii, however, is true only of the lowest orders of daemons ; for the highest, or divine daemons, are impassive. See the additional notes.
the war of these as follows : she gave to them ajr as a conciliator^ which receiving heat from fire^ and moisture from water, mingled and conjoined them in amicable league. Hence a mutation and transition is effected from fire into air through heat, and from air into water through moisture. Again, air is hot and moist, but earth cold and dry ; and dryness is contrary to moisture, but coldness to heat. Air, therefore, would never be changed into earth unless nature had given to them the essence of water as an associate and conciliator, and which receives, indeed, from air moisture, but from earth coldness. Thus, then, summarily consider the whole : since each of these consists from two contrary natures, of which always taking away one part, you add the remainder to the other ; according to one half separating each from the other, but co-arranging them according to the other half. After this manner things which are contrary to, in consequence of being unmingled with each other, communicate and are at the same
time mingled together, fire with air, indeed, according to heat, air with water according to moisture, water with earth according to coldness, and earth with fire according to dryness. In like manner, here also, a god communicates with a daemon according to the immortal, a daemon with man according to the passive, man with beast according to the sensitive, and beast with plant according to the animated.
If you are willing, also, to survey the ceconomy of the body, you will see that neither does nature
here leap immediately from one extreme to the other, but that she requires certain media iu ma^ naging the temperament of bodies. For the hair and nails are softer than the bones, more slender than the nerves, more dry than the blood, and rougher than the flesh. And, in short, in every thing in which there is harmony and arrangement a medium is necessary, in voices, in colours, in the subjects of taste and smell, in rhythms, in figures, in passions, and in discourses. Be it so : for these things being admitted, if divinity is impassive and immortal, but man mortal and passive, it is necessary that the medium of these should be either impassive and mortal or immortal and passive ; of which the former is impossible, since the impassive cannot at any time associate or accord with the mortal. It remains, therefore, that the nature of daemons must be passive and immortal, that through the immortal it may communicate with divinity, but through the passive with man.
It is now, therefore, time to show how the daemoniacal genus is passive and immortal : and, in the first place, let us speak concerning the immortal. Every thing, then, which is corrupted is either dissolved, or melted, or is cut, or broken, or changes and is converted. It is dissolved, as clay by water; or it is broken as the earth by the plough ; or it is melted, as wax by the sun ; or it is cut, as a plant by iron ; or it changes and is converted, as water into air, and air into Are. But it is necessary to the immortality of a daemoniacal nature, that it should neither be dissolved, nordis-
sipated, nor converted, nor broken, nor changed^ nor cut. For if it suffered any one of these it would cease to be immortal. But how can it be subject to passivity, since a daemon is a soul divested of body ? For if the soul imparts to the body incorruptibility as long as it is present with it, the soul cannot be itself corrupted. In the composition , therefore, the body is contained, but the soul contains. But if something else contains the soul^ and itself does not contain itself, what will this be, and who can conceive a soul of soul ? For when one thing being contained by another is preserved by it, it is necessary that this containing should cease when it arrives at a thing which contains^ indeed, something else, but is contained by itself. For, if this were not the case, where would reasoning, proceeding to infinity, stop ? Just as if you conceive a ship in a tempest fixed to a rock by many ropes, which being fastened to each other end in the rock, a thing stable and firm.
Such a thing as this is the soul, which connects, establishes as in a port, and gives stability to the body, which is always swimming, vibrating, and agitated in billows and tempest. But when these nerves, the spirit, and other particulars, from which as ropes the body has hitherto been stationed in the soul, begin to fail, the body perishes, and is merged in the abyss ; but the soul, swimming over the stormy deeps by herself, connectedly contains herself, and is firmly established. Such a soul, too, is then called a dsemon, an etherial being, trauionigrated from earth thither ; re-
sembling the condition of one who is transferred from the Barbarians to the Greeks, and from a city lawless, tyrannical, and seditious, to one govern^ by equitable laws, royal, and peaceful. For this thing appears to me to be very near to the Home* lie image : as, for instance, when Homer says that Vulcan fashioned in a golden shield two cities,
'' In one were mapriaget and splendid feasts */^
and dancing, and singing, and numerous torches ; but in the other wars and seditions, rapine and contest, howling, and lamentations, and groans* The same may be said of earth when compared to heaven : for the latter is a peaceful thing, replete with jo3rful songs and divine choirs ; but the former is full of noise, and labour, and discord. For when the soul is liberated from hence thither, having divested herself of the body, and left it to be corrupted in the earth, in its own time, and according to its own law, she becomes a daemon f instead of a man, and with pure eyes surveys her proper spectacles, being neither darkened by fleshy nor disturbed by colour, nor confounded by all-various figures, nor confined, as with a wall, by tur«-
t The human soul, however, after death, becomes a daemon only xoTft ^^n9f according to habitude, proximity, or aliiancc; but neyer becomes a daemon essentially. Maximus, from not accurately understanding the ancient theology, confounds daemons, according to habitude, with essential dsemons ; or, in other words, souls that are sometimes with those that are always the attendants of the gods.
bid air; but she beholds beauty itself with her oWn ' eyes, and rejoices in the vision. Then, too, she bewails her former life, but proclaims the present blessed. Then she bewails the condition of her kindred souls, who still revolve about the earth; and, through philanthropy, she is willing to associate with them, and correct them when they are deviating from rectitude. But she is ordered by divinity to descend to earth, and become mingled with every kind of men, with every human fortune, disposition, and art ; so as to give assistance to the worthy, avenge those that are injured, and pupish those that injure.
Every daemon, however, does not cflfcct all things ; but there, also, different works are assigned to different daemons. And this, indeed, is the passivity by which a daemon is inferior to a god. For they are not entirely willing to be liberated from the propensities which they possessed while on earth ; but JEsculapius now exercises the healing art, Hercules engages in strenuous exertions, Dionysius is agitated with Bacchic fury, Amphilochus prophesies, the Dioscuri sail, Minos judges, and Achilles is armed. Achilles, indeed, inhabits an island* about the Pontic sea, in a direct line with the Istcr. In this island there arc a temple and altars of Achilles ; and no one of his own accord approaches it without having first sacrificed ; but when he has sacrificed, he ascends
I'his island is called Achillea, or Leuce. Sec the An«- dromachc of Euripides, ver. 12G0.
into the island. In this place sailors frequent'^ ly see a young man with yellow hair, leaping in golden arms. Others by no means see him, but hear him singing the song of triumph ; and others both see and hear him. Some one, too, who unwillingly slept in the island, was roused from his sleep by Achilles, who also led him to a banquet in his tent. There Patroclus poured out the wine, and Achilles played on the harp. Thetis, likewise, he said, was present, and a choir of other daemons. But Hector, as the Uienses relate, inhabits the Trojan land, and is seen leaping in the plains in glittering armour. I, indeed, have neither seen Achilles nor Hector, but I have seen the Dioscuri ^ in a ship, those splendid stars, who directed the vessel through the storm. I have also seen Esculapius, but not in a dream : I have seea Hercules, but, when awake.
In magna tempestate apparent quasi Stellas yelo msidentes. Adjuvari te tunc periclitantes existimant Pollucis et Castoris numine. Senec. Nat. Quxst. lib. i. cap. L; viz. ** In a great tempest stars, as it were, appear seated on the sail of the ship. Those that are in danger then think that the/ are assisted by the divinity of Castor and Pollux." Thus, also, Arrian, in Periplo Ponti Euxini, p. 23, : ^* Oi fin Aioo-xv^m
TD^tf yivoiH**:*' «. c. " The Dioscuri are clearly seen by those that sail to all parts of the earth, and become saviours when they are seen.*'
DISSERTATION XXVIIL
IF DISCIPLINES ARE REMINISCENCES.
A CRETAN once came to Athens, whose name was Epimenides, bringing with him a narration, which, according to its literal meaning, it was difficult to believe. For he said, tbat, lying in the cavern of Dictsean Jupiter, in a profound sleep for many years, he saw the gods, and the offspring of the gods, together with Truth and Justice. Epimenides in my thologically delivering certain particulars of this kind, obscurely signified, as it appears to me, that the life of the human soul on the earth resembles a long-extended dream. His narration, however, would have been more persuasive if he had added to it the verses of Homer concerning dreams. For Homer * says that there are two gates of evanescent dreams, one of which is of ivory and the other of horn ; and that the dreams which pass through the gate of horn are true and worthy of belief, but those which pass through the other gate are vain and fallacious, and bring nothing to the soul, pertaining to vigilant perception. Referable to this, also, is what Epimenides
related, whether it be a fable or a true narration. For the life here is in reality a dream, according to which the soul being buried in body through satiety and repletion, has scarcely a dreaming perception of beings, but the visions of sleep arrive to the souls of the multitude through the ivory gate. If, however, there is anywhere a soul pure and sober, and but little disturbed by the satiety and repletion which are here, it is likely that such a soul will meet with dreams that pass through the other gate clear and distinct, and approximating very nearly to the truth. This was the dream of Epimenides. ^
But Pythagoras, the Samian, was the first among the Greeks who had the boldness to say that his body would die, but that his soul, taking her flight, would depart deathless and unconscious of old age, for she existed before she came hither. Men believed him asserting these things, and also when he said that he formerly lived on the earth in another body, and was then Euphorbus the Trojan. But they believed him from the following circumstance : He once entered the temple of Minerva *, where he saw many and all-various gifts, and among them a shield, the form of which was Phrygian, but greatly impaired by time. He said, therefore, that he knew the shield, and that it was
Ovid, however, Metam. xv. ver. 164. Porphyrius, Vit. Pyth. sec. 27. Jamblichus, sec. 63, and Pausanias in Corinth, lib. ii. cap. 17. assert that this shield of Euphorbus was in the temple of Juno ; and Diogenes Laertius, viii. 5. relates that it wa3 dedicated to Apollo.
taken from bim in the Trojan war by him by whom he was slain. The inhabitants, wondering at the relation, took down the shield, in which there was this inscription : ^^ to pallas minerva mene* LAus FROM EUPHORBUs.'V If you are willing I will also give you another narration : There was a Proconnesian*, whose body lay on the ground, breathing, indeed, but obscurely and very near to death. His soul, however, leaving the body, wandered in aether, like a bird, surveying every thing which could be beheld from on high, the earth and the sea, rivers and cities, the manners of men, their calamities, and all-various dispositions : and, again entering the body, exciting it from its death-like state, and using it as an instrument, she related whatever in different places she had seen and heard.
What then did Epimenides, Pythagoras, and Aristeas wish obscurely to signify by these narra* tions ? Is it any thing else than the leisure of the soul of a worthy man from the pleasures and passions of the body, when, being liberated from its tumult, and converting herself to intellect, she again meets with truth itself, dismissing the images of reality ? This, indeed, resembles a beautijpul sleep, and which is replete with clear dreams. It also resembles a sublime flight of the soul, not, indeed, above the summits of mountains, in dark and turbid air, but far beyond these, in stable sether, where it gradually and quietly passes, unattended
Aristeas. See the 22d Dissertation.
by pain, to the vision of true and real being. But what is the mode of conducting it thither, and what may it most fitly be denominated ? Shall we call it discipline, or, according with Plato, reminiscence * ; or shall we assign two names, dis-
The soul havmg existed in all the infinite periods of past time^ in consequence of her natural immortality, the knowledge which she acquires in the present life is very properly called by Plato reminiscence, since it is nothing more than a recovery of what she formerly possessed. As reminiscence , therefore, necessarily implies pre-exisience, the following arguments in defence of that doctrine, extracted from my Introduction to five books of Plotinus, are recommended to the most serious attention of the reader.
Unless the soul, then, had a being prior to her connection with the present body, she never would be led to search after knowledge ; for if the objects of her investigation were things which she had never before been acquainted with, how could she ever be certain that she detected them ? Indeed it would be as impossible on this hypothesis for th« soul to know any thing about them, even when she perceived them, as it would be to understand the meaning of the words of an unknown language on hearing them pronounced. The Peripatetics, in order to subvert this consequence, have recourse to an intellect in capacity, which is the passive recipient of all forms. But the doubt still remains. For how does this intellect understand ? since it must either understand the things which it already knows, or things which it does not know. But the Stoics assert that natural conceptions are the causes of our investigatmg and discovering truth. If, therefore, these conceptions are in capacity, we ask the same question as before ; but if they are in energy, why do we investigate what we know ? But the Epicureans afErm that anticipations are the causes of our investigations. If, then, they say that these anticipations subsist in an expanded condition, investigation must be in vam ; but if they are in an involved state, why do wc seek after any thing besides these anticipations ; or, in other words, why do we seek after distinct knowledge, of which we b4(ve no anticipation ?
cipline and reminiscence, to one thing ? This one thing, indeed, resembles that which happens to the eye: for though sight is always inherent in it,
Again, there are numberless instances of persons that are terrified at certam animals, such as cats, lizards, and tortoises, without knowing the cause of their terror. The nephews <rf Berius, says Olympiodorus, (in MS. Comment, in Phaedonem) that were accustomed to hunt bears and lions, could not endure the sight of a cock. The same author adds, that a certain apothecary could look undisturbed at asps and dragons, but was so exceedingly frightened at a wasp that he would run firom it crying aloud, and quite stupified with terror. Thus too, says he : Themison the physician could appIjT himself to the cure of every disease except the hydrophobia f but if any person only mentioned this disease he would be immediately agitated, and suffer in a manner similar to those aiHicted with this malady. Now it is impossible to assign any other satisfactory cause of all this than a reminiscence of having suffered through these animals in a prior state of existence.
Farther still : infants are not seen to laugh for nearly three weeks after their birth, bat pass the greatest part of this time in sleep ; however, in their sleep they are often seen both to laugh and cry. But how is it possible that this can any otherwise happen than through the soul being agitated by the whirling motions of the animal nature, and moved in conformity to the passions which it had experienced in another life ? Besides, our lookmg into ourselves when we are endeavouring to discover any truth, evinces that we inwardly contain truth, though concealed in the darkness of oblivion. The delight, too, which attends our discovery of truth sufficiently proves that this discovery is nothing more than a recognition of something most eminently allied to our nature, and which had been, as it were, lost in the middle space of time between our former knowledge of the truth and the recovery of that knowledge. For the perception of a thing perfectly imknown and unconnected with our nature would produce terror instead of delight ; and things are pleasing only in proportion as they possess somethmg known and domestic to the natures by which they are known.
yet) through calamity , darkness pouring in upon, and investing its instrument, excludes its associa^ tion with the objects of sight. Art, therefore, approaches, which does not, indeed, give sight to the eye, but, removing the impediment, affords a free egress to its rays. Conceive that the soul also is a certain sight, naturally capable of perceiving, and scientifically knowing real beings. From the calamity of bodies, however, much darkness pours in upon it, confounds its vision, takes away its accuracy, and extinguishes its proper light. But artificial reason, approaching like a physician, does not, indeed, impart to it science, as a thing which it has not, but excites that which it already possesses, though obscure and bound, and oppressed with darkening vertigo.
In the same manner, therefore, as the obstetric art, introducing to the parturient hands together with art, receives the offspring, gives ease to the pangs of labour, leads the mature foetus into light, and liberates the parturient female from her pains ; — thus, also, reason obstetricates * the soul when big with conceptions and full of pregnant pains ; though many become abortive, either through the unskilfulness of the mid wives, or the vehemencQ. of the parturient pangs, or thedulness of the seed ; while, on the contrary, but few souls, and those rare, receive a perfect conception, the offspring of which are clear and distinct, and the genuine productions of their primary parents. And the
See my translation of the Theaetetus of Plato.
name, indeed, of the pregnancy is intellect, but of th^angs of parturition sense, and of the delivery reminiscence. All souls, too, are naturally pregnant, but they suffer the pains of parturition from sense, and bring forth from reason. As it is impossible, therefore, for any thing to be born without seed, or to be of a nature different from the seed ; for a man is born from a man, an ox from an ox, an olive from an olive, and a vine from a vine ; so if the soul emits into light any thing true, it is necessary that these seeds which are implanted in the soul, should also be true. But if they are, they always were implanted ; and if they always were they are immortal. Indeed, that which takes place about the sciences is nothing more than the flower and mature perfection of the seeds of the soul. But with respect to that which men call ignorance, what else will it be than a sluggishness of the seeds ?
If, then, the soul, like the body, were mortal and corruptible, if it were subject to dissolution and putrefaction, I should have nothing venerable to say about it ; for the body is a thing diurnal, exposed to danger, uncertain, obscure, and foolish. If the soul were a thing of this kind it would neither know, nor remember, nor learn any thing. For wax, when melted by the sun, would more easily preserve the impression of the seal than the soul discipline, if it were body ; since every body flows, and is rapidly borne along, hke Euripus, upwards atid downwards, at one time swelling from infancy to puberty, and at another sinking
and gliding from puberty to old age. Neither, however, Pythagoras nor Plato prophesy that the soul is a thing of this kind ; nor, prior to these. Homer, with whom souls, even in Hades, discourse, and are then prophetic. For a bard says in one of his poems,
" Self-taught am I, the gods impart the song *.*'
And what he says is true : for the soul is in reality a self-taught thing, and naturally possesses knowledge from the gods, according to an excellent mode of subsistence. Or shall we say that other animals are indeed self-taught with respect to their proper works, and acknowledge no masters, neither the lion in the exertion of strength, nor the stag in flying from his pursuers, nor the horse in the race ; and likewise that the tribe of birds is self-taught, who \nth self-operating art build nests in the summits of trees ; that spiders with spontaneous thread suspend their webs in air, serpents spontaneously form for themselves dens, and fishes caverns, and that the arts of other animals are connate to the safety of the several kinds ; but that man, the most intellectual of animals, possesses knowledge by external aid ? But if this be admitted, whence is it derived ? For it must necessarily be obtained either from invention or dis* cipline, each of which is imbecile, if science is not naturally inherent in the soul. For how can he
♦ See what we have said on this verse in the twenty-second Dissertation.
who discovers any thing, use that which he discovers, if he is ignorant of the use of it ? If, indeed^ some inhabitant of the continent should, according to Homer, meet with a man carrjring an oar, he would say,
" On his strong shoulders he a corn-van bears *.'
But whence did he learn this ? Not from one who was ignorant. And if he learnt it from one possessing knowledge, I should ask his preceptor how he also learnt it. For, again, he must either have discovered or legrnt it : and if he discovered it, t should ask the same thing, how he could use what he had discovered, if he had no knowledge of it. But if he learnt it from another, it will again be ncjcessary to interrogate that other in a similar manner. Whetf » then, shall we stop in interrogating different preceptors? For inquiry must^ at lenorthg purrivie at him who derived his knowledge not from leajmmg, but invention ; to whom also the same things may be said. ' Reason, therefore, brings us to the object of investigation. For the invention of the soul being something self-begotten, spontaneous, and connate, what else is it than true opinions wakened into energy, the itame of the excitation and coordination of which is science ? But, if you wiU^ assimilate invention to a soldier widely-wandering: or, rather, according to Homer, let there be night and abundant quiet in the camp, and let all the.
five books of Plotinus.
other soldiers, in order, lie sunk in profound sleep :
" But not Atrides, shepherd of the troops * ,"
For he is awake, and he rouses every soldier, and places him in his rank :
'* The horse and chariots to the front assigned, The foot (the strength of war) he rang'd behind ; The middle space suspected troops supply, Inclos'd by both, nor kft the power to fly f."
Conceive that a thing of this kind takes place about the soul ; viz. a profound night and sleep of her conceptions ; but that reason, like a general or a king, or whatever else you may be willing to denominate it, approaches to each of these, and excites and places them in their rank. CaU, then, the sleep of these conceptions oblivion, the excitation of them reminiscence, and the guardian, defence, and safety of the things co-ordinated, memory. But reminiscence is gradually produced from the soul investigating one thing from another, and being as it were led by the hand from the present to the future ; just, indeed, as reminiscence is produced about the affairs of the present life.
Demodocus, at a banquet of the Phaeacians, sings the strife
" That made Ulysses and Achille's foes J.
Ulysses being present hears the song, and, recognizing the strife, weeps. Is it not, therefore, probable that his soul from this, as a principle, pro-
f Iliad iv. ver. 297. The translation by Pope. X Odyss. viii. ver. 75. See my translation of the Phaedo of
ceeded to the deeds which he had there performed ; and that his hody, indeed, abiding in tlie same place with the Phacacians, drank with them ; but his soul was in II ion, memory recalling her to what he there saw, and proceeding from a small beginning to the multitude of her spectacles at that time ? We also find, that some one, on seeing a lyre, recollects the beloved person by whom it was used : for reminiscence is a thing light and prompt. And as bodies which are easily moved require the previous impulse of the hand, from which receiving a beginning they preserve their motion for a long time ; in like manner intellect, receiving from memory a small beginning, which sense extends to it, proceeds, according to reminiscence, to a multitude of particulars. For every thing, whether present or past, which occurs to the soul, has a certain consequent order, either according to time, as night after day, age after youth, and summer after winter ; or according to passion, as love succeeds beauty, anger contumely, pleasure prosperity, and pain calamity ; or according to place, as *' Pharis and Sparta> Thisbe, nurse of doves *."
Or according to distribution ; as,
'* The hardy warriors whom Bocotia bred,
Penelius, Leitus, Prothoenor, led :
With these Arcesilaus and Clonius stand f ."
Or according to power ; as,
' O father Jove ! this task let Ajax prove. Or Tydeus' son, or rich Mycene's king J.
t Iliad ii. ver. 494. The translation by Pope.
The senses, therefore, as being established in the vestibules of the soul, when they come into contact with a certain beginning, and deliver it to intellect; then intellect, adhering to this, perceives Hrhat remains, and proceeds to things consequent either by time or by nature, by distribution or by place, by honour or by power. For, as in long and thin spears, he who moves their extremities sends the motion through the whole spear as fax as to the other end ; and as he who shakes the begin-* ning of long and stretched ropes diffuses the motion wliich proceeds to the end through the whole; in like manner a small beginning only is necessary to intellect, in order to its conception of the whole of things. A man, therefore, of a naturally good disposition, and who rapidly runs to virtue, receiving the beginning from himself, eagerly proceeds in his journey, and apprehends and remits to memory the spectacles of intellect. But he who is less skilful has need of Socrates, who, indeed, teaches him nothing, but by interrogation and enquiry causes him to answer^ the truth itself. Who then can answer that which he does not yet know ? Unless some one should say, that he who walks when another leads him by the hand does not himself walk. Wliat then is the difference between him who leads another by the hand and him who interrogates, and between him who walks and him who answers ? For the one possesses energy from himself, but the other imparts security to that energy. But neither does he who
See this beautifully illustrated in the Meno of Plato.
is led by the hand learn to walk, nor he who is in-» terrogated learn to answer ; but the one walks, for he is able, and the other answers, for he knows how; and both receive security, one from him who leads, and the other from him who interrogates.
The body, indeed, naturaUy possesses the ability of walking, and the soul is naturally ratiocinative : and if it is immortal, as it is, the intellectual conceptions and sciences of things nlust necessarily be eternally inherent in it. But the soul being connected with a twofold life, the one pure and refulgent, and disturbed by no calamity, but the other turbulent and agitated, and mingled with alUvarious fortunes ; while an inhabitant of the earth she is filled with obscurity and dark vertigo, being affected in the same manner as those that are intoxicated^ For in these the soul being inflamed through immoderate drinking, approaches very near to insanity. She partiidly, however, recalls herself, and neither entirely errs, nor reasons without ambiguity, but remains in the confines of ignorance and knowledge. But when the soul IS liberated from hence thither, emerging as it were from the land of the Cimmerians into splendid sether, becoming free from flesh, free from desires, free from diseases, free from calamities, then she perceives and reasons about perfect realities, associating with gods, and the sons of gods, above the supreme arch * of the heavens, revolving and
See the Phaedrus of Plato ; for Maximus here alludes to the subceUstial arch, which i< celebrated in that dialogue.
being co-ordinated with the army of gods, of which Jupiter is the leader and commander. And then, indeed, she possesses memory in reality, but now she remembers what she then saw. Then she possesses confidence, but now she errs. The robust soul, however, and which is allotted a good daemon, even in the present life, liberates herself from the loud tumult, and abandoning as much as possible an association with the body, excites in herself the mefnory of what she there saw and heard. This, then, is what poets obscurely signify, when they say that Mnemosyne is the mother of the Muses, calling the sciences the Muses, a divine choir, the work of Jupiter, begotten by and co-ordinated with Mnemosyne. Let us, therefore^ cultivate the Muses, let us cultivate Mnemosyne.
The heaven, however, there mentioned is not, as Maximus fupposes, the sensible heaven, but that divine order which is called by the Chaldaean theologists vouto; kou voi^q, intelligible and at the same time intellectual. See my notes on the Phsedrus.
DISSERTATION XXIX.
WHETHER POETS HAVE ENTERTAINED BETTER CONCEPTIONS ABOUT THE GODS THAN PHILO- SOPHERS.
Tl/TEN very much oppose each other, not only about a polity or dominion, or the common evils of life, but their contention extends to the most peaceful of things^ poetry and philosophy ; a thing twofold, indeed, according to nam^ but simple according to essence^ and pessessing no difference in itself. Just as if some one should conceive that day is any thing else than the light of the sun falling on the earth, or that the sun running above the earth is any thing else than day : for thus poetry subsists with respect to philosophy. For what else is poetry than philosophy, ancient by time, metrical frpm harmony, and myr thological from design ? And what else is philosophy than poetry, more recent in time, more strenuous in harmony, and more clear in its intenr tion ? Since these two things, therefore, differ from each other in time only and form, how slifdl any one judge what is the difference between them in those things in which both poets and philosophers assert something about divinity ?
VOL. II. H
Or may we not say that this enquiry is just as if some one, comparing the most ancient medicine with the new, and which is now appHed to bodies, should consider the better and the worse in each of these ? For Esculapius would say in answer to him, " That times do not change other arts (for of things of which there is the same use, of these the works, likewise, are always similar) but that medicine, following the temperament of the body, a thing neither stable nor definite, but easily changed by ordinary aliment, necessarily invented different modes of diet accommodated to the present nutriment. Do not think, therefore, that those my sons, Machaon and Podalirius, were less dexterous in the heahng art than their successors who discovered these sage and all-various methods of eure. But then, indeed, the art being conversant with bodies, which were neither easily changed, nor various, nor j)erfectly dissolute, managed them without difficulty, and its employment was something simple,
'' To cut out arrows, and by mcd*cincs bland The wound to heal *."
But now, at length, bodies falling from this art into a more various diet and a depraved temperament, the art itself became diversified, and passed
from its former simplicity into an all-various form."
Come, then, let one, who is a poet, and at the
same time a philosopher, judge of the pursuits of
the two in the same manner as Esculapius has judged of medicine. This man, therefore, will be very indignant, if any one should think that Homer and Hesiod, or by Jupiter Orpheus, or any other of the poets of that time, was less wise than Aristotle the Stagirite, or Chrysippus the Cilician, or Clitomachus the Libyan, or than others who were the authors of these many wise inventions ; and that these poets were not in like manner, if not even more, skilful in the same things. But, as in bodies, the more ancient were more easily managed by art, through an excellent diet, but in process of time required more various medical aid ; in like manner the soul formerly, through its simplicity, and what is called the rudeness of its manners, required a certain musical and milder philosophy, which might popularly allure and manage it, in the same manner as nurses charm through fabulous n'^rrations the children^ committed to their care ; but when, in the course of time, it became skilful and strenuous, and full of incredulity and craft, investigating fables, and' not enduring enigmas, then it unveiled and du\ vested philosophy of her ornament, and employed naked words. The latter mode, however, differed in nothing from the former, except in the scheme of harmony; but the opinions concerning the gods originating supernally proceeded through every philosophy.
I expel, however, Epicurus from the number both of poets and philosophers, but the business with the rest is equal and the same ; unless you
think that Homer met \idth gods discharging arrows *, or discoursing, or drinking, or doing any thing else, such as he sings concerning them. For neither must it be supposed that Plato met with Jupiter acting the part of a charioteer f, and riding in a winged^ chariot, nor with an army of gods distributed into eleven ranks, nor with divinities feasting in the palace of Jupiter, in celebration of the birth of Venus J, when Plenty and Poverty were secretly connected together, and Love was the offspring of their conjunction. Nor must we imagine that he was a spectator of Pyriphlegethon, Acheron, and Cocytus §, and of rivers flowing upwards and downwards with water and fire, nor that he saw Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos ||, nor met with them turning seven different revolu-
MaximuB here alludes to what Homer asserts of Apollo, in the first book of the Iliad. But this god must Iki considered as a divine power rooted in the first cause, through which all things participate of undefiled light and intelligible harmony, together with efficacious power, vigour, and fabricative perfection. The rays of this god are assimilated to arrows, and signify that potter of Apollo which subverts every thing inordinate in the imiverse, and gives dominion to that which is orderly and gentle. Discourse signifies the distribu^ iive energy of a divine nature, and drinking that vivific energy which difluses itself to all things, and supplies them with good . See more on this interesting subject in the introduction to the second and third books of Plato's Republic, vol.i. of my translation of Plato's works.
f See my translation of the Phaedrus of Plato.
X See the Banquet of Plato.
§ See the Phaedo of Plato.
Ij See the tenth book of Plato's Bepublic,
tions on a spindle. Survey, also, the poetry o£ the Syrian*, Jupiter and Cthonia, and the love which he there celebrates, together with the generation of Ophion, the battle of the gods, the tree, and the veil. Survey, too, Heraclitus, his mortal gods, and immortal menf.
All things, indeed, are full of enigmas, both among poets and philosophers, whose reverence of the truth I much more admire than the liberty of speech adopted by the moderns. For a fable is a more elegant interpreter of things which are not clearly seen through the imbecility of human nature. I, indeed, if those of a more recent saw farther in any thing than those of a former age, proclaim the men blessed for the vision ; but if they did not in any thing surpass them in knowledge, and yet changed their enigmas into perspicuous language, I am afraid lest some one shoulcf" reprove them for having divulged arcane narrations. For what else is a fable than a discourse invested with a foreign ornament? Just as the initiators into the mysteries cover statues with gold and silver and veils, by this mean magnificently celebrating the expectation which they raise. For the human soul being of a daring nature less honours that which is before its feet, but conceives that to be very admir^le which is absent, predicting, indeed, respecting things which are not seen, and investigating these by a reason-
I. e, Pherecydes.
f Heraclitus called men mortal gods, and gods immortal men.
ing process^ hastening to discover what it has not yet obtained, but when it has obtained it dehghting in it as it3 own work.
Poets, therefore, understanding this to be the case, as a remedy for it in divine dogmas devised fables, Avhich are more obscure than direct narration, but more clear than enigmas, subsisting as a medium between science and ignorance; being credible, indeed, according to the pleasant, but incredible according to the paradoxical ; leading the soul as it were by the hand to the investigation of things, and to explore something beyond what is apparent. Hence the meaning of these men was for a long time concealed, through the charm with which they captivated our ears ; they being, indeed, philosophers in reality, but poets byname, and exchanging a thing attended with envy for a popularly alluring art. For to the hearing of the multitude the word philosopher is painful and oppressive, just as a rich man is an oppressive spectacle among the poor, a temperate man among the intemperate, and a strenuous combatant among the timid : for the depraved cannot endure that in their presence the virtues should be exalted. But the word poet is delicate to the hearing, and dear to the people, and is beloved for the pleasure which it affords, but unknown according to the virtue which it possesses. And as physicians mingle bitter medicines with sweet nutriment for the sick when they loathe food, and thus conceal the unpleasantness of the remedy ; in like manner, ancient philosophy, inserting its meaning in fables.
and in the measures and form of verse, concealed by the vestment of dehght the unpleasantness of its precepts.
Do not, therefore, ask vtrhether the conceptions of poets concerning the gods are superior to those of philosophers ; but, making a truce and league with the pursuits of each, consider them as conversant with one according art. For when you speak of a poet you also speak of a philosopher, and when of a philosopher you likewise speak of a poet. For you will similarly call Achilles a most brave man, fighting with a golden and varigeated shield, and Ajax, though he carries a shield composed of the hides of bulls ; but virtue made both alike strenuous and terrible in battle, nor is gold here to be compared with the hide of a bull. Assimilate then measure and verse to gold, but prose to popular matter; and consider neither the gold, nor the skin, but the virtue of him by whom they are employed. The poet speaks the truth, though he speaks in enigmas, though he speaks in fables, though he speaks in verse. I follow the enigmas, I investigate the fables, nor shall I be seduced by his song. The philosopher also speaks the truth, though he speaks in prose, and I embrace the facility of this mode of writing ; but if you take away truth both from the poet and the philosopher, you will make the verse inelegant, and the plain narration a fable. For without truth you will neither entirely believe in the fable of the poet, nor in the discourse of the philosopher.
Epicurus^ indeed y writes in prose, but his asser^ tions are more absurd than fables ; so that I should rather believe Homer, when he says, speaking of Jupiter, that he weighed the souls of two most valiant men with a golden balance.
Of slaught'ring Hector, and Achillet fierce * ;"
raisincr the beams with his ri^^ht-hand : for I see the fate of the men nodding together with the right-hand of Jupiter :
' TTie nod that ratifies the will divme, The faithful^ fix'd, irrevocable sign t«"
I understand the nod of Jupiter, through which the earth remains fixed, the sea is poured forth, the air flows, fire runs upwards, the heavens revolve, animals are generated, and trees grow. Human virtife and felicity, also, are the works of the nods of Jupiter. I understand Minerva, likewise, at one time being present with Achilles, leading the man from anger, and standing behind him, but at another associating with Ulysses
' In all his toils t."
I understand Apollo, likewise, a god who is both an archer and a musician ; and I love his harmony, but am terrified at his arrows. Neptune also shakes the earth with his trident, Mars marshals
armies, and Vulcan fabricates in brass ; but all his ari'angements and operations through fire are not for Achilles alone. These things poets assert, and these things are also asserted by philosophers; of which, if you change the names, you will find the similitude, and recognize the narration. Call Jupiter, then, the most ancient* and original intellect, which all things follow and obey, but call Minerva wisdom, Apollo the sun, and Neptune f a spirit pervading through the earth and sea, and governing their contention and harmony.
If, too, you proceed to other particulars, you will find in the poets all things fnll of names, but in the philosophers of arguments. Xo what fable, however, shall I compare the assertions of Epicurus ? For what poet is so indolent, so dissolute, and so ignorant of the gods ? That which is im" mortal is neither busily employed itself , nor is the cause of molestation to another X* Who can show me a fable resembling this assertion ? How shall I represent Jupiter ; what is he doing ; about what does he deliberate ; and in what pleasures is he engaged ? Jupiter, indeed, in Homer drinks, but he
Say, rather, conformably to the ancient theology, that Jupiter is a divine power rooted in the first cause ; that he it the artificer of the universe ; that he subsists at the extremity of the intellectual order of gods ; and that he give» life to ail things through himself.
f Conceive, also, that Neptune is a divine power rooted in the first cause, and that he is the inspective guardian of all the middle elements, of which his trident is a symbol.
{ This was the doctrine of £picurus. See the additional notes on this volume.
also speaks in assemblies, and deliberates, just as the administration of the affairs about Asia flows from the Persian king, and that of the Grecian affairs flows from the assembly of the Athenians. For the great king consults for Asia and the Athenian people for Greece: the pilot also consults for the sliip, the general for the army, the legislator for the city, the husbandman for the earth, and the steward for the house. And, that the ship, the army, the city, the earth, and the house, may be preserved, the pilot, the general, the legislator, the husbandman, and the steward, are busily employed. But for the heavens, the earth, the sea, and the other parts of the universe, who, O Epicurus, consults ? Who is the pilot ; who the general ; who the legislator ; who the husbandman, who the steward ? But neither was Sardanapalus without employment ; who, though he was shut up within doors, lying on a carved bed, amidst a choir of women, vet at the same time consulted how Ninus* might be saved, and how the Assyrians might be happy. With you, however, O Epicurus, the pleasure of Jupiter is more indolent than that of Sardanapalus. O incredible fables! and adapted to no poetic harmony.
Ninus was the son of Belus, who built a city, to which he gave his own name; and founded the Assyrian monarchy, of which he was the first sovereign. B. C. 2059.
DISSERTATION XXX.
WHETHER IT BE NECESSARY TO PRAY.
A PHRYGIAN*, whose life was rustic, and who was a lover of money, infected, according to the fable, the water of a fountain with wine ; to which fountain a daemoniacal satyr, who was a lover of wine, being thirsty, came to drink. The stupid Phrygian formed such a prayer to the captive daemon as it was likely the former would make and the latter accomplish : that the land might become golden, together with the trees, the fruits, the meadows, and the flowers they contain. The satyr granted his request. When the land, however, became golden, a famine invaded the Phrygians ; and Midas deplored his wealth, made a recantation of his wish, and no longer prayed to the satyr, but to the gods and goddesses, that his ancient poverty, fertile, all-producing, and abounding with fruits, might return to him, and that gold might be transferred to the heads of his enemies. Such was the prayer which he offered, weeping ; but he
Midas.
prayed in vain. I praise the fable for its grace^ and for the path which it affords to the truth : for what else does it obscurely signify, than the worthless prayer of a stupid man, asking to obtain that, of which, when obtained, he repents? But the fable, by the hunting after the satyr, his bonds, and his wine, signifies, that some by fraud, and others by violence, obtaining that which they desire, and that for which they pray, ascribe the gift to the gods, though it is not from them they receive it. J'or divinity gives nothing which is not good ; but these are the gifts of fortune*, the irrational bestowing of an irrational nature, resembling the benevolence of the intoxicated.
But what of the Lydian ? Was he not more stupid than the Phrygian ? Did he not pray to Apollo that he might possess the kingdom of the Persians, and worship the god with abundance of gold, as if he had been a magistrate who is to be corrupted by gifts ? and though he had frequently received this oracle from Delphi, If Croesus jxtsses over the Hahjs^ he will destroy a mighty empire] yet he interpreted the meaning of the oracle to his own advantage, passed over the Halys, and destroyed
"^ Fortune, considered according to it» first subsistence, is that divine power which congregates all sublunary causes, and enables them to confer on sublunary effects that particular good which their nature and merits eminently deserve. She is by no means, therefore, an irrational nature ; but as she governs the fluctuating empire of the sublunary region, which is full of the irrational and inordinate, her gifts are also received disorderly and irrationally.
the mighty kingdom of the Lydians. I also hear, in Homer, a certain Grecian praying :
" O father Jove I may this be Ajax' lot. Or Tydeus' son, or rich Mycene^s king *, "
And Jupiter accomplished the prayer :
Then from the hehn leap'd forth the lot desirM Of Ajax."
And of Priam, indeed, when praying for his own land, and daily sacrificing to Jupiter oxen and sheep, he rendered the prayer ineffectual ; but to Agamemnon, when invading a foreign land, he promised and fulfilled his promise :
' A safe return, Troy's well-built walls o'erthrown f ."
And Apollo, who before gave no assistance to the injured Chryses, when he freely addressed him, and reminded him of the savour of the thighs which he had sacrificed, then he discharged his arrows on the Greeks, pouring them for nine continued days on mules, and sheep, and dogs J.
What is the meaning of these things, O best of poets ? Is divinity a helluo, one who may be corrupted by gifts, and in no respect differing from the multitude of mankind ? And must we also admit this verse of thine:
'* The gods themselyes are Bexible § ?*'
Or, on the contrary, is the divine nature incapable of being changed, firm, and inexorable ? For
§ Iliad ix. ver. 493. The illuminationa of divinity, though in themselves immutable, are received mutably by mortal na«
it is not only unbecoming in a god to be changed and to repent, but is even unworthy a good man. For a man who can be changed from his purpose and repent, if he is changed to better from worse, has consulted badly, but if to worse from better he is basely changed. Divinity, however, is free from depravity : for either he who prays deserves or does not deserve to obtain the things for which he prays. If, therefore, he deserves, he will obtain them, even though he should not pray for them ; but if he does not deserve, he will not obtain them, though they should be the objects of his prayer. For neither is he who is worthy, but omits to pray, on this account unworthy because he has not prayed ; nor is he who deserves to obtain, but who obtains praying, on this account worthy because he has prayed ; but, on the contrary, he who deserves to obtain, and does not disturb divinity, is, in consequence of omitting to pray, more worthy to obtain. But he who is unworthy and disturbs divinity is also unworthy because he disturbs him : and to the former, indeed, we ascribe modesty and confidence ; for through confidence he believes that he shall obtain, but through modesty
tures. Hence, according to our aptitude or inaptitude to become partakers of the divine energy, which is always and uniformly exerted, we either do not at all receive these illuminations, or they are received by us fully or imperfectly. When, therefore, from being unadapted we become adapted to receive them, by exercises of piety and a conversion to a divine nature, then also the mind of divinity is said, by the authors of fables, to be changed ; fables ascribing to causes that which happens to effects.
he is quiet, though he should not obtain ; but to the latter we ascribe ignorance and depravity, ignorance from his praying, and depravity from his being unworthy to obtain. But what ? If divinity were a general, and if a man, who alone deserved to carry the implements of war, should request of the general the place of an armed soldier, but one who is adapted to bear arms should remain quiet, would not the general, as the necessity of the army required, dismiss the man who is qualified to carry burthens, but rank the other among the armed troops ? And yet a general may be ig* norant, may be corrupted by gifts, or may be deceived ; but nothing of this kind can happen to divinity. Neither, therefore, will he give contrary to desert to those that pray, nor will he withhold his gifts from the worthy though they do not invoke him by prayer.
Besides, with respect to the things which men pray to obtain, some of these providence inspects, others fate supplies, others fortune changes, and others art dispenses. And providence, indeed, is the work of divinity, fate of necessity, art of man, and fortune of that which is casual. The conditions, too, of human life are allotted each of these. Hence what we pray for either pertains to the providence of divinity, or the necessity of fate, or the art of man, or the course of fortune. And if, indeed, it perlRiins to providence, what necessity is there for prayer ? For if divinity provides, he either provides for the whole, but neglects particulars (just as kings preserve cities by law and jus
tice, but do not extend their concern to individuals) or providence is also exerted in particulars. What then shall we say ? Are you willing that divinity should provide for the whole ? He must not, therefore, be molested : for he will not be persuaded if you ask any thing contrary to the salvation of the whole. For what, if the parts of the body becoming vocal, as often as anyone of them being diseased was amputated for the safety of the whole, should pray that they might not be corrupted by the medical art^ would not Esculapius Jthswer them: ** O miserable members! it is not fit that the whole body should be destroyed for your sake, but that you should perish that it may be preserved." The same thing takes place in this universe : the Athenians arc afflicted with pestilence, the Lacedaemonians are shaken with earthquakes, Thessaly is inundated, and ^tna burns. The dissolution of these things you call corruption ; but the physician knows the cause and neglects the prayer of the parts. Hence he preserves the universe, for he cares for the whole. But although divinity should provide for particulars, neither in this case is it proper to pray to him : for this is just as if some one who is diseased should ask a physician for medicine or food, since the physician will give him this, if it would be attended with eflS- cacy, though he should not request it ; but he will not give it to him, though he should ask for it, when it would prove inefficacious. Nothing, therefore, is to be requested, nothing to be prayed for, that it belongs to providence to accomplish.
But what shall we say of the particulars which subsist according to fate ? Indeed , here also prayer is most ridiculous : for any one nniight more easily persuade a king or a tyrant ; since fate is tyrannic, without a master, and inflexible. She throws a bridle, too, as it were, on the herds of men, draws them by violence, and compels them to follow where she leads, in the same manner as Dionysius compelled the Sjrracusians, Pisistratus the Athenians, Periander the Corinthians, and Thrasibulus the Milesians. For in a democracy persuasion and prayer, obsequious attention, and supplications, are capable of effecting something ; but in a tyranny, as in war, violence has dominion :
Oh ! spare my life, and mighty gifts demand *.
What rewards, therefore, can we bestow on fate, so that we may liberate ourselves from necessity and bonds ? what gold can we offer ; what obse* quious attendance ; what sacrifice ; what prayer ? But neither has Jupiter himself been able to discover any means of escaping her power; but thus laments :
^ Ah me ! Patroclus, most bdov'd of men. Is fated by Mencctius' son to die f 1"
f Iliad xvi. ver. 433. Lamentations are symbols of the pro* vidence of the gods about mortal concerns, which are continu* ally subject to renovation and decay. Jupiter, therefore^ does not say this as being unable to escape the power of fate ; for as he is the artificer of the timvarte he it superior to the control
To which of the gods does Jupiter pray for his son ? And Thetis also exclaims,
' Ah> wretched me I unhappily I bore A «on most brave *."
Such is Fate, Atropos, Clotho, and Lachesis, immutable and definite, and allotted the care of human lives. How, therefore, can any one pray to inexorable Fate ?
Neither must we pray for things tirhich subsbt according to fortune ; and much more, indeed, in these must we abstain from prayer* For neither ought we to converse with a stupid potentate, with whom there is neither counsel nor judgment, and whose kingdom is not governed by temperate impulse, but by anger, inordinate motion, irrational appetites, insane tendencies, and successions of desires. Such a thing as thia is fortune, irrational, furious, improvident, deaf, unprophetic, alternately ebbing and flowing like the Euripus, circularly rolling, and not admitting the pilot^s art* Why, then, should any one pray to a thing unstable, stupid, unequal, and solitary ? After fortune art remains. But what artist would pray concerning the beauty of a plough when he possesses art ? or what weaver poosessing art would pray concerning the beauty oi a robe ? What smith en-
of fate : but as one divine power does not counteract the operations of another, nothmg more k indicated by these verses than the concurrence of die prondential energies of Jupiter with the will of fate.
dued with art would pray concerning the beauty of a shield ? or what valiant man would pray for courage, when he possesses fortitude ? or what good man possessing virtue would pray concerning felicity ?
What then is that for which any one can pray which does not pertain either to providence, or fate, or art, or fortune ? Do you ask for riches ? do not disturb the gods, you request nothing beautiful : do not disturb fate, you request no« thing necessary : do not disturb fortune, for she does not give to those that are in want : do not disturb art, for you hear Menander saying,
'' Unless the arts to avarice are slaves
They are not wholly subject to old age *.'
Is not this the case ? Are you a good man ? Change your manners, and you will obtain depravity : make this the object of your study, and you will be a merchant of bawds, or the keeper of a ta* vern, or a robber, or full of craft, or a false witness^ or a sycophant, or one corrupted by gifts. Do you ask for victory ? this may be obtained in war from a mercenary, in a court of justice from a sy* cophant. Do you ask for merchandize ? a ship, the sea, and the impulse of the winds may give this: the market is before you, the thing is venal. Why do you disturb the gods ? be not afiraid of acting basely and you will become rich : for in this case, though you should be Hippo-
« Vid. Scob. Serm. lis.
ulcus*, you will conquer ; though you should be Cleon or Melitus you will obtain what you desire. But if you betake yourself to prayer to the gods you will come before an accurate and inexorable court of justice; nor will any god endure that you should pray for things which are not to be prayed for, nor will he bestow upon you things which ought not to be given. For divinity severely enquires into and estimates the prayers of every one, and directs your aflairs by the measure of what is conducive to your advantage ; nor will your de* sires, however mournfully they may be expressed^ and with whatever lamentations they may be ac« companied, as if you were pleading in a court of justice, bend him from his intention; not even though you should spread an abundance of dust on your head. And if it should so happen that you reproach divinity,
•« If e'er with wreathi I hung thy tacred fane f,
He will say: ^' If you ask for what is good for a good purpose, receive it, if you ask being a worthy man. For in this case there is no occasion for prayer ; take it, and be silent.'
But Socrates, you will say, went into the Piraeus that he might pray % to the goddess Minerva, and exhorted others to do the same. The life,
Hipponicus was the Mm of Calliat^ and was very rich.
t Maximui here alludes to the first book of the Republic <^
however, of Socrates was foil of prayer : for Pytb^oras also prayed, and Plato, and every other who was familiar with the gods. But you, indeed, think that the prayer of a philosopher is a supplication for things that are not present. I, however, think that it is a conference with the gods about existing circumstances, and an exhibition of virtue. Or do you think Socrates prayed that he might be rich, or that he might govern the Athenians ? very far from it. But he requested of the gods, and received from himself, with their consent, virtue of soul, tranquillity of life, blameless manners, and death attended with good hope, gifits of an admirable nature, and which are im« parted by the gods. But if any one should request a prosperous navigation from the earth, and abundant fruits from the sea ; a plough from a weaver, and a military robe from a carpenter, his prayer would be ineffectual, and he would depart ungifted, and without obtaining the object of his wbh. O Jupiter, Minerva, and Apollo, inspectors of the manners of men, it is necessary that philosophers should be your disciples, who receiving your art with robust souls gather abeautifol and happy harvest of life. This kind of agriculture is, however, rare, is exercised with difficulty, and at a late period of life, and assumes a different appearance in different bodies. But this rare and little foel is as necessary to life as a little light in profound, nighh For thebeautifol in human nature is not abundant, and yet every thing belonging to man is by this little preserved. If, however, you exterminate
philosophy from life you exterminate that which is its yiyid spark, that which is breathing in it and ▼ital, and that which alone knows how to pray *• Just as, if you take away the soul from the body,
The wke man, indeed, as Demophilui says in his Pythagoric sentences, is alone a priest, is alone the friend of di* vinity, and atone knows how to pray. The prayer of the philosopher, however, is not merely a conference with the gods about existing circumstances, as Mazimus a little before asserts it to be ; but it is a conversion and elevation of the divine part of the soul to a divine nature, and an ardent supplication lor that good which it is in the power of divinity at all times to bestow, because that providential energy which is the charac« teristic of deity is superior to the decrees of fate.
Arovidence^ indeed, as the name implies, is 3n energy prior id intellects and consequently, from its transcending all intellectual and sensible natures, is superior to fate, which, accord* ing to the arcana of ancient theology, is a beneficent exertion of divinity resulting from and subsisting in bodies. Hence whatever is under the dominion of fate is likewise under the dominion of Providence, deriving its connection from ^te, but the good which it possesses from Providences On the con* trary, ail things 'which are under the government of Provih dence are not indigent of fate ; for intellectual beings are exempt from its dominion* Providence, too, differs from Eite in the same manner as a god differs from that which is divine, indeed, but which is so by participation, and not according to a primary subsistence. Just as with respect to light, that which subsists in the sun is primary, but that which is in the air se* condary, and life is primarily in the soul but secondarily in the body. Providence, therefore, is a god essentially, but ^te is something divine, and not a god ; for it depends on Providence, and has the same relation to it as an image to its exem* plar.
Again, Providence extends itself to all thmgs, to wholes and parts, to eternal and corruptible natures ; for nothmg can escape its all-comprehending power, whether you regard the essence of a thing or its subsistence as an object of knowledge.
you render tbe body fixed; if you take away fruits from the earth, you cut off its fertility ; if you take away the sun from the air, you extinguish the day.
It is said, indeed^ and with great propriety, that the whole circle has a central subsistence in thecentre, since the centre is the cause, but the circle the thing caused ; and on the same account every number subsists monadically in unity. But in the one of Proridence all things are ccmtainedfin a much more exalted manner, since it is for more transcendently one than a centre, and an arithmetical monad.
Such, then, being the absolute dominion of Providence, and its superiority tofiate, the efficacy of prayer is at once apparent, nnce aptitude in him who prays is alone requisite to the participation of that good which he implores. And thus much on this subject at present ; for in the additional notes we shall un* fold the divine conceptions of Platols most legitimate disciplet concerning the-natiire and efficacy of prayer.
DISSERTATION XXXL
CONCERNING PLEASURE, THAT ALTHOUGH IT BE GOOD, YET IT IS NOT STABLE.
TT is difficult to be good *, according to thfe ancient verse. Whether, also, is it diffiealt for a horse to be good, according to the yirtue of a horse, and for a dog according to the yirtue of a dog ? Or may we not say that proper good is not difficult either to a horse or a dog ; but that to each of these the possession of appropriate yirtue is easy, if the horse is well tamed from a colt, and the dog is dexterously trained to hunting from a whelp : and that to man alone good is difficult to inyestigate and apprehend, and that the art is dubious and has not yet been discovered, by which the human race may be properly educated ? For with sophists there will be no end to the pretext of words, of disputation and contention. No one deprives himself of the hope of the end, nor abandons safety through the instability of arguments, but buoyed up by expectation, he does not neglect to learn. Neither, likewise, does he suffer that which unfortunate sailors, or those who make their first sea-voyage experience : for these, if a
This was a saying of Pittacus.
little storm arises, being terrified by the novelty of the circumstance, leaving the ship, and neglecting the saving art, give themselves to the waves, and perish prior to the ship. It appears to me that they act in a similar manner, who, betaking them^ selves to philosophy, and falling into the loud clamour of its votaries, cannot endure this tempest of the soul, but despair that reason will ever firmly secure them in stable ports.
Or are you ignorant that the opinions and pas« sions of men, together with the causes and genera*- tions, correction and salvation of these, concerning which philosophers are daily busied, and daily discourse— ^are you ignorant that this is a thing neither narrow nor simple, nor resembling rivers that flow in a direct course, and to which if you deliver a ship you are carried with the stream, and conducted through well-known paths ? Here, also, there is a broad and ample sea, much more intricate than any in Sicily and Egjrpt. But art knows the way, looks to the heavens, and recognizes the ports. The very same thing, therefore, takes place as that which happens to the greater part of pilots : for each desires to know, but most are deficient ia accurate knowledge. Hence they wander from the port, and are driven, some on craggy rocks, others on muddy shores, others on the coast of the Sirens, and others on the land of the Lotophagi; or to other men, who are either inhospitable through depravity, or impious through ignorance, or corrupted through pleasure. But if there is
tny good and sagacious pilot he directly sails into the most secure port,
' Where ahipi may rest unanchor'd and unt/d *."
Who, therefore, is this pilot, and to whom shall we commit ourselves? Do not yet ask me thi^ till you have seen and examined others. And, in the first place, let us give a ship to this delicate and most pleasant pilot ; a ship, which, when seen from the land, is delightful to the view, but in na- Tigation is most useless, and always unfit for ministrant offices, is deprived of instruments, and is most imbecile and inefficacious against the incursions of tempest. Since our discourse, however, I knew not how, has employed an image of the sea, let us not suffer this to depart from us till it has fabricated for us a clear description, assimilating the philosophy of Epicurus to the royal ship of JEetes f. I say this, not devising a fable ; but, not very long since, a certain king of those barbarians who dwell beyond Phoenicia sailed from £g31)t to Troy, the men he governed being so ignorant that they knew not the sea |, nor revered aegis-bearing Jupiter, nor the other blessed gods. This impi« ous king, and unacquainted with the sea, pre-
i* No vestiget of the history which Maximus here rebtet are, as Davis well observes, to be found elsewhere.
% An Homeric phrase. See Qdyss. xi.ver. 121.; andxxiii.
pared a large and broad ship, in which every plea^ sure might sail with him ; for one part of it was a most beautiful palace, in which there were bedchambers, couches, and thrones :
Close to the gates a spacious garden lay */
In this trees flourished, pomegranates, pears, apples, and vines. In other parts of it there were a bath and gymnasium, a place for cooks, bedchambers for harlots, a banquetting^room, and every thing else belonging to a luxurious city. The ship, too, wasinvested with a variety of colours most beautiful to the view, and abounded with silver and gold ; nor was it in any respect different from a coward adorned with golden arms. The Egyptians admired this spectacle, and proclaimed the master of it blessed; nor was there wanting one who prayed to become a sailor in this most delightful ship. But when the time came to weigh anchor, this mighty and opulent ship sailed, and was tossed about in the very port like a floating island. At the same time, too, other common ships sailed out of the harbour compact and fitted for use. As long, therefore, as the winds were gentle the royal ship was victorious in pleasure, and all was full of exhalation,
Of the pipe's melody, and noise of men f.
But when, instead of that serenity, a sudden tempest disturbed the air, and an impetuous wind
descended with a loud crashing noise, then it was known what is the use of pleasure and what the use of art. For the other ships, striking their sails, contended with the storm, braved the wind^ and vanquished the force of the evil ; but this miserable ship was tossed about like the body of a large man oppressed with vertigo, or staggering from intoxication. The pilot, too, could no longer use his art, and that effeminate crowd lay astonished and groaning. In the mean-time the storm dissipated all these admirable contrivances^
» Forests of lofty trees uprooted fell *.'
It dispersed also the palaces, the bed-chambers, and the baths, and the shipwreck of a city was driven to the land :
'< Like fowl that haunt the floods, they smk, they rise Bound the black ship f .'
This was the end of the stupid master of the useless ship, and of imseasonable luxury
Let us, however, return to the discourse, for the sake of which we have introduced this similitude: for it appears to promulgate pleasures to us in our course, not during a short navigation, or for the space of a few days, but for the whole time of life, though the pleasures which it commends are in no respect more secure than those marine circumstances which we have just related ; since, as yet, no reasoning has persuaded us that pleasure is not good
Let it, therefore, contend, if it is able to convince us, that pleasure is stable. If, indeed, I should find that pleasure is incapable of being changed, I will endure to be delighted for ever ; and I will neglect virtue if you can show me pleasure secure and unmingled with pain, pleasure unattended with repentance, and pleasure worthy to be praised. But how will you show this ? certainly not more than you can show this of pain. For nature has not given to man any one of these sane and sincere, but has everywhere mingled pains with pleasures, and intimately united the one with the other: hence he who makes one of these the object of his choice immediately participates of the other ; for, since they are connascent with each other, the one supervenes the other, and they reciprocally change their generations and mutual associations. The soul being mingled with this flux and reflux, how can it ever be void of pain, since it associates with goods of which it will be, at some time or other, deprived ? I, indeed, should not trust the sea^ though it were undisturbed by the winds, though it were tranquil ; for I should suspect its quietness. But if you wish me to confide in its serenity lead me to a secure sea,
Where rain and raging tempest are unknown. But a white splendor spreads its radiance round *."
The soul, also, is allotted a condition of this kind ; and as long as the pilot is absent from her, and as
long as art is absent, though she should see serenity, she will dread the storm, and when she meets with the storm she will desire serenity. For the life of a man given to pleasure and astonished with pain is light, terrified at every noise, uniaitbful, and more immanifest than every sea.
Do you not see the suitors engaged in juvenile pleasures, feasting on fat goats, satiated with ten* der kids, listening to the sound of flutes, mingling wine, delighting in the quoit, and discharging arrows from the bow ? who would not proclaim them blessed for tliis pleasure ? But a prophet, who was well acquainted with futurity, says,
O race to death devote 1 with Stygian shade Each destin'd peer unpending fates invade *,^
Evil was before their feet and near them. It was also before the feet of Paris when he stole that admirable pleasure from Peloponnesus. For a Grecian fleet swiftly sailed on the occasion, bringing myriads of sorrows to this lover of pleasure, and myriads of calamities to a whole city. I omit the Assyrian pleasures t> which, together with gold and harlots, fire immediately invaded: nor will I speak of the Ionic pleasures of PolycratesJ,
Thus Theoclymenus speaks to the suitors of Penelope in
f Maximus here alludes to the history of Sardanapalus, See Ctesias in Athenaeus, lib. xii. p. 529. and Justin, i. 3.
X Polycrates was crucified by Oroetes, a governor of Sardis. See Athensus, lib. xii. p. 540.
which were overwhelmed with a disgraceful death. Sybaris was full of pleasures^ but they perished together with their votaries. Pleasures also were celebrated by the Syracusians ; but^ through the calamities with which they were followed, they at length became wise. Nor did the Corinthians become wise through misfortune.
DISSERTATION XXXII.
CONCERNING PLEASURE, THAT, ALTHOUGH IT BE GOOD, YET IT IS NOT STABLE.
COME hostile arguments which were lately ad« duced, endeavoured to persuade us that pleasure would be eligible if it could subsist in conjunction with security. The arguments, however, were sophistical and skilled to deceive : for their intention being to consider with respect to pleasure, whether, so far as pleasure, it should be ranked among things good or among such as are evil ; taking it for granted that pleasure is good, they enquired if this good is stable : for how can any one conceive that to be good which is unstable and agitated } Just, I think, as if some one should deprive the earth of its stability and permanency, he would also take away its very being : and if any one should deprive the sun of his motion and course he would at the same time take away his essence. In like manner, if any one takes away from the good its accuracy and its permanency, be at the same time takes away its nature. For the good does not flourish for a time like the beauty of body. How then can any one speculate concern
ing pleasure if he adds good to it^but deprives it of stability ? For if it is necessary that, being good, it should also be stable, together with the absence ttf stability, the good of pleasure will likewise depart. Which, however, of these assertions will be more, calculated to persuade ; that which says pleasure is good, though it should not be stable, or that which says it is not good, unless it is stable ? I think the latter of these : for it is better to take away pleasure from good, at the same time adding stability to it, than to add good to pleasure, and deprive it of security.
Since, therefore, good is not entirely pleasant, but is entirely stable, and the pleasant is not entirely good, but is entirely unstable, one of two things remains ; either that, in pursuing pleasure, good should be neglected, or in choosing good that pleasure should not be pursued. Nothing, however, I think is an object of pursuit which is not good ; but that which is not good is pursued as such from the appearance of good. Just as to money-changers counterfeit money is not eligible because it is counterfeited, but from its similitude to the true, which conceals the nature of the false coin. And as here silversmiths distinguish by art the genuine from the counterfeit, so in the distribution of good does not reason distinguish apparent from real good ? Shall we, therefore, be ignorant of this in the same manner as depraved money-changers, and collect for ourselves .treasures of fraudulent goods }
VOL* II. K
How then shall we consider this afiair, and what is the mode of trial which we should adopt ? If some one, then, should attempt to loosen an ox from the plough and ahorse from the chariot, and, changing the employment of each, should yoke the ox to the chariot and the horse to the plough, would he not act illegally towards nature, insolently towards the animals themselves, ignorantly with respect to the arts, without gain with respect to use, and ridiculously with respect to ministrant operation ? And what if we suppose things still more absurd than these ; that, depriving birds of their wings, you are desirous that they should become gradient ; and, giving wings to man, you expect that he should move in air like a bird, would you not be ridiculous for the change ? For neither does the fable endure that Daedalus should be busied in such absurd arts, but hurls his son, together with his wings, from aether to the earth. They say, also, that a Carthaginian * youth took a lion from his milk, rendered him mild by unlawful aliment, and by a spurious diet deprived him of his irascible disposition ; so that at length, placing burthens on his back, he drove him through the city like an ass. The Carthaginians, however, hating the illegal conduct of the man, put him to death, as being a tjrrant by nature, but a private man by his infelicity
This circumitaiice is related of Hanno, one of the most illustrious of the Carthaginians^ by ^lian, Pliny, and Plutarch.
As horses, therefore, for their safety are allotted the race, oxen labour, birds wings, lions strength^ and other animals something else ; in like manner a connate power which preserves the race is present with man. With respect to this power, it is necessary that it should be different from that of other animals; if, being man, he is to be saved, not by strength as lions, nor by the race as horses, and is not to carry burthens like an ass, nor to plough like an ox, nor to fly with birds, nor swim with fishes. But there is also a certain work peculiar to this animal, which preserves his life, if powers are distributed to animals according to the use of life, works according to powers, and instruments according to works, and the good they effect.
In short, the good of every thing consists in its peculiar work, its work in the necessity of use, use in %he facility of power, power in the aptitude of instruments, and instruments in the variety of nature. For nature is all-various, and on this account she has imparted to, and adorned with different arms, the several species of animals ; some with the force of nails, and others with the sharpness of teeth ; some with the strength of horns, and others with the swiftness of feet ; some with anger, and others with poison. But to man she denied these vestments, and delivered him into light, naked, imbecile, and without art; most slow in running, incapable of flying, and most feeble in swimming. She implanted in him, however, a certain unapparent vital spark for the safety of his
lifSsi which men call intellect : through this he conducts himself with safety, finds a remedy for the wants of life, heals the indigence of body, employs art as an equivalent to the prerogatives of other animals, and to the law and authority of this subdues and subjects all things.
Ask me, also, concerning man : where, and after what manner is his good to be investigated ? I shall answer you just as I answered concerning the lion, concerning a bird, and concerning all other animals. Seek the good of man, there j where the work* of man is to be found. But where shall I find this work ? where the instrument exists. But where shall I find the instrument ? where that subsists by which man is preserved. Here,
That the good of man conslsti in his proper work as man^ is thus beautifully demonstrated by Aristotle^ in his Nicomachean Ethics, lib i. cap. vi. : " As the good and the wellcondition of a piper, of a statuary, of every artist, and, in short, of all those who have a certain work and action, appears to consist in that work, this also will appear to be the case with man, if he has a certain work. Whether, therefore, shall we lay, that there are certain works and actions of the carpenter and the shoemaker, but that man has no work, and that he it naturally indolent ? Or shall we say, that as there appears to be a certain work of the eye, the hand, and the foot, and, in short, of each of the members of the body ; so, also, there it a certain work of man different from all these? What then will this work be ? For to live appears to be common also to plants ; but that which is now investigated is the peculiar. The life, therefore, which consists in nutrition and increase must be removed firom the enquiry. But the sensitive life it consequent to this. It appears, however, that this life it common to a horse and an ox, and to every animal. Hence the practic life of that which possesses reason remains. But of thisa
then, begin. What is that which preserves man ? pleasure. You speak of a thing common, which extends to every nature, and on this account I cannot endure that it should have the preference : for an ox and an ass, a swine and an ape, are susceptible of the delight which pleasure affords. See, now, where you will place man, what partakr ers of good you will assign him. For if pleasure is that which saves him, explore, in the next place, what is the instrument of pleasure : you will find many and allvarious instruments. And as far, indeed, as to the eyes and ears honour the instruments ; but if you proceed farther in the paths of pleasure, see to what instruments you ascribe the
one part is obedient to reason, but the other possesses reason and energizes dianoetically. Since this life, also, is predicated in a twofold respect, that must be adopted which subsists in energy ; for this appears to be predicated as the more pectdiar life. But if the work of man is the energy of the soul according to reason^ or not without reason, and we say that the work of man, and of a worthy man, are the same in kind : just as the work of a harper, and of a good harper, and, in short, if transcendency according to virtue, is added to the work in aU things, for it is the work of a harper to play, but of a good harper to play well, on the harp, if this be the case, and we admit that the work of man is a certain life, and that this life is the energy and actions of the soul in conjunction with reason ; but in a worthy man these are in a good and beautiful condition, and the good of every thing is effected according to appropriate virtue. ; — if this be the case, human good will be the energy of the soul according to virtue. If, also, there are many virtues, it will consist in the best and most perfect of these ; and besides this in a perfect life. For as neither one swallow, nor one day makes springs so neither does one day, nor a short time, make a man blessed and happy."
salvation of man. You have found the instruments, investigate the works. The tongue is gluttonized, the eyes waste away, the hearing is dissolved, the belly is crammed, the parts become insolent which are naturally adapted to be so. You have found the works, you have met with the good of man. Is this salvation i is this felicity?
DISSERTATION XXXIII.
AGAIN, CONCERNING PLEASURE.
3pSOP the Phrygian composed fables through the conversation of brutes; and with him trees and fishes are mingled with each other and with men. In these fables, too, a concise intellect is introduced, which obscurely signifies some particular truth. The following fable, also, is celebrated by him: A lion pursued a stag, who escaped by flight, and penetrated into a thick wood. But the lion, who is as much inferior to the stag in swiftness as he surpasses him in strength, came to the wood, and asked a shepherd, if he had anywhere seen a terrified stag. The shepherd said he had not ; but at the same time, extending his hand, pointed to the place, and the lion rushed on the miserable stag. A fox, however, for in Msop this is a crafty animal, said to the shepherd, What a cowardly and base fellow you are : cowardly towards lions, but base towards stags.
It appears to me that Epicurus might use this Phrygian aenigma against the accuser of pleasure^ who is virile in speech, but in his mind extended by pleasure, as it were by the hand. For who is b6
hostile to himself as willingly to abandon that which is the most alluring of all things ? For with respect to other things which are pursued by men, either experience affords the means of knowing them, or the industry of art approves them, or they are believed from the investigation of reason, or they are embraced in consequence of having been tried by time. But pleasure has no need of reason, is more ancient than art, outstrips experience, and does not stay for time, but the love of it is supernatural, and coeval with bodies, and subsists as a fotindation of the safety of animals; so that if any one takes this away, a generated nature must, fronoL necessity, immediately vanish. For man collects science and reason, and even this, which is so much celebrated, intellect itself, in the progression of time, by the gradual occurrence of the senses, and the aid of experience. But he immediately receives, from the very beginning, pleasure selftaught*, from nature herself: and this, indeed, he embraces, but hostilely opposes the painful. By pleasure also he is preserved, but is corrupted by pain.
Is pleasure, therefore, a vile thing ? If this be the case, it would not be connascent with us, nor the most ancient of the things by which we are preserved. But the particulars which are cele* brated by the sophists as belonging to pleasure, auch as the luxury of Sardanapalus, the Median
The £picureant employ this argument to demonstrate that pleasure is the sovereign good. See Sezt. Empiric^
delica€ies, the Ionic softness, Sicilian tables, Sy« baritic dances, and Corinthian harlots ; — all these, and such as are more various than these, are not the works of pleasure, but of art and reason, after a long time, illegally leading men to pleasures through the fecundity of the arts. As, therefore, no one reviles reason as not naturally beautiful, though some one should employ its use to that which is not beautiful by nature, so neither is pleasure to be reviled, but those that use it badly. And as there are two things in the soul of man, pleasure and reason, the former being mingled with the latter, does not take away any thing of the necessary, but imparts to reason an alluring power. But reason, when it associates with plea* sures, by increasing that which is moderate in them through its fecundity, takes away the necessity of that which is naturally delightful.
You will, however, say that pleasure is not the peculiarity of man, but is also common to other animals. But in saying this do you accuse that which is nearest in pleasure to saving power ? and does that which preserves every thing, and is common to all animated brings, disturb you? O vindicator of unjust prerogative ! you appear to me not to love the light of the sun because it is common to all eyes, and to be of opinion that man only ought to behold it, and that on this account the solar light is not good. Nor will you be delighted with the air, which inspires and governs all bodies by its pervading power, nor with the waters of rivers, nor the fruits of the earth. For if you
proceed beyond necessaries, all things are common, and nothing is peculiar to any thing. Here, therefore, rank pleasure in the communion of that good which preserves every sensitive nature.
Since, however, our business at present is to compare virtue with pleasure, I shall not revile virtue (for the discourse about pleasure is neither virulent nor blasphemous;) but thus much I shall say: that he who takes away the pleasant firom virtue takes away also its power ; since nothing beautiful is eligible if pleasure is absent. For he who voluntarily engages in virtuous labours engages in them through the love of pleasure either present or expected. For as, in the exchange of money, no one willingly changes a talent for a drachma, nor gold for brass, unless
" Of intellect bim Jove deprives *."
But in retributions, though they should be equal, it is necessary that the advantage of him who changes should be regarded, according to the indigence of the receiver: thus, also, though in the endurance of labour no one labours through a love of it, (for this would be a most unhappy love,) yet he exchanges his present labours, as some one more rustic would say, for the beautiful, but, as those would assert, who judge more truly, for pleasure. For though you speak of the beautiful you speak of pleasure, since beauty will scarcely be beautiful unless it is also most pleasant.
I, however, think that the very contrary will thus be rendered apparent ; I mean that pleasure is the most eligible of all things, for the sake of which death is sometimes exchanged for life, and wounds and labours, and ten thousand other diffi* culties are endured. For though you assign different names to the ditTerent causes of these things; as, for instance, you may ascribe friendship to Achilles, when, for the sake of avenging the death of Patroclus, he was willing to die ; but the love of dominion to Agamemnon, when surpassing others in vigilance and deliberation, and fighting at the head of his army ; and the safety of hit country to Hector, when leading his troops, and strenuously contending in battle ; yet all these that you have adduced will be so many names of pleasures. For as in the diseases of the body the sick man rejoices when he is cut or burnt, and willingly endures thirst and hunger, and things which are by nature difficult to bear, through the expectation of health ; but if you take away the hope of future good, you will also take away the endurance of the present evils ; thus, also, in actions a retribution of labours is efiected through pleasures, which you call virtue ; but I, admitting virtue, ask you if the soul would choose virtue without possessing a love for it ? t'or if you admit love you also admit pleasure.
And though you should change the name, and call pleasure joy *, I shall not envy the diversity of
Mazimus says this conformably to the doctrine of the
flCOlCf
names, but I see the thing, and I recognize plea^ sure. For it was this which made Hercules himself willingly endure and contend with so many and such admirable labours, which enabled him to attack wild beasts, to invade tyrants in every land, to purify the earth from savage monsters, to betake himself to Mount Q£ta, and be consumed by fire, being led as it were by the hand to all these, by nothing else than mighty, and admirable, and unmingled pleasures, some of which were present with, and others were the consequences of his labours. And you, indeed, look at the labours which he then endured, but you do not see the pleasures with which he was delighted. For Hercules rejoiced in thus acting, and through this accomplished these deeds : he would not, however, have accomplished them if in doing them he had not been delighted. For the pleasures of Bacchus, which rank in the place of the greatest of the mysteries, those nocturnal banquets and dances, pipes and singing, —all these forms of Bacchic pleasures are celebrated in the mysteries.
Why, however, do I speak of Bacchus and Hercules ? these are fables, these are heroics. I will speak of Socrates. You love Alcibiades, O Socrates! after him Phsedrus, and after PhsBdrus Charmides. You love, O Socrates! and Attic beauty is not concealed from you : confess, then, the cause of it, and do not be afraid of ignominy. It is possible to love temperately, in conjunction with pleasure, just as it is possible to love intemperately in conjunction with pain. But if you are a
lover of soul alone, without pleasure, and are not a lover of body, love Theaetetus: you do not, however, love him, for he was flat-nosed*. Love, therefore, Chaerephon ; but you do not love him, for he was pale. Love, then, Aristodemus; but you do not love him, for he was deformed. Whom, therefore, do you love ? any one who has graceful hair, any one who is elegant, any one who is delicate, any one who is beautiful. And fi'om your virtue, indeed, I believe that you love justly, but I cannot doubt that you love through pleasure. For I cannot doubt that the body is heated by fire, or that the eyes are illuminated by the sun, or that the ears are delighted with the sound of flutes, or that Hesiod was taught by the Muses, or that Homer derived his melody from Calliope, or Plato his magnificent diction from Homer. All these, the eyes, the ears, prose and verse, are attracted by pleasure.
Pleasure, also, led Diogenes himself to his tub : and if virtue, likewise, attended him thither why should you exclude pleasure ? Diogenes was delighted with his tub as Xerxes with Babylon ; Diogenes was delighted with his hard bread, as Smindyrides f with his sauce. He was delighted -with fountains which abound in all places as much as Cambyses with the Choaspes X alone. He was
See my translation of the Theaetetus of Plato, t A native of Sybaris^ feimous for his luxury. t The kings of the Persiani were accustomed to drink the waters of this river alone.
delighted with the srni as much as Sardanapalus with hb purple. He was pleased with his staff as much as Alexander with his spear ; he was delighted with his sack as much as Crcesus with his treasures. And if you compare pleasures with pleasures, those of Diogenes will vanquish, for those of the others were everywhere mingled with pain *. Xerxes when conquered lamented, Cambyses when wounded groaned, Sardanapalus when burnt howled, Smindyrides when banished was inconsolable, Croesus when taken captive wept; and Alexander when he was not fighting was afflicted. But the pleasures of Diogenes were without lamentations, without groans, without tears, and without pains. And you, indeed, call his pleasures labours ; for you measure things pertaining to Diogenes by a base measure, that of your own nature. To you, indeed, it would be painful to act as he acted ; but to Diogenes such deeds were delightful. I will also venture to say, that no one was a more accurate lover of pleasure than Diogenes : he kept no house, for the management of a family is troublesome : he did not engage in politics, for the thing is accompanied %vith sorrow : he did not connect himself with a wife, for he had heard of Xantippe : he did not busy himself with the education of children, for he saw that it was
The characteristic of true pleasures, and such are the intellectual, is this ; that they are not necessarily either preceded by or accompanied with pain. See the Philetnit of
attended with dreadful circuiAstances *. But being unconnected with every thing terrible, free, with* out care, without dread, and without pain, be inhabited the whole earth as if it had been one house^ and was the only man who associated with plea* sures which are unattended by a guard, and which are open and abundant.
Let us dismiss Diogenes, pass on to legislators, and consider polities. Do not, however, think that I shall betake myself to Sybaris, or that I shall call your attention to Syracusian delicacies, or Corinthian pleasures, or the wealth of the Chians, or the abundant wine of the Lesbians, or the splendid garments of the Milesians ; but I shall proceed to the leaders of armies, I shall proceed to the Athenians, and I shall examine the Lacedsemonians. Here, then, in the Laconic whips, and blows, and huntings, and races, and slender suppers, and vile bed-clothes, I see the pleasures which they contain. It is well, O Lycurgus ! you introduce mighty pleasures instead of small pains. You give a few and receive great things : you giva diurnal labours and receive in return perpetual pleasures. What do you say the Spartan pleasurefl;
Why ra hiw in the original ought to be rw tow xXcimov, as Markland conjectures it should, I am not able to compr«» hend. Maximus here speaks generally, in consequence of being convinced that the education of children is a thmg of the most arduous nature, and which has frequently a most calami* tous issue. Hence Plato, in his Laws, justly observes, '* That a boy is the must difficult to manage of all wild beasts." Markland is generally right in his emendations where philosophy It not concerned ; but where it is, though he is the first of verbal critics, he is like a man oppressed with darkening vertigo.
are ? a city without walls, without fear, which was not a spectator of enemies and foreign shields, and which heard no groans nor threats? For what can be more painful than fear ; what more severe than slavery ; what more laborious than necessity? But when you liberate -a city from these you introduce many pleasures in their place. Leonidas, Othryades, Callicratides, were the pupils of this pleasure. These, however, you will say, were slain : but they died well. And what were the things for which they died ? pleasure. For in bodies the parts are cut off for the preservation of the whole. Leonidas, also, was a part of Sparta, but he died for. the whole. Othryades, likewise, and Callicratides were parts. Small parts, therefore, beingtaken away, the pleasures of the whole were saved. And why is it necessary to speak of the Athenian.aflairs ? All the Attic concerns are full of festivity and hilarity, and their pleasures are dis^ tributed with the seasons. The sacred rites of Bacchus are celebrated in the spring, the mysteries in autumn ; and the other seasons are consecrated to other gods. Hence the Panathenaea *, Scirrophoriaf, Haloa]!, Apaturia§. They engage, too,
An Athenian festival in honour of Minerva, the protec* treis of Athens.
i* An anniversary solemnity at Athens in honour of Mi* nerva, or, according to some, of Ceres and Proserpine. X A festival in honour of Ceres and Ikcchus, § An Athenian festival, which derived its name from «MraTt}9 DECEIT, because it was first instituted in memory of a stratagem, by which Melanthius^ the Athenian king, overcame Xanthus, king of Boeotia.
in naval contests in the sea ; they celebrate festivals at home ; they fight on the land ; they laugh in the rites of Bacchus. Neither is war, though the most dreadful of things, destitute of pleasure; but wdth this the T3nrrhene trumpet, the trieric * pipe, and the martial song are co-arranged. You see the abundance of pleasures.
That iSf the pipe belonging to three-ranked galliei.
DISSERTATION XXX IK
WHAT THE END OF PHILOSOPHY IS«
TT is difEcuIt to find a true assertion : for the soul of man, through the fecundity of its intellect, is in danger of being defective in judgment* And other arts, indeed, in their progress become more sagacious in invention respecting their pecu^ liar work ; but philosophy, when it has made the greatest proficiency, is then especially filled with arguments of an opposing nature * and of equal strength. Hence it resembles a husbandman who has an abundance of instruments but an unprolific soil. Suffrage, therefore, the number of judges, the harangues of rhetoricians, and the hands of the people, direct political decrees. But here who will be the judge for us ; and by what suffrage shall we form a judgment of the truth ? By reason ? But you cannot assign any reason to which you may
This is true of every philosophy but the tntellecttial^ or that which was propagated by Pythagoras^ Plato^ and Aris" totle : for this is scientific in all its parts. For intellect is suspended firom deity, the characteristic of which is unify ; ad* ence is an illumination from intellect, and concord is an illumination from unity, since it is the union of things which 4i£Eer from each other
Aot find a contrary. By passion ? but the judge is not to be credited* By the multitude ? but the greater the number the more unlearned. By opinion ? but the worse^the subjects are the more are they conversant with opinion.
Thus in this present speculation, in which pleasure contends with virtue, and the one is compared with the other, does not pleasure attack virtue, vanquish it in opinion, surpass it in the multitude of witnesses, and obtain dominion according to passion ? Hence reason, which alone remains as a joint combatant with virtue, is cut and divided. A certain defence also of pleasure may be obtained from virtue herself, and some one * speaks plausibly when speaking in support of pleasure. He likewise degrades virtue, and transfers dominion from the male to the female f. And the form^ indeed, of philosophy he rejects, but thinks fit to retain the name. Lay aside, O man ! the name, together with your assertions. You act illegally towards those who admit that there is nothing common in philosophy and pleasure : for the lover of pleasure is one person, but the philosopher another. The names and the works are separated from each other : the genera also are divided, in the same manner as the Laconic from the Attic affairs, in the same manner as those of the Barbarians from the Greeks. But if, asserting that you are a Spartan, or a Grecian, a Dorian, or an inhabitant of Heraclea^ you admire the Median tiara,
t. e. Epicurus, t A proverbial mode of expreuion.
the Barbaric table, or the Persian chariot, you act the part of a Pei^sian ; you barbarize ; you have abandoned Pausanias ; you are a Mede ; you are a Mardonian . Lay aside the name together with the genus.
I can endure the multitude, therefore, when they celebrate pleasure ; for their soul is illiberal and exiled from reason. Hence their calamity is to be pitied, and their ignorance to be pardoned ; but I cannot bear the name of Epicurus, nor can I endure philosophy acting wantonly. For neither can I endure a general who deserts his rank and becomes the leader of flight, nor a husbandman who burns his corn, nor a pilot who is afraid of the sea. It is necessary that you should sail, it is necessary that you should lead an army, it is necessary that you should cultivate the earth. These things are full of labours ; but nothing beautiful is eflFected by indolence. If, indeed, you say that pleasure is the attendant of worthy conduct, this I admit ; let it follow, but let the beautiful everywhere take the lead:
One sov'reign ruler let there be, one king,
to whom Jupiter has given dominion. But if you transpose the order, so that pleasure governs, and reason is in subjection, you give to the soul a bitter and inexorable t3rrant, to which she must necessarily be subservient, even though pleasure should enjoin a servitude disgraceful and all*vari«
ous, base and unjust. For what will be the measure of pleasure when it receives authority from desires ? For this tyrant is insatiable, despises things present, desires such as are absent, is inflamed through opulence, elevated by hope, and rendered insolent by power. This tyrant causes the base to rise in opposition to the beautiful, this arms injustice against justice, and excess against moderation. At the same time the indigence of the body may without difliculty satisfy the desires of the body. Is any one thirsty ? there are fountains everywhere. Is any one hungry ? there are beech-trees everywhere. This sun is hotter than a military cloak ; these meadows are the most variegated of all spectacles ; these flowers are natural fragrancies. And thus far we may fix the boundary of pleasures ; viz. indigence itself: but if you pass beyond this, and proceed farther, you give to pleasures an unceasing course, and inclose virtue as with a wall.
This it is which produces an immoderate desire of possessing, this is the source of tyrannies. For the region Pasargidae was not sufficient to the king of the Persians, nor the water-cresses of Cyrus ; but all Asia was destined to supply the pleasures of one man. For him Media nourished the Nissean horse, Ionia sent Grecian harlots, Babylon nurtured barbarous eunuchs, Egypt furnished allvarious arts, India ivory, and Arabia fragrance. Rivers also administered to the pleasures of the king ; Pactolus suppl}ring him with gold, the Nile with wheat, and Choaspes with water. These things, however^ were not sufficient for him ; but
he desired foreign pleasures, and through this inarched to Europe, pursued the Scythians, sub« verted the Paeonians, captured Eretria, sailed to Marathon, and wandered everywhere. O most unfortunate poverty ! For what can be more poor than a man who incessantly desires ? For when once the soul has tasted of pleasures beyond what its wants require, it becomes satiated with former, and aspires after novel, delight. This, therefore, is the aenigma of Tantalus ^, the perpetual thirst of a lover of pleasure, the streams of which accede and again depart, a reflux of desires with which bitter pains are mingled, together with tumult and fear. For pleasure when present is attended with the dread of its departure, and sorrow lest it should not arrive is occasioned by its absence. Hence it is necessary that he who pursues pleasure should be incessantly pained, and perceive no delight; but live a confused life, involved in abundant ob* scurity.
You see what a tyrant you give to the soul ; just as if, rejecting Solon, you should give Critias to the Athenians, or Pausanias to the Lacedssmonians, rejecting Lycurgus. But I, who am desirous ' of liberty, have need of law, have need of reason : these will preserve for me felicity, erect, unshaken, unattended with fear, and self-suf&cient ; and which is not groveling and subject to servile arts;
The aeQigma of Tantalus rather signifies the condition of a man >vho lives under the dominion of the phantasy ; but hit hanging over the lake, and in vain attempting to drink, indi^ elites the elusive and rapidly-gliding condition of such a'lifc^
through which, being impoverished, I collect the mighty emolument pleasure. Not by Jupiter, asking, like the Homeric beggar, swords and kettles^, but things still more absurd than these; food from Mithaecus, wine from Sarambus, a harp from Connus, a song from Melesias. And what will be the measure of these things ? what the boundary of the felicity of pleasures ? where shall we stop ? to whom shall we give the palm of victory ? what man is so blessed, so vigilant, and laborious that no pleasure is concealed from or escapes him, either by night or by day; but whose soul extends all its senses, in the same manner as the marine polypus its many hairs, that throughthese it may attract to itself on all sides every pleasure at once ?
Let us devise, if possible, the following image of a man who is happy from the felicity of pleasure : Let him be a spectator of the most pleasant colours, an auditor of the most delightful sounds ; let him also inhale the most agreeable odours, taste the most varied juices, be warmed with a bland heat, and at the same time engage in venereal pleasures. For if you give time and interval you separate pleasures and the senses, and thus mutilate felicity. For every thing which delights by its pr^ sence gives pain by its absence : and what soul can endure the influx of such a crowd of pleasures^ which afford no intermission, nor any respiration ? Is it not likely that the man would lead a most mu
aerable life, be desirous of some remission, and as* pire after repose ? For pleasure, long continued, produces pain : what then can be more incredible than a felicity which deserves to be pitied ? O Jupiter, and ye gods, the fathers and makers of the earth and sea, and of the progeny which they sup-, port ! what is this animal to which you have assigned this secondary place and life ? An animal so daring, rash, and loquacious, poor in good, destitute of operation, and who is fed and popularly allured by pleasures :
•* O had it died before it saw the light, Or died at least before the nuptial rite,
we may exclaim respecting this whole genus, if it has derived nothing froqi you better than pleasure.
But how can it be made to appear that it does not possess something better ? LfCt us answer for Jupiter with Homer : for it has indeed, intellect and reason, and its life is mingled from things immortal and mortal. Henpe it is an animal situated in the confines of both these, possessing a body from mortal inundation, but receiving intellect from the effluxion of the immortal nature. Pleasures, too, are the peculiarity of the flesh, but reason i» the property of intellect. And i3esh, indeed, is common to this genus with brutes, but its peculiarity is intellect. Here, therefore, seek the good ' pf iDan where the work of man subsists : but where
the instrument is, there is the work ; and where that is which saves, there is the instrument. Begin, therefore, from that which saves. Which is the saviour of the other, the body of the soul, or the soul of the body ? the soul of the body. You have found that which saves. What is the instrument of the soul ? intellect. Seek its work. What is the work of intellect ? prudence *. You have found the good of man. But if any one despises this part of man which prudentially energizes', and is a lover of divinity, to what shall I as* similate that disgraceful animal, I mean the flesh, intemperate, voracious, the friend of pleasures, and which wishes to be feasted ? to the following fable, by Jupiter :
Poets say that in Pelion there was a Thetalic race of men with monstrous bodies, which, from the navel downwards, consisted of the nature of a horse. In the inelegance of this arrangement there was every necessity that the beastly nature should be fed in conjunction with the human, that it should speak as a man, but be nourished as a beast, and love as a man, but copulate as a brute. It is well, O poets, and sons of poets, fathers of the ancient and geperous muse ! you have clearly exposed to our view the bond which unites us to
This word frequently means^ in Plato and Platonic writers, the habit of discerning what is good in all moral actions, and frequently signifies intelligence, or intellectual per* ception : it must be considered at implying both these in the present instance. For a further account of tliis virtue see the explanation of Platonic terms, in the first volume of my translation of Platp'i works,
pleasures. For when beastly desires have domi« nion in the soul, they preserve, indeed, the human appearance, but, through subserviency to their works, they cause him who uses them to appear a beast instead of a man. This the Centaurs, this the Gorgons, this Chimaera, Geryon, and Cecrops mgnify. Take away the desire of the belly, and you take away the beastly part of man : take away the desire of the genital parts, and you cut off the beast. But as long as these are preserved and nou* rished in conjunction with the other part, and this part assents to their will by its obsequious attends ance, their appetites must necessarily have domi« nion, and the squI must vociferate their words.
I
DISSERTATION XXXV.
THAT IT IS POSSIBLE TO DERIVE ADVANTAGE FROM ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES.
TT would be a dreadful thing if the gods had separated for men good from the association of evil, so that each might be unmingled with the other, distinguishing their natures in the same manner as night from day, light from darkness, and fire from water, each of which, if you are willing to bring to its contrary, and to mingle their difference in one common nature, you will corrupt the peculiarity of each. But men who willingly pursue a happy life of their own accord mingle with it misfortune. Hence, if some one of the gods should permit them to live in splendid and perpetual light, without sleep, and without the want of rest by night, they would be indignant with the sun for never departing, nor again giving place to darkness. Stop, however, lest, if you proceed any farther, variety should produce confusion. If it were possible that the eye of man could endure perpetual light, and if by any contrivance the sun should stop his circular course, so as al«
ways to be suspended above the earth, like a torch from a lofty summit^ sending down upon us his light; if this were the case, and the sun should stand still, and our eyes could endure to survey him incessantly, who would be so stupid, insane, and miserable in his love as to desire night and darkness, and indolence of the eyes, and throw away the body as if it were a corpse ? If, however, our eyes could endure perpetual wakefulness, or the sun should stand still, the love of light would not be the subject of prayer, but an association with night would be necessary.
In the same manner, also, does the love of good subsist : for the soul aspires after it : and why should it not ? and is hostile to evil : for why should it not ? But it is not possible for the soul to obtain with purity that which it desires, nor to avoid necessarily falling upon things to which it is hostile. I do not now*^ speak of a depraved soul, (for this is replete w^ith every vice, is destitute of good, is incredulous in hope, and insecure in prosperity,) but of one that is worthy and a partaker of prudence. Come, then, let us see whe* ther we may say that this soul, when it is in possession of virtue, will be able to be always conversant with a certain well-flowing of life and acme of prosperity*. Or is not this impossible to hu-
The human soul, from the middle condition of its beings is adapted alternately to ascend to divine and descend to mox^ tal natures. Hence it circulates infinitely, and is at one time an inhabitant of the intelligible and at another of the sensible world.
man nature ? For there are many things before our feet ; just as to a man running rapidly there are ditches and precipices, profundities and walls, into which he who is ignorant of the road, effeminate in the race, imbecile in leaping, and insecure in running, may, through terror, fall. But the brave man, who is strenuous in running, and skilled in the way, through strength runs rapidly, through skill without error, and through art with security. For he knows which road is smooth and safe and which is rough, and which it is necessary, indeed, to pass through, but is not the object of choice to the runner.
This, also, is what Homer obscurely signifies concerning life :
" Two tubs have ever in Jove's threshold stood *,"
says he, one of which is full of evil unmingled with good, but the other is mingled from both : 'for he nowhere says that there is a third tub in the abode of Jupiter consisting of pure good. But Jupiter drawing from these tubs, according to the verses of Homer, distributes from the one a strong and violent stream of unmingled evil, full of strife and contention, of tumult and fear, and often thousand other noxious and genuine evils. From the other, however, as Homer would say, he distributes a stream mingled from good and evil. But I, indeed, see the mixture, and am persuaded by what
he says ; but I wish to give a more auspicious tiame to the distribution of Jupiter: for it is as follows :
The virtue and the depravity of the soul are the fountains of Jupiter's tubs. Of these depravity, emitting a voracious and stupid stream, confuses and disturbs life, in the same manner as the impetuous efflux of a winter torrent rushing on the corn and plants, which is hostile to husbandmen, hostile to shepherds, and hostile to travellers, and is unfruit^ ful, un prolific, useless, and insecure. But the fountains of virtue make the whole life of the soul, in which they shine forth to the view, prolific, cultivated, and abounding with perfect fruit. Sweat, however, labour, and molestation, are necessary to the husbandman. For neither does the Egyptian confide in the Nile alone, nor does he dehver to it seeds till he has yoked the ox to the plough, till he has cut furrows in the soil, till he has abundantly laboured. After this he calls the river to his works* This is the mixture of the river with agriculture, of hopes with labours, and of fruits with molestation. Thus evil is mingled with good. If you please, dismiss the inauspicious, and know that the essence of good is not spontaneous to those who labour. If you would sail into the port you must take a pilot; not one unskilled in tempest, nor one who has never seen a storm, but one who has collected his art from many errors and an experience of evils. I, likewise, should not confide in a general who was always fortunate in his undertakings; but I should trust such a general as Nicias would
have been to the Athenians if he had returned safe from Sicily; or such a modest demagogue as Cleon would have been if he had returned from Amphipolis. But when I see the pilot and the general, the private man and the magistrate, an individual and a city prosperous, I distrust their prosperity, as Solon did Crcesus, as Amasis did Polycrates.
For Croesus possessed aland abounding in horses, and Polycrates a sea well-furnished with ships; but none of these was stable, neither the land to Croesus nor the sea to Polycrates. For Orcetes * took Polycrates captive, and Cyrus Crcesus. Hence, after long prosperity, there was a succession of collected evils. On this account Solon did not proclaim Croesus happy ; for he was a vnse man. Hence, too, Amasis left Polycrates, for he was secure. On this account, I also praise the life which has tasted of evils, but which has only tasted them :
' But the lips touching, leaves the palate dry f /'
and which possesses, indeed, virtue, but uses it in involuntary fortunes. For the most splendid of colours is dear to the eyes, but unless you conjoin with it a dark colour you mingle pain with the pleasure which it affords. But if you mingle adverse with prosperous circumstances you will in a greater degree perceive virtue and prosperity.
Thirst, indeed, prepares for the body the pleasure of drinking, hunger prepares for the body the
A satrap of king Darius. f Iliad xxii. rer. 59$.
pleasure of eating, and night prepares for the eyes the pleasure of the sun : man desires night after the sun 9 hunger after satiety, and thirst after intoxica* tion: and if you take away this mutation you make pleasure to be pain. Thus, also, Axtaxerxes, the Persian king, is said, through long peace and continual pleasure, not to have been conscious of his prosperity; though Asia prepared for him food, the most beautiful rivers sent him drink, and ten thousand arts devised for him a proper diet. When, however, war came to him from the sea, myriads of Greeks and skilful generals, being vanquished, he fled to a little hill, on which having rested for the night, the miserable man was, for the first time, thirsty, where there was no Choaspes, nor Tigris, nor Nile, nor cups, nor cup-bearers. Hence he rejoiced to receive from a Mardonian putrid water in a bladder, and then the miserable man knew what is the use of thirst, and what the pleasure of drinking.
Is there then a satiety of pleasure, and is there no satiety of prosperity ? There is, I think, and it is more troublesome than that of food and intozi<< cation. For neither could leisure be endured by Achilles, nor silence by Nestor, nor freedom from dangers by Ulysses. For Achilles might have lived in peace, reigned over the Myrmidons, cultivated the Thessalian land, and cherished Poleus in his old age. Nestor, also, might have peaceably reigned in Pylus, and have grown old in quiet; and Ulysses might have staid at home ip leafy Ne-
ritus, in a land the nurse of youth *, or might have remained with Calypso in her irriguous and shady cavern, with nymphs to wait on him, and without experiencing old age and death ; but he did not choose to be immortal, and indolent, and without exerting his virtue. For it is necessary that he who engages in virtuous energies should fall into human calamities, and frequently exclaim,
Endure, my heart, diou mightier ills hait borne f."
What memory, however, would remain of Ulysses, if you take away from him calamities ? what of Achilles, if you take away from him Hector and Scamander, and
'« Twelve ample cities captur'd by his ships X/'
and eleven taken by him on the continent ? For men celebrate Hercules as the son of Jupiter for no other reason than his association with evil, the antagonist of good. But if you take from him wild beasts and potentates, upward and downward journies, and all those dreadfril circumstances, you mutilate the virtue of Hercules, In the Olympic, indeed, and Pythian games, it is not possible for a man to receive the olive crown, or obtain the apple, who contends by himself in the dust, but antagonists are necessary to the cryer. But in the sta* dium of life, and the contest which is here, what
VOL* II. M
can be the antagonist to a worthy man except the experience of calamity ?
Come then, let us call our champions to the stadium. Who then shall we call from the Athe* nians ? Socrates, who contended with Melitus, and bonds, and poison. Who from the academy? Plato, contending with the anger of a tyrant *^ a great length of sea, and mighty dangers. Let, also, another Attic f champion approach, who contended with the perjury of Tissaphemes, the stratagems of Ariaeus, the treason of Meno^ and the assaults of a king %. It is also necessary for me that a champion from Pontus § should engage in a strenuous contest against bitter antagonists, poverty and infamy, hunger and cold. But I praise his exercises :
Himielf he tames with ignominious blows. And rags o'er both his shoulders careless throws H.
He did not, however, on this account, vanquish with difficulty. I crown the men, therefore, and proclaim them conquerors in the cause of virtue. But if you take away their contest with evil you deprive the men of thei^ crowns, you stop the voice of the cryer. Take away from the Atlieni* ans the course to Marathon, the death which hap
Viz, Dionysius. See the seventh epistle of Plato, in the fifth volume of my translation of Plato's works.
^ Xenophon.
t i, e. Of Artazerxes Mnemon, the elder brother of the younger Cyrus. See the whole history in Xenophon's bodu on the expedition of Cyrus. .
pened there, the hand of Cyoseginis, the calamity of Polyzelus *, and tile wounds of CalUmachus, and you leave nothing venerable to the Athenians, except the incredible fables of Erichthonius and Cecrops. Through this Sparta was for the most part free, because, even in peace, she did not give herself up to leisure. Those Laconic whips and blows, and a nation of evils f were mingled with the virtues.
He became suddenly blind from seeing a spectre too luminous for the eyes to endure. See his memorable history ia Herodotus vi, 117.
t This appears to have been a proverbial expression among the Greeks, in the same manner as an Iliad qf colli
DISSERTATION XXXVII.
THAT THE DISCOURSE OF A PHILOSOPHER IS ADAPTED TO EVERY SUBJECT.
TTT'HY is it that actors, in the festivals of Bacchus, at one time speaking in the character of Agamemnon, at another in that of Achilles, and again, at one time assuming the person of Telephus, or Palamedes, or some other which the drama requires, think that they do nothing erroneously or absurdly by thus appearing at different times to be different, though they are the same persons? But if some one, leaving the festivals of Bacchus to sport and the theatre, should think that he is concerned in a certain political drama, not composed, by Jupiter, from Iambics, by poetical art for one festive season, nor arranged by a choir into the harmony of verse, but consisting of the business of life, which will be a drama to the philosopher, more true in its subject, perpetual in time, and composed by divinity as the poet : if some one, engaging in this drama, and arranging himself as the first champion of the choir, should preserve, indeed, the dignity of the poem, but conform the manner of his speaking to the nature of the things which divinity has dramatically composed, would
not some one think that this man acted in a disorderly and clamorous manner, and that he was such a one as Homer narrates Proteus to have been, a marine hero, naturally multiform and all-various ? Or shall we say that, just as if the musical art and power were necessary to the felicity of man^ no attention would be paid to a man who was well harmonized according to the Dorian 'mode; but who, if it were requisite to be harmonized according to the flat CEolian mode, should become silent amidst the variety of voices with which the art abounds ?
Since, however, there is but little need to mankind of the song and the allurement from melodies^ and another more virile muse is necessary, which Homer delights to call Calliope, but Pythagoras philosophy, and others, perhaps, something else ; is it fit that the man who is possessed by this muse and this pursuit should be less harmonized with respect to abundance of sounds and modes than those songsters ; a man who always preserves the beauty of the poem, and is never embarrassed by silence ? For if there were any period of life in this long and continued duration, in which there was no need of the argmnents of philosophy ; or if human affairs, being co-arranged into one form, should proceed in a similar manner, neither passing to pain from pleasure nor to pleasure from pain, nor changing one calamity for another, the mind of every man varying and being rolled upwards and downwards; there would be no oc-
casion for this muse and harmony, the parts and the modes of which are so numerous. For
'< Such is the mind of all terrestrial meni As parent Jove diurnally imparts *•"
For the divine power consults for the conversion of human affairs, and the nature of them is diurnal. As, therefore, of thte rivers which everflowing fountains emit, one name is Sperchius, or Alpheus, or something else ; but the change produced by the accession of a new to the departing stream deceives the sight by the continuity of the motion, so that it appears to be one continued and united river ; in like manner the generation and supply of human afl^irs flow, as from a perpetual fountain, vehemently indeed, and with immense swiftness, but the motion is not perceived by sense, and the reasoning power is deceived in the same manner as the sight in beholding a river, and calls life one and the same. It is, however, a thing multiform and all-various, changed by many fortunes, many things, and many occasions. But reason preades over life, which is always fashioned by present circumstances, in the same manner as the art of th& physician, when exercised on the body, (which is not stable, but borne upwards and downwards, and agitated by evacuation and repletion) and governing its indigence and satiety. This also the discourse of philosophers is capable of efiecting in
human life, being co-adapted to the passions, mitigating sorrowful circumstances, and joining in the celebration of such as are more illustrious.
If, indeed, there was one order and one form through life there would be need of one reason and one method : but now there is one time for the harper to sing to the harp when the tables are full,
" The plenteous board high-heap'd with catet divine. And o'er the foaming bowl the laughing wine *."
There is also one time for the orator, when the courts of justice are crowded, and one time for the poet, in the festivals of Bacchus, when he stands in need of a choir ; but no peculiar time is appropri* ated to the discourse of the philosopher, since it is in reality connascent and mingled with life, in the same manner as light with the eye. For what can you conceive the work of the eye to be if you take away light ? And yet the sight assumes confi* dence in the night, though its vision is dull, and resembles manuduction in obscurity. But if you take away reason from the life of man he will be hurled down certain precipices, through noxious, imnuu nifest, and rough paths, paths such as are trodden by those barbarians who are destitute of reason^ some of whom live by plunder, others by acting as hirelings, and others by wandering. But, as if yx>u separate a shepherd from his flock, and take away his pipe, you dissolve the flock ; so if from the
Odyst. ix. ver, 9. The translation by Pope.
herd of men you take away this leader and collector reason, what else will you do than injure and dissolve the herd ? This herd, indeed, is naturally mild, but, from depraved nutriment, is persuaded with difEculty, and requires a musical shepherd, who does not punish its disobedience with the whip and the spar. For he who thinks that the philosopher should omit any opportunity of philosophising appears to me to resemble him who should assign one certain time to a man skilled in war, and well adapted to fight in armour, and to hurl the javelin from afar, both on horseback and in a chariot ; thus depriving him of all the use and fortune of war, a thing unstable and ambiguous.
A champion, indeed, in the Olympian may be permitted to neglect the Isthmian games, though, even here, indolence is disgraceful ; for the ambitious soul cannot easily endure to be prevented through idleness from engaging in every contest, and from partaking not only of the. Olympian olive, but also of the Isthmian pine, the Argolic parsley, and the Pythian apple ; though she does iiot engage in these contests for her own sake, but, through dwelling and associating with the body, she also enjoys its victory and the proclamation of its triumphs. But where the labour and the contest and victory are of the soul alone, will she here neglect the season of contending, and be voluntarily indolent where neither apples nor olives are the reward, but, instead of these, that which is more beautiful with respect to ambition, more useful
with respect to the advantage of the beholders, and more efficacious to the speaker with respect to the fideUty of life ? The times, too, and the places of this contest, which are various and suddenly proclaimed, spontaneously collect together all Greece, which assembles not for the pleasure of the eyes, but with the hope of virtue, which, in my opinion, is more allied to the soul of man than pleasure. In other spectacles, therefore, where strength or art of body are displayed, we may see that no one of the spectators comes with an intention of emulating or imitating the spectacle ; but there, indeed, we collect pleasure for the eyes from the labours of others, and no one, from among ten thousand spectators, would pray to be one of those who are defiled with dust, or who run, or strangle, or are strangled, or struck in the middle of the stadium, except some degenerate and servile soul. But here I think this contest is more liberal than that, these labours more useful than those, and this theatre* more sympathetic than that ; so that there is no one who is present, and endued with intellect, that would not rather pray to become a champion than a spectator.
What then is the cause of this ? that not every fleshly nature can endure the arts and labours of tlie body ; nor is this a voluntary thing, but spontaneous and casual, and which arrives but to a few from among the many. For it is necessary either
That is, the philoiophic school in which this discourse was delivered.
to be born with magnitude of body, like Titormus*, or with the power of endurance, like Milo, or with strength, like Polydamas, or with swiftness, like Lasthenes. But he who is less strong than Epeus, more deformed than Thersites, shorter than Tydeus, and heavier than Ajax, and who possesses all the defects of the body in the ag« gregate, and yet is emulous of this contest, indulges a vain and imperfect desire. The contests of the soul, however, subsist in a manner directly contrary to these; for those among the human race who are not naturally adapted to this are but few and rare. Not, indeed, that the virtues of the soul are spontaneous and casual, but something is previously effected by nature, which, with respect to virtue, has the relation of a small foundation to a great wall, or a little keel to a lofty ship. Divinity, too, has associated with the reasonings of the human soul love and hope, the former as a certain light and sublime wing raising and giving levity to the soul, and enabling her appetites to obtain the objects of their pursuit ; and this wing is called by philosophers human impulse. But hopes, associating with the soul, impart consolation to her impulses ; and these are not, according to the Attic poet, blind, but, perceiving most acutely, they do not suffer her to be wearied in labouring, as if she had entirely obtained the objects of her love. For if hope had no subsistence, the man intent upon
A shq)herd of ^tolia, called another Herculei, on ac* count of his prodigious strength.
gain would long since have desisted from accumulating wealth, the mercenary would long since have ceased to engage in war, the merchant to sail, the robber to plunder, and the man of lust to commit adultery. Hopes, however, do not suffer this, which command men to labour in things impossible, and which can never be completed : for they order the man intent on gain to labour as one who will accumulate wealth, the warrior to fight as one who will conquer, the merchant to sail as one who will escape the perils of the se*/, the robber to plunder as one who will be enriched, and the adulterer to commit adultery as one who will elude detection : and this though a sudden calamity overwhelms each of these, which deprives the man intent on gain of his wealth, slays the mercenary, drowns the merchant, apprehends the robber, and detects the adulterer, and though appetites destroy them together with their hopes. For divinity did not comprehend in measure, or assign a boundary to any one of these, neither to wealth nor pleasures, nor any other of hu*. man desires ; but the essence of them is infinite ; so that he who pursues these becomes more thirsty from being filled with them, in consequence of that which is obtained being less than what was expected. But when the soul arrives at a thing, stable, unambiguous, and definite, which is beautiful, indeed, by nature, but acquured by labour, apprehended by reasoning, pursued by love, and anticipated by hope, then the contest of the soul is fortunate, obtains its end, and is victorious:
and this is nothing else than that for the sake of which those who philosophize fill with auditors these theatres.
Again, however, I am in want of the image of champions : for there each prays that no other combatant may enter the stadium, but that he may obtain the victory without dust ; for it is necessary that one from among the many should conquer ; but here, he among the champions is especially victorious who calls many to the contest. FjQT if, O ye gods! some one of my spectators should become a champion together with me, and should be a partaker with me in this seat of dust and labour, then should I be renowned, then should I be crowned, then should I be celebrated by the voice of the cryer in the presence of all Greece : since hitherto I acknowledge myself to have been uncrowned and uncelebrated by the cryer though you vociferate. For what advantage have I derived from a multitude of arguments and this continued contest ? praise ? I have enough of this. Glory ? I am satiated with the thing. In short, is there any one who praises arguments, and does not use them, though he possesses speech, though he possesses the sense of hearing ? Is there any one who praises philosophy and does not embrace it, though he has a soul, though he has a master ? The thing, indeed, is just as it is with flutes or harps, or any other instruments which are employed in tragedies or comedies at the festival of Bacchus ; for they are praised by all, but ioii* tated by none.
Or here, also, there is a mighty difference between praise and pleasure. For all that hear are delighted ; but he who praises in reality will also imitate, though while he does not emulate he will not praise. Now, indeed, some one unskilled in music, on hearing the harmony of the flute, becomes musically disposed, and having the flute still sounding in his ears, he remembers the song and sings to himself. Some one of you, also, may emulate the manner in which this man is aflfected ; for perhaps he may be enamoured of the song. A man, who was a lover of animals, was in possession of birds, who sang, indeed, sweetly the morning song, but indistinctly, and in such a manner as might be expected from birds. A player on the flute was the neighbour of this man, and the birds daily hearing him practising on the flute, and their hearing being fashioned to its harmony, answered him with their song ; and, at length, when he began to play on the flute, they at the same ^ime warbled like a musical band. Will not men, therefore, in imitation of birds, join us in the song, when they frequently hear, not rude melody produced from the flute, but intellectual words, distinct, prolific, and naturally well adapted to imitation ? So that I, who hitherto have been silent to all men with respect to our concerns, and have said nothing venerable nor boastful either in private or in public, now appear to myself, for your sake, to speak most superbly and boastfully. You are supplied, O young men ! with an apparatus of words, diffuse, manifold, and all«prolific, which pervades to
all ears and to every nature, and which emulates all the forms of diction and disciplines, not recondite, gratuitous, not divulged, unenvying, and situated in the very middle, to those who are able to apprehend it. Whether, therefore, some one is a lover of rhetoric, this course of words is at hand, is abundantly sufficient, easy and elevated, admirable and infrangible, strong and unwearied ; or whether he is a lover of poetry, let him come hither, procuring elsewhere measures alone, but receiving here whatever else pertains to poetry, the magnificent, the conspicuous, the splendid*, the prolific, the divinely inspired, the disposition of the argument, the composition of the fable, the exuberant in diction, and the irreprehensible in harmony. But are you a lover of the political science, and do you come indigent of the apparatus pertaining to the people and the senate-house? You, indeed, have detected the work, you see the people, you see the senate-house, the speaker, the persuasion, and the strength which it possesses. If, however, any one despises these things, and embraces philosophy, and honours truth, here I withdraw my boasting, I yield, I am not the same with myself. The thing is great, and requires a patron ; not from among the vulgar, by Jupiter, nor one of a groveling soul, or which is mingled with the manners of the multitude.
If, therefore, any one asserts that philosophy consists in nouns and verbs, or in the arts of diction, or in confutations, contentions, and sophisms, and the converse with these, it is not difficult to
find a preceptor. Every place is full of such like sophists ; the thing is obvious, and rapidly presents itself to the view. I will also be bold to say, that there are more teachers than disciples of this philosophy. But if these things are indeed small parts of philosophising, and of such a nature that it is disgraceful not to know them, and yet the knowledge of them is not venerable ; by knowing these we shall avoid disgrace, but we shall derive no glory from their possession : for if this were the case, those who teach the rudiments of literature, who are busily employed about syllables, and who stammer with the most stupid of boys, would be worthy of great regard. That, however, which is the principal thing in philosophy, and the path which leads to it, require a preceptor who can ele^ vate the souls of youth, govern their ambition like a pedagogue, and who does nothing else than measure their appetites in conjunction with pleasures and pains ; just as those who tame horses neither extinguish the ardour of the colts, nor suffer them to exert their generous impulse without restraint. And as the bridle and the whip, together with the art of the horseman and charioteer, govern the ardour of a colt ; in like manner discourse, not indolent, nor sordid, nor negligent, but mingled with the manners and passions, governs the soul of man ; not affording leisure to its auditors to investigate words, and the pleasure they contain, but compel-, ling them to be elevated, and to energize enthusiastically, as if excited by a trumpet at one time
calling to battle, and at another sounding a retreat.
If a discourse of this kind is necessary to those who are desirous of philosophy, we should explore and embrace the man who possesses it, whether he be old or young, poor or rich, without glory or renowned. For old-age is, I think, more imbecile than youth, poverty than wealth, and the privation of than the possession of renown. But men who have these defects easily associate with philosophy, to which the calamities of fortune are ministrant as viatica. And because, indeed, Socrates was poor, the poor man will immediately imitate Socrates, so that we shall derive advantage from the fiat-nosed and big-bellied*, not being the champions of philosophy. But that Socrates betook himself only to the poor, and not also to the rich, is related by no one. For Socrates thought, as it appears to me, that the city of the Athenians would derive but little advantage from ^chines and Antisthenes philosophising, or rather, that no one of those who then existed would be benefitted, but posterity alone, from the memory of their discourses* If, however, Alcibiades, or Critias, or Critobulus, or CaUias had philosophised, nothing dreadful would have befallen the Athenians of that time. For philosophy is not emulous of Diogenes with his scrip and staff, since he who is furnished
Such was Socrates, whence he was said to resemble SU lenus. See the Banquet of Xenophon, and my translation of the speech of Aldbiadei in the Banquet of Plato.
with these may be more unhappy than Sardanapalus. Aristippus, indeed, who was clothed in purple, and perfumed with ointments, was not less temperate than Diogenes. For just as if some one should have acquired a power of body, by which he would sustain no injury from fire, he would, in my opinion, be confident of safety, even though his body was committed to the flames of Mtm ; in like manner, he who is well furnished against pleasures will not, when engaged in them, either be heated, or burnt, or dissolved.
A philosopher, however, is to be investigated, not from his habit, nor his age, nor from fortune, but from his sentiments, his discourse, and thefurniture of his soul, by which alone he is elected ; but all these other decorations, which are derived from fortune, resemble the vestments in the festivals of Bacchus. For the beauty of the poems is one and the same, whether he who recites them is a potentate or a servant ; but the necessity of the drama changes the garb of the actors. Agamemnon wields a sceptre, a herdsman wears a hide, Achilles bears arms, and Telephus * is clothed in rags, and carries a scrip. The spectators, however, no less regard Telephus than Agamemnon : for the soul is extended to the poem itself, and not to the fortunes of those who recite it. Thus, also, conceive respecting the discourses of philosophers, that their beauty is not all-various, nor distributed
Telephus was a king of Mysia^ son of Hercules and Auge, the daughter of Aleus.
VOL. II. N
into a multitude of parts, but is one and similar to itself; and that the champions themselves are sent into the scene of life clothed by fortune in different garbs ; Pythagoras, indeed, in purple ; Socrates in a lacerated garment; Xenophon with a corselet and shield ; and the champion from Sinope, after the manner of Telephus, with a staff and scrip. The garbs themselves, however, contribute to the dramatical perforhiance of the actors ; and on this account Pythagoras astonished, Socrates confuted, Xenophon conquered, and Diogenes reprobated : blessed were the actors of the dramas, and blessed the spectators that saw them act. Where now shall we find a poet and champion, neither inelegant nor dUqib, but worthy to enter on the Grecian theatres ? Let us seek the man, for perhaps he may appear, and, when appearing, may not be disgraced.
DISSERTATION XXXVII.
HOW A MAN OUGHT TO PREPARE HIMSELF WITH
RESPECT TO A FRIEND.
/^ AN you tell me who those are whom Homer de* lights to call men resembling the gods, divine, and equal in wisdom to Jupiter ? What others than those most excellent men, Agamemnon, Achilles, and Ulysses, and any other who supplies him with a portion of praise ? But what, if he had not compared them to Jupiter, but either to Machaon the physician, or Calchas the prophet, or Nestor skilled in horsemanship, or Menestheus skilled in tactics, or Epeus the carpenter, or the beautiful Nireus ? Would you not be able to inform me what was the cause of this comparison ? Or do you there, indeed, know the similitude, but here know that they resembled Jupiter ; and do you praise the assimilator for his image, but are ignorant of the assimilation ? Come, then, I will narrate the affair to you, for Homer, in prose ; for I am not a poet. Homer, therefore, calls Jupiter the father of gods and men*, not because descend-
Jupiter is called by Homer the father of gods and men, because, according to the Grecian theology, he is the demiurgus or fabricator of the universe.
ing from heaven, and at one time resembling a bird, at another time gold, and at another something else, he had connexion with mortal women :
" First the seeds scattering of illustrious kings."
For thus Jupiter would have been the parent of very few, but ascribing to him the being and preservation of these genera, he calls him father, a name the most ancient of those which belong to friendship.
Be it so : and let these particulars respecting Jupiter be admitted. Do you think, however, that the circumstances which pertain to those that resembled Jupiter subsist otherwise? or do you not see that neither do poets compare Salmoneus to Jupiter, though he hurled thunder, as he thought, and imitated its sound, and the blaze of lightning ? But Salmoneus in thus acting resembled Thersites imitating Nestor. How then do men become similar to Jupiter ? By imitating his saving power, his love, and paternal regard. This is the similitude of mortal to divine virtue, which by the gods is denominated Themis and Justice, and is called by other mystical and divine appellations, but is denominated by men friendship and benevolence, and certain other benignant and human names. The nature of man, indeed, is indigent of divine virtue in other respects, and also in the extension of friendship. For the mortal nature does not pervade to every thing similar, but, like the herds of cattle^ becomes familiar alone with those of the same flock: and we must be content if it is familiar
even with the whole of this. But now you will see in one flock, and under one shepherd, many seditions and discords, some pushing with their horns, and some biting each other, so that scarcely any sparks of genuine friendship remain. And food, indeed, drink and clothing, and such other things as are necessary to the body, men procure by exchange and retribution from brass and iron, and those venerable metals gold and silver ; though they have it in their power to bid farewell to the metallic art, and receive these things from each other without labour, by employing a measure the most equitable of all things. For he who is indigent may receive that of which he is in want from him who possesses it, and he who is in affluence may impart what is wanted, receiving in exchange that of which the retribution is blameless.
Homer, indeed, blames the Lycian Glaucus for giving gold and receiving brass, and for exchanging the'worth of a hecatomb for the worth of nine oxen. If, however, neglecting the value of these, we judiciously measure the reciprocal gifts, the thing will be equivalent. But now all things are full of traffic, merchandize, and bitter compacts ; in the forum, at sea, and on shore, foreign and in the city, provincial and transmarine. Hence the sea and the land are turned upwards and downwards, things uninvestigable are investigated, such as are unapparent are explored, such as are remote pursued, and such as are rare imported ; treasures buried in the earth are dug up, and chests are filled with riches. This, however, is owing to
distrust of friendship, the love of avarice, the fear of want, the custom of depravity, and the desire of pleasure ; through which friendship being expelled, and profoundly merged in the earth, scarcely preserves an obscure and imbecile vestige of itself. Hence if, either among the Greeks or Barbarians, things existed in common, unguarded, and most abundant, through the rarity of possessions, this circumstance is celebrated by poets, is considered as fabulous, and its veracity is doubted ; and, in* deed, very reasonably.
Thus a Grecian fleet, consisting of a thousand ships, and a multitude of men, the flower ci Greece, who dwelt in the same habitation and used the same food, came to Asia, and lived for tea ]i*ears opposite to barbarian enemies. But the fame of these deeds failing into the verse of Homer, he could only relate one instance of accurate friendship in such a numerous army and such a length of time, that of a Thessalian youth with a Locrian man ^ ; tiian which there is nothing in tlie narrations of Homer more delightful with respect to pleasure, more alluring to virtue, or more re* nowned with respect to memory. Every thing else in Homer, if you attentively consider it, consists of war and rage, of threats and anger ; and the end of these things is lamentations andgroai^, death, slaughter, and destruction. An Attic narration, also, is celebrated, which becomes illus> trious from friendship* Among, the numeroos
writings of the Athenians, this one thing is worthy of Minerva and worthy of Theseus, the beautifal and just friendship of worthy men, which armed both with a common sword against a tyrant ^, and gave to both a common standard and a common death. Besides this, no advantage is to be derived from Attic friendship, but every thing else is fraudulent and futile, incredible and corrupt, accompanied with envy and ^nger, illiberality, avarice, and ambition.
If, also, you peruse the rest of the Grecian history, you will perceive an abundance of lamentable narrations, man contending with man, city with city, and family with family ; not only the Doric with the Ionic, and the Boeotian with the Attic, but also the lonians attacking the lonians, and the Dorians, Boeotians, Athenians, Thebans, and Corinthians, respectively contending with each other ; enemies allied to each other and companions, all rising against all, though living under the same sun, in the same air, and under the same law, speaking the same language, inhabiting the same lands, eating the same fruits, and initiated into the same mysteries, and whom one wall and one city incloses : all these you will see engaging in war, and forming leagues ; swearing, and violating their oaths; making and dissolving compacts, and, for small pretexts, becoming the causes of the greatest evils. For when friendship abandons the
This tyrant was Hipparchus, and the friends were Aristogiton and Harmodius.
mind, every thing becomes the occasion of exciting anger and introducing perturbation j just as a ship when deprived of its ballast is agitated and overturned by a small preponderance.
By what mean then can a man who is a lover of friendship obtain this possession ? It is diffioult indeed to say, but at the same time it must be told :
As men with lions form no Ikithful leagues. Nor lambs with wolves possess according souls *.
So neither is there any attraction of friendship bc^ tween man and man as long as their eyes are dazzled with silver and gold. And if they withdraw their sight from these, this forbearance is not sufficient to the acquisition of friendship, but the beauty of some male or female form again disturbs. And even though you should shut your eyes to these, yet the people of the ruagnaninious Erectheus is comely to the viewfy and the proclamations in public assemblies, together with the renown resulting from them, is a light thing, and rapidly wings its way through every land. Should you likewise despise this, yet you will not despise a prison ; and though you should endure fetters, yet you will not despise approaching death. But it is necessary to pass by many pleasures, and to look stedfastly at many labours, in order to obtain a possession which is equivalent to all pleasures, and equipon-
t These are the words of Socrates in the first Alcibiades of
derant with all labours ; a possession more honourable than gold, more stable than the flower of beauty, more secure than glory, more true than honour ; a possession voluntary and self-announced ; a possession which is justly praised ; a possession which, though it should bring with it pain and employment, yet delights the sufferer from the memory of the cause.
This possession, however, is most rare, but the
image of it is at hand and is all various ; swarms of flatterers and dissemblers, possessing friendship on the tip of their tongue, not conducted by benevolence, but compelled by indigence, and who are hirelings and not friends. From this evil you will never be liberated as long as men think that friendship consists in remuneration. Friendship, indeed, is attended with remuneration, though the multitude do not perceive it either privately or in public ; for if they did they would lay aside their arms, and bid farewel to the arts of military commanders, to the fabrication of arms, the crowd of mercenaries, the delivery of standards, fortifications, and camps, but they would willingly receive leagues from Jupiter himself, though he should not proclaim the truce in Olympia nor from the Isthmus, but should vociferate from heaven,
'* Ah ! stop my friends, and suffer me to go Where sorrow calls *,"
to save you, and not to behold you injured by each other. But now engaging in diurnal leagues for a
period of thirty years they obtaid a r6fk)se from evils obscure and not entirely safe, till^ another pretext occurring, all things are again tnrbulently i^tated upwards and downwards. And even though they should lay aside their arms and act peaceably, another war falling on the soul, which is not public but private, and which brings with it neither fire nor sword, nor a fleet of ships, nor horses, but is destitute of all these ; this war injures the soul, and besieging, fills it with envy, anger, rage, contumely, and ten thousand other evOs.
Where then shall any one turn himself, and what truce shall he find ? what Olympian, what Nemean league ? The Athenian Dionysia and Panathenaea are indeed beautiful ; but they celebrate these festivals hating and being hated. You speak of a war and not of a festival. The Gjrmno* psedisB * also, the Hyacinthea f, and the choirs among the Lacedsemonians, are beautiful; but Agesilaus envied Lysander, Agesipolis hated Agis, Cinadon formed stratagems against the kings, Phalanthus against the Ephori, and the Partheniae^
This was a Spartan festival, in which those who celebrated it were entirely naked.
f An annual solemnity at Amiclx^ in Laconia, in honour of Hyacinthus and Apollo.
{ A certain number of young men under age, during the Messenian war, were permitted to have promiscuous inter* course with all the unmarried women of Sparta, in order to raise a fiiture generation. The children who sprang from this unioa were called Parihenitt, or sons of virgins.
against the Spartans. I cannot believe in the festival till I see that those are friends by whom it is celebrated. This is the law and manner of a true league, arranged by the legislator divinity, without the possession of which friendship cannot be seen, not even though a man should frequently make libations, not though he should frequently be enrolled among the Olympian, Isthmian, and Nemean conquerors* It is necessary that the proclamation and the league should proceed into the soul * .but as long as the war in the soul is without a truc!e and without a public cryer, the soul remains without friendship, hostile and sorrowful. These are avenging daemons, these are the furies, dramas, and tragedies. Let us pursue the league, let us call Philosophy : she will come, she will bring with her the reconciling league, she will proclaim peace.
DISSERTATION XXXVIII.
WHETHER STATUES SHOULD BE DEDICATED TO
THE GODS.
nPHE gods are the helpers of mankind, all indeed of all ; but different gods are considered as giving assistance to different men, according to the rumour of names ; and men distribute honours and statues to them according to the private benefits which they have individually received. Thus sailors dedicate, on a rock undisturbed by the sea, a helm to the marine deities. Thus, also, some shepherd dedicates in honour of Pan a tall fir tree or a profound cavern. Husbandmen, likewise, honour Bacchus, fixing in their gardens a spontaneous trunk as a rustic statue. Fountains of water, too, hollow thickets, and flowery meadows, are sacred to Diana : and the first men consecrated as statues to Jupiter the summits of mountains, such as Olympus and Ida, or any other mountain proximate to the heavens. Honour also is paid to rivers, either for the sake of the benefit which they impart, as by the Egyptians to the Nile; or on account of their beauty, as by the Thessalians to Peneus; or on account of their magnitude, as by the Scythians to thelster; or on account of fabu-
lous tradition, as by the ^tolians to Achelous; or according to law, as the Spartans to Eurotas ; or in conformity to the mysteries, as the Athenians to Ilissus. Shall, therefore, rivers be allotted honours, according to the indigence of those whom they benefit, and shall every art honour its patron deit}'^, dedicating a different statue to a different god ? but if there is a certain race of men, not marine, nor rustic, but inhabitants of cities, and mingled with the political communion of law and reason, will divinity be ungifted, and unhonoured by these ? or will they honour him, indeed, but with words alone, and think that the gods have no need of statues and altars ? For the gods are not more in want of these than good men are of images.
Indeed, it appears to me as external discourse has no need, in order to its composition, of certain Phoenician, or Ionian, or Attic, or Assyrian, or Egyptian characters, but human imbecility devised these marks, in which inserting its dullness, it recovers firom them its memory ; in like manner a divine nature has no need of statues or altars ; but human nature being very imbecile, and as much distant from divinity as earth from heaven, devised these symbols, in which it inserted the names and the renown of the gods. Those, therefore, whose memory is robust, and who are able, by directly extending their soul to heaven, to meet with divinity, have, perhapSy no need of statues. This race is, however, rare among men, and in a whole nation you will not find one who recollects divinity, and who is not in want of this kind of assistance.
which resembles that devised by writing-masters for boys, who give them obscure marks as copies; by writing over which, their hand being guided by that of the master, they become, through memory, accustomed to the art. It appears to me, therefore, that legislators devised these statues for men, as if for a certain kind of boys, as tokens of the honour which should be paid to divinity, and a certain manuduction as it were and path to reminiscence.
Of statues, however, there is neither one law, nor one mode, nor one art, nor one matter. For the Greeks think it fit to honour the gods from things the most beautiful in the earth, from a pure matter, the human form, and accurate art: and their opinion is not irrational who fashion statues in the human resemblance. For if the human soul is most near and most similar to divinity it is not reasonable to suppose that divinity would invest that which is jmost similar to himself with a most deformed body, but rather with one which would be an easy vehicle to immortal souls, light, and adapted to motion. For this alone, of all the bodies on the earth, raises its summit on high, is magnificent, superb, and full of symmetry, neither astonishing through its magnitude, nor terrible through its strength, nor moved with difficulty through its weight, nor slippery through its smoothness, nor repercussive through its hardness, nor groveling through its coldness, nor precipitate through its heat, nor inclined to swim through its laxity, nor feeding on raw flesh through its fero
city, nor on grass through its imbecility ; but is harmonically composed for its proper works, and is dreadful to timid animals, but mild to such as are brave ; it is also adapted to walk by nature, but winged by reason, capable of swimming by art, feeds on corn and fruits, and cultivates the earth, is of a good colour, stands firm, has a pleas^ ing countenance, and a graceful beard. In the resemblance of such a body the Greeks think fit to honour the gods.
With respect to the Barbarians, all of them in like manner admit the subsistence of divinity, but different nations among these adopt different symbols. Hence the Persians adopt fire, a diurnal statue, insatiable and voracious ; and to this they sacrifice, supplying it with the aliment of fire, and at the same time exclaiming, O sovereign ruler fire J eat. To the Persians, however, we may properly say : *^ O most stupid of all nations, who, neglecting so many and such mighty statues, the mild earth, the splendid sun, the navigable sea, prolific rivers, the nourishing air, and the heavens themselves, are especially devoted to one thing, and that most savage and most rapid, not only supplying it with the aliment of wood, with victims, and aromatic fumigations, but by this statue and by this god giving Eretria to be consumed, together with Athens itself, the temples of the lonians, and the statues of the Greeks."
I also blame the law of the Egyptians. They honour an ox and a bird, a goat and the progeny of the river Nile, whose bodies indeed are mortal.
their lives abject, their sight groveling, the cultivation of which is ignoble, and the honour which is paid to them disgraceful. A deity among the Egyptians dies, a deity is lamented*, and they show the temple and the sepulchre of a god. And the Greeks, indeed, sacrifice f to good men, yrhose virtues they honour, but are unmindful of their calamities ; but among the Egyptians, divinity is equally a partaker of honour and tears. An Egyptian woman nursed a young crocodile, ahd the Egyptians proclaimed the woman blessed, as being the nurse of a god : some of them also adored both her and the young crocodile. This woman had a son, who was now a lad, and of aa equal age with the god, his playfellow, and with whom he had been nursed. And the god, indeed, as long as he was imbecile, was mild, but when he grew large he manifested his nature and devoured the boy. The miserable woman, however, proclaimed her son blessed in his death, as having be« come a gift to a domestic god. And thus much for the affairs of the Egyptians. But Alexander the Great, having captured Persia,
Maximus here alludes to the image of Osiris.
+ The Greeks sacrificed to good men in conformity to the Pjrthagoric precept, in the golden verses, which commands honour to be paid to the terrestrial heroes ; i, e, to men who by their transcendent virtues are proximately allied to essential heroes, the perpetual attendants of the gods. To such men at these appropriate honour is to be paid, as well during their abode on the earth as after their death. Markland, from not attending to this, erroneously conceived the meaning of Maxi** mus in this place to be uncertain and ambiguous.
vanquished the Babylonians, and made Darius his prisoner, marched to the land of the Indians, which bad tin then been inaccessible to a foreign army, as the Indians said, exccipt to that of Bacchus. The Indian kings Porus and Taxiles were at that time hostile to each other : and Alexander, indeed, made Porus his captive, but gave friendly assistance to Taxiles. Hence Taxiles showed to Alex-> ander all that was wonderful in the land of the Indians, its greatest rivers, various birds, fragrant plants, and whatever else was novel to Grecian eyes* Among these also he shewed him a prodigious animal, a statue of Bacchus, to which the In« dians sacrificed. This animal was a dragon, five hundred feet * in length, and was .nourished in the hollow recess of a profound precipice, surrounded by a lofty wall which reached above its summits. This drc^on devoured the herds of the Indians, who supplied him with oxen and sheep for food, as if he had been a tyrant rather than a god.
The Hesperian Lybians inhabit a land narrow and long, and 6n aU sides surrounded by the sea^ for the external sea being divided about the summit of this neck embraces the land with numerous and marine billows. To these men Atlas is a tem« pie and a statue. But Atlas is a hollow mountain, of a great altitude, open to the sea like theatres to the air ; and in the middle region of the mountain
According to £lian, however, in his History of Animili^ XV, 21. the length of this dragon was seventy cubits,
VOL. II. O
iiid the sea there i^ a deep vttUey, fertile and weU planted with trees. la this valley yoa may see fraits hanging on the trees, which, when surveyed iroin the summit, appear to be as it weife at the bottom of a well ; but it ia neither possible to dc^ scend into it, for it is precipitous, nor lawful. The prodigy in this place is the ocean, which »• undates the shore, and not only pours on the plains but crowns Atlas itself with its waves. Yoiu siiay also see the water rising by itself like a wall, and neither flowing into the hoUow places nor supported by the land ; but between the mountain and the water there is much air and a hollow grove* This is the temple and deity, the oath and statue o£ the Lybians
The Celta, indeed, venerate Jupiter, but the Celtic statue of Jupiter is a lofty oak. The Psbonians venerate the sun, but the Pseqnic statue of the sun is a short discus fixed on the top of a long pole. The Arabians, indeed, venerate a god
whom I do not know ; but the statue of him which
I have seen is a quadrangular stone. By the Paphians Venus is honoured ; but you cannot compare her statue to any thing else than a white pyramid, the matter of which is unknown. Among the Lycians the mountain Olympus enic* tates fire, not like that of ^tna, but peac^l and possessing symmetry : and this fire is to them a temple and a statue. The Phrygians who dwell about Celaena venerate two rivers, Marsyas and Meeander, which rivers I have seen. One fountain is the source of these, which proceeding as far
as to the mountain disappears at the back of the city, and again emerges from the city, separating both the water and the names of the rivers. And Mseander, indeed, flows to Lydia, but the waters ofMarsyasare consumed about the plains. The Phrygians sacrifice to these rivers, some indeed to both, but others to Maeander, and others to Marsyas alone. They also throw the thighs of the victims into the fountains, invoking by name the river to which they sacrifice ; and these thighs are carried as far as to the mountain and merged under the water. The things too which are sacrificed to one of these rivers are never carried by the stream into the other ; but if the sacrifice is to both these they divide the gift. A mountain is to the Cappadocians a god, an oath, and a statue ; a lake to the Maeotse; the Tana>'s to the Massagetse.
O many and all-various statues ! of which some are fashioned by art, and others are embraced through indigence; some are honoured through utility, and others are venerated through the astonishment which they excite ; some are considered an divine through their magnitude, and others are celebrated for their beauty ! There is not, indeed, any race of men, neither Barbarian nor Grecian, neither maritime nor continental, neither living a pastoral life, nor dwelling in cities, which can endure to be without some symbols of the honour of the gods. How, therefore, shall any one discuss the question whether it is proper that statues of the gods should be fabricated or not? for if we
were to give laws to other men recently sprung from the earth, and dwelling beyond our boonda* ries and our air, or who were fashioned by a certain Prometheus, ignorant of life, and law, and reason, it might, perhaps, demand consideration whether this race should be permitted to adore these spontaneous statues alone, which are not fashioned irom ivory or gold, and which are neither oaks nor cedars, nor rivers nor birds, but the rising sun, the splendid moon, the variegated heaven^ the earth itself and the air, all fiire and all water ; or shall we constrain these also to the necessity of honouring wood, or stones, or images ? But if this is the common law of all men, let us make no innovations, let us admit the conceptions concerning the gods, and preserve their symbols as well as their names.
For divinity *, indeed, the father and fabricator of all things, is more ancient than the sun and the heavens, more excellent than time and eternity, and every flowing nature, and is a legislator with-
The intellectual philosophers of antiquity hj the word ^tof, God, either denoted the highest god, or all the gods ; because, according to the ancient theology, all the divine powers which proceed from the fint God are concentred and rooted in him, so as to form as it were one divine orb in which the union of these divinities with each other and their ineffable principle is most transcendent, and at the same time their separation from each other surpasses every conceivable mode of distinct subsistence. Let it be observed, however, that Jupiter is properly the fabricator and father of all things ; and that, accordmg to Plato, the highest god is superior to a /abncative energy.
out law, ineffable by voice, and invisible by the eyes. Not being able, howfever, to comprehend his essence, we apply for assistance to words and names, to animals and figures of gold, and ivory and silver, to plants and rivers, to the summits of ^lountains, and to streams of water ; desiring, indeed, to understand his nature, but through imbecility calling him by the names of such things as appear to us to be beautiful. And in thus acting we are affected in the same manner as lovers, who are delighted with surveying the images of the objects of their love, and with recollecting the lyre, the dart, and the seat of these, the circus in which they ran, and every thing, in short, which excites the memory of the beloved object. What then remains for me to investigate and determine respecting statues ? only to admit the subsistence of deity. But if the art of Phidias excites the Greeks to the recollection * of divinity, honour to animals
From this passage, as well as from many othen which might be adduced from ancient authors, it is evident that the ancients in general considered statues merely as symbols of a divine nature, to the recoUection of which they might be excited through these as media, lliat the reader, however, may more fully see the reasons which induced the ancients to venerate statues, I shall present him with the following admira* ble observations on this subject, by the philosopher Sallust, in his golden treatise on the gods and the world. See p. 73 of my translation.
'* A divine nature is not indigent of any thing ; but the honours which we pay to the gods are performed for the sake of our advantage. And since the providence of the gods is everywhere extended, a certain habitude or fitness is all that is requisite in order to receive their beneficent communications. But all habitude is produced through imitation and similitude ;
the Egyptians, a river others, and fire others, I do not condemn the dissonance: let them only know, let them only love, let them only be mindful of the object they adore.
and hence temples imitate the heavens but altars the earth; statues resemble life, and on this account they are similar to animals. Prayers imitate that which is intellectual^ but characters superior ineffable powers. Herbs and stones resenible matter^ and animals whKih are sacrificed the irrational life of our souls. But from all these nothing happens to the gods beyond what they already possess; for what accession can be made to a divine nature ? but a conjunction of our souls with the gods is by these means produced."
DISSERTATION XXXIX.
IF SOCRATES DID WELL IN NOT DEFENDING HIMSELF BEFORE HIS JUDGES^.
TT would be a dreadful thing that each of the Other arts should be liberated from the tribunal of the multitude, and that neither the pilot who gives assistance to the ship, and properly employs his art, should be corrected by the unskilful, nor the physician endure that his prescriptions, his methods of cure, and his precepts respecting diet should be surveyed and scrutinized by the diseased, and that neither the potter, nor the shoemaker, nor those who exercise arts still more ignoble than these, should have any other judge of their works except art ; but that Socrates, who was not accused of ignorance even by Apollo himself, to whom the number of the sands and the measures of the sea are known, should not yet be freed from calumnies and accusations, but that he should be
Many of the ancients, however, composed apologies for Socrates, two of which are still extant, those of Plato and Xenophon ; the former of which philosophers was present at the condemnation of Socrates, and has, doubtless, preserved the substance of what he then said.
perpetually attacked by more bitter sycophants than Anytus and Melitus, and the Athenian j^idges of that period. And yet, if he had been a painter or a fabricator of statues, such as2^uxis, or Polycletus, or Phidias, the opinion of art would have transmitted his works to posterity with renown. For men, on surveying the productions of these artists, are so far from defaming, that they do not even dare to examine them, but are the voluntary encomiasts of renowned spectacles. Should there, however, be a man who is not a good manual artist in painting, or in the fabrication of statues, but who well harmonizes his life, and according to the most accurate standard, by reason and law, custom and frugality, endurance and temperance, and the other virtues ; shall this man neither obtain stable renown, nor indisputable praise, nor according judges, but be subject to the various decisions of different persons ?
Such, however, ^was Socrates, the subject of our present discourse, whom Melitus accused, Anytus led to judgment, Lycon pursued, the Athenians condemned, the eleven magistrates bound, and the executioner put to death. Socrates, however, looked down upon Melitus accusing him, despised Anytus leading him to judgment, derided Lycon when declaiming against him, decreed contrary to the decree of the Athenians, passed sentence on himself in opposition to their sentence ; and when tbe eleven magistrates bound him he resigned his body, for it was more imbecile than many bodies i
but he did not resign his soul| for it was superior to all the Athenians: nor was' be indignant with the executioner, nor did he hesitate to take the poison ; but though the Athenians unwillingly condemned him he willingly died. That he voluntarily diedy indeed, this is a sufficient argument, that though he had the power of redeeming himself by a fine, and of privately escaping, yet he preferred to die ; and that the Athenians were unwilling he should die is proved from their repentance immediately after, than which what circumstance more ridiculous could have happened to the judges ?
Do you, therefore, desire to consider still further whether Socrates was right in thus acting or not ? What then will you say if some one should narrate to you, that there was an Athenian very much advanced in age, in his pursuits a philosopher, from fortune poor, naturally skilful, eloquent, acute in his conceptions, vigilant and sober, one who neither did nor said any thing rashly, and one who had for the encomiasts of his manners not the most naturally depraved among the Greeks, but among the gods, Apollo himself; if some one should narrate to you that this man , through the envy and hatred of those that rose against him, and their rage towards things truly beauti-^ ful ; of Aristophanes, indeed, from the theatre, of Anytus from among the sophists, of Melitus from among the sycophants, of Lyco from among the rhetoricians, and of the Athenians among the
I
Greeks, the first of whom reviled him in comediesy the second composed a written accusation against him, the third brought him to a court of justice, the fourth spoke against him, and the fifth judged him ; that this man was in the first place indignant with Aristophanes, and in the midst of the Athe« nians reviled him in the festivals of Bacchus, while the judges were intoxicated; and, in the next place, when he came into the court of juftice, that he contended with his accusers, and delivered a long qpeech in defence of himself, in order that his apology might avert the minds of the judges from the calumnies of his adversaries, exciting the court to benevolence by his prefatory harangues, persuading by his narrations, demonstrating by arguments, by credibility, and by conjecture, and producing as witnesses certain wealthy persons, and who were approved by the Athenian judges themselves; in the conclusion, likewise, c^ his speech, supplicating, imploring, and beseeching, and accompanying all this with seasonable tears; and that, in the last place, he exhibited to the view ct the court Xantippe lamenting, and his children crying ; by all which circumstances he so influenced the judges that they commiserated, adquitted, and dismissed him ?
O illustrious victor ! he would, doubtless, have
betaken himself from the court of justice to the
. Lyceum, and from thence again to the academy
and to other places of disputation, full of hilarity,
like those who have been saved from a vnnter tem-
pest at sea. But haw could Philosophy endure such a man as this returning to her ? not more than the master of the bodily exercises of boys could endure a champion returning from the stadium, perfumed with ointment, crowned without sweat, without dust, without blows, and without a wound, and possessing no vestige of virtue. Besides, on what account should Socrates have apo>- logized to those Athenians ? As to just men ? but they were unjust. As to intelligent men ? but they were stupid. As to good men ? but they were depraved. As to benevolent men ? but they were enraged. As to men like himself? but they were most unlike. As to better men ? but they were worse. And what better man will apologize to a worse man? what, likewise, could he say in apolpgizing ? that he did not philosophize ? But he would have spoken falsely. Or that he did philosophize ? But this was the thing for which they were enraged.
Let us, however, by Jupiter suppose that he said none of these things, but that it was requisite he should free himself from the accusation, and prove that he neither corrupted the youth nor introduced novel divinities. But what artist can persuade one i^skilled in art respecting things which pertain to art ? and whence could the Athenians understand in what the corruption of yoi^th consists, and what virtue is ? what divinity is, and how he is to be honoured? For the thousand judges, who are elected by a bean, do not inves-
tigate these tbingB, nor has Solon writteD any thing concerning them, nor the venerable laws of Draco; but citations and accusations, examinations, and oaths respecting calumny, and er^ery thing of this kind are discussed in the Hdisa * ; just as among the herds of boys there are battles and verbal contentions about their dice, which they take from each other, and mutually injure and are injured. Truth, however, virtue, and an upright life require other judges, other laws, and other orators, in which Socrates vanquishes, and b crowned and celebrated.
Would not, therefore, an old man and a philosopher contending with boys about dice be ridiculous ? Or what physician could ever persuade a man in a fever that hunger and thirst are good ? or who can persuade an intemperate man that plea^ sure is a base thing ? or a man addicted to gain that he aspires after nothing good ? For if thiswere possible it would not have been difficult for Socrates to have persuaded the Athenians that the study of virtue is not the corruption of youth, nor the knowledge of the gods illegality about divine natures. , For either they knew these things together with Socrates, or he knew, but they were ignorant of them. And if, indeed, they knew them^ what occasion was there of arguments to those that possessed this knowledge ? but if they were igno-
This was the greatest and most celebrated tribunal of the Atheniaoi, the judges of which were called Heliastft
rant of tbem they were not in want of an apology but of science. For witnesses, credibility, arguments, conjectures, examinations, and other suchlike particulars confirm other apologies, in order that what had till then been unapparent in the court of judicature may become manifest. Of virtue and probity, however, there is but one defence,— the reverence of these, whichbeing at that time expelled from Athens, what need had Socrates of an apology ?
By Jupiter, that he might not die. But if this IS the thing which is principally to be avoided by a good man, Socrates should have been careiul not only not to make an apology to the judges of the Athenians, but also not to incur the hatred of Melitus, nor to confute Anytus, nor to be hostile to the errors of the Athenians, nor to wander round the city, mixing with all the fortunes, and arts, and pursuits, and desires of men, being a common, bitter, and inexorable censor, uttering nothing humble, nothing fawning, nothing servile, nothing abject to any one. If, indeed, a soldier despises death in battle, and a pilot in the sea, and every artist desires to die well in the exercise of his art, shall it be proper for a philosopher todesert his station, and abandon his labours, and through the love of life to throw away virtue like a shield in battle ? But thus acting what judge would praise him ; or who could endure Socrates standing in the court of justice humble and dejected, and begging the hope of life from others ? for this would have been
the form of his apology. Or was it requisite that he should say nothing humiliating, nothing sub*- missiyei nothing abject, but that he should speak i&eely and in a maimer worthy of a philosopher ? iBut in this case you do not tell me of an apology but of the suscitation and inflammation of anger. For how could a depraved court of justice, democratic, intemperate through power, unacquainted with freedom of speech, and conversant with perpetual flattery, endure such an apology ? Not more than a banquet of the intemperate can endure a man who removes the bowls, leads away the female players on the pipe, takes off the crowns, and causes intoxication to cease. Socrates, therefore, was securely silent when he was not permitted to speak in a becoming manner ; by this mean preserving virtue, repressing anger, and procuring bitter disgrace for those who condemned him, he being silent.
An apology, therefore, was certainly very necessary to the Athenian judges of that time. For Socrates was seventy years of age, and in him philosophy and virtue flourished continually: his life also was blameless and siane, his mode of conduct sincere, his conferences useful, and his daily associations beneficial. These, however, did not exempt him from a court of justice, a prison, and death. But would the permission to speak for a little time, and that measured by the dial, have acquitted Socrates ? This, however, was not possible, nor, if it had been possible, would Socrates have acceded to
it. O Jupiter, and ye gods forbid it ! for this would be just as if some armed flattere^^ from among a number of military associates, should attempt to persuade the Spartan Leonidas to with^ draw himself immediately, from battle and not ex^ pose himself to the attack of Xerxes. Fpr h^ would not follow the advice of this man, but would rather choose to die with virtue and his arms, than living to show his back to a barbarous king. What else then would the apology of Socrates have been, than the turning his back, flying from blows, and a specious timidity ? He stood firm, therefore, received the attack, and acted the part of a strenuous combatant. The Athenians, however, fancied they had condemned him, just as Xerxes fancied he had vanquished Leonidas. But Leonidas, indeed, died, and Xerxes was conquered : and Socrates died, but the Athenians were condemned ; and their judge was divinity and truth. But the accusation of the Athenians by Socrates was this : The Athenian people act unjustly in not believing in those gods in which Socrates believes, but introducing certain other novel divine powers. For Socrates believes that Jupiter is Olympian, but the Athenians Pericles * ; Socrates believes in Apollo, but the Athenians decreed contrary to the decision of the god. The people also act unjustly in corrupting the youth : for these corrupted Alcibiades, Hipponicus, and
"^ Maximus thus speaks because the Athenians gave thesumame of Olynipius to Pericles.
Critias, and ten thousand others. O true accusa* tion, just court of judicature, and bitter sentence ! Pestilence and war from Peloponnesus were the consequence of impiety towards Jupiter. Decelia, the ill-fortune in Sicily , and the calamities in the Hellespont, were the consequences of the corruption of the youth. Thus divinity judges, thus does he condemn.
DISSERTATION XL,
WHAT SCIENCE IS *.
'IX/'HAT is this by which man differs from brute ? and what is it by which divinity differs from man ? I, indeed^ think that men are superior to brutes through science but inferior to the gods through folly : for divinity is wiser than man, and man is more scientific than brute. Do you therefore think that science is any thing else than wisdom t ? by Jupiter I do not, no more than life differs from life, which is common to the mortal and immortal nature, and which is equal in qua
Science, coniidered according to its first subsistence, which is in intellect, is the eternal and uniform intelligence of eternal entities; but in partial souls, such as ours, it is a perception of eternal beings by the dianoetic power of the soul, or that power which reasons truly, deriving the principles of its reasoning firom intellect. Hence science in the human soul is a perception, neither eternal nor uniform, because it is transitive, and accompanied with the intervention of oblivion. See my translation of the Theaetetus of Plato, in which this subject is most accurately discussed.
t Wisdom is the intellectual perception of the principles of things, and those incorporeal natures or ideas resident in deity, which are the luminous paradigms of the sensible world. Hence science is not properly the same as wisdom, for the latter subsists as the vertex of the former, and has the same relation to it as intellect to the reasoning power.
VOL. II. P
lity, but differs in length and shortness of dura* tion. For the life of divinity is eternal *, but of man diurnal. As, therefore, if there was a certain power in the eyes of always seeing, of continually extending the sight, and receiving the impulse of light, and the sight had no need of the covering of the eyelids, nor of sleep for repose, nor of the night for quiet ; to such eyes vision would be common with this sight of the multitude but would differ in perpetuity; in like manner science being something common, divine science at the same time differs from that which is human. And divine science, indeed, we shall perhaps hereafter discuss ; but let us now proceed to that which is more known, and consider what it is for man to possess scientific knowledge, to know, to learn, and what other such like particulars are, which when we adduce we attribute a certain habit of contemplation to the soul.
Shall we, therefore, say, that every thing which sense, collecting by a gradual survey (this being denominated by us experience) introduces to the soul, ratiocination after this being impressed by experience as by a seal, shall we say that this is science ? My meaning is this : the first men not having yet seen a ship, but being desirous of associating with others of their own species, being
The life, however, of divinity, as being eternal, has nothing in common with temporal duration, though infinitely extended ; for eternity, as it is beautifully and profoundly defined by Plotinus, is infinite life, at once total and full, in which there is nothing either of the past or the future^
likewise led by necessity, but restrained by the sea, saw a bird that had descended from the air swim, or some heavy substance rapidly carried on the top of the waves, or a tree borne along from a river into a tempestuous sea. Perhaps, also, some one being unwillingly driven into the water, and moving his limbs, escaped drowning; and perhaps, also, some one tried this in sport. But experience, collecting together the conceptions of sailing, at first constructed a certain vile raft, men binding together light materials, and thus forming a rude ship* Sense, however, gradually proceeding in conjunction with reason, devised and invented a hollow vehicle which might be impelled by oars, swim through sails, be driven by the winds, and directed by a rudder, and committed the safety of this vehicle to the piloting science alone. They say, also, that medicine was at first discovered as follows*. The domestics of a sick man carried him into the public road and there left him ; but the passengers enquiring of him the nature of his malady, if any of them had found benefit froni certain food, from cauterization, or incisions, or the endurance of thirst, they severally applied these to the sick man ; and the similitude of disease collecting the memory of that which gave relief, in a short time produced science from the aggregate. Thus, also, the art of the builder, the brazier, the weaver, and the painter originated, each deriving its subsistence from the manuduction of experience.
Be it so : let us say that science is this, the cus«
tdm of the soul with respect to any human Workd or pursuits. Or does not this also extend to brutes ? for sense and experience do not constitute the peculiarity of man; but brutes also perceive and learn something from experience, and thus become partakers of a portion of wisdom. For cranes departing firom Egypt in the summer season, in consequence of not being able to endure the heat, extend their wings as if they were sails, and are borne through the air directly to the Scythian lands. As the body of this animal , however, is not adapted to orderly motion, but the middle parts have a gravitating tendency, those about the neck are long, those about the tail light, about the wings slender, and about the feet divided, it fluctuates in flying like a ship in a tempest. The crane, however, knowing this, either from sense or experience, does not begin to fly till she has put a stone into her mouth which may serve her instead of ballast in flying. St^s, too, in the summer season, swim from Sicily into Calabria*, about Rhegium, through the desire of food. As the stag, however, from holding its head above water through such a length of sea must lose its strength, they relieve their weariness as follows : they swim arranged under one as their leader, following each other like an army drawn up in or* der, each resting his head on the side of the stag that precedes him. But when the leader of the
I have supplied the word Calabria from the vertiQii of Paccius.
band is weary he is transferred to the place pT'the last, and another takes the lead, and Another brings up the rear ; just as in armies Xenophon brings up the rear, and Chirisophus * is the leader, so that these animals are studious of military ar« rangement.
May we not, therefore, say, that not sense and , experience are the characteristics of man, but that his peculiarity is reason ? and that science is nothing else than a stability of reason uniformly proceeding to the same object, investigating things allied, distinguishing things dissimilar, comparing such as are similar, conjoining such as are appropriate, dividing such as are confused, separating such as are foreign, co-arranging such as are without arrangement, and harmonizing such as are unharmonized. Such, indeed, are arithmetic, geometry, and music, and other disciplines, which being unindigent of manual operation, have acceded to human conceptions, and received their completion through the force of reason. Homer, indeed, who is a man both ancient and worthy of belief, does not call these the most ancient of the sciences, but admires those alone as wise men,
' Who public structures raise, or who design ; Those to whose eyes the gods their ways reveal, Or bless with salutary arts to heal ; But chief to poets such respect belongs f."
Maximus here alludes to the third book of Xenophon't Expedition of Cyrus, cap. ii. 25. 26.
t Odyss. xvii. ver. 385. The translation by Pope ^
O equality of honour ! A prophet, therefore, is wise, and an architect is wise, and a physician is wise ; and Apollo, Esculapius, and Phemius * are similarly to be honoured. Does not Homer, therefore, ascribe honour to the sciences rather from the invention than the use of them? We must not, however, investigate in this manner, but we should speak as follows : The soul of man is the most easily moved, and the most acute of all things, and being mingled from the mortal and im* mortal nature, according to its mortal part is coordinated with the brutal nature ; for it nourishes f and increases, moves and perceives according to sense. But according to its immortal part it is conjoined with divinity ; for it energizes intellect tually, reasons and learns, and possesses scientific knowledge. As much, too, of the mortal nature as is conjoined with the immortal, so much of it is called prudence, subsisting as a medium between science and sense. Hence the employment of the soul, so far as it is irrational, is sense ; but so far as it
I have followed the version of Paccius here in preference to the conjectures of Davis and Markland ; as it did not appear to me to be necessary that Maximus, because he had cited some lines from Homer, in which four artists are mentioned, should immediately after mention all the four. Such conjectures as these are surely nothing more than hypercriti' cisms,
f Markland conjectures that for r^i^u and xivu it nou» rishes and moves, we should read in the passive sense T^i^erai xa» TuvuTOLk, it is nourished and mooed* But what need is there, O first of verbalists ! of this alteration ? for is it not the jrrational part of the soul which nourishes and moves the body?
is divine, intellect ; and so far as it is human, prudence. And sense, indeed, collects experience, prudence reason, and intellect stable certainty; but the harmony resulting from all these I call science. If, however, what we have said requires an image, let sense subsist according to the manual operation in the tectonic art *, intellect according to geometry, and prudence according to the architectural art, which subsisting as a medium between geometry and the tectonic art ranks as a certain science with respect to manual operation, but in stable certainty is inferior to geometry.
Science, too, prudence, and experience, are allotted among themselves the powers of man. And experience, indeed, being busily employed about fire and iron, and other all-various material subjects, collects for the necessities of life the opulence of the arts. But prudence, which possesses authority in the passions of the soul, and governs these by the energy of reason, has, indeed, with respect to experience, the relation of science ; so far as experience being conversant with a thing which is neither stable nor definite, is fashioned by its dubious nature. Intellect, however, being that which is most honourable and most ruling in the soul, is like law in a city ; not, indeed, that law which is written in tables, or engraved in pillars, or established by decrees, or constituted by an assembly, or celebrated by the people, or approved by a court of justice, or ordained by Solon
t. e. The art pertaining to operations in wood.
or Lycurgus ; but that law of which divinity is the legislator, a law unwritten, the honour of which does not subsist from suffrage, and the authority of which is innoxious : this alone will be law ; but other things which are called laws are false opinions, errdneous and fallacious. By those laws Aristides was exiled, Pericles was fined, and Socrates died ; but through this divine law Aristides was just, Pericles good, and Socrates a philosopher. The work of those laws is democracy, courts of justice, assemblies, the fury of the people, the corruption of demagogues by gifts, all-va« rious fortunes, and calamities ; but the work of this law' is liberty and virtue, a life without pain, and secure felicity. Through the mandates of those laws courts of justice are collected, three-^ ranked gallies are filled, fleets are equipped, the land is laid waste, the sea is infested with war, JEgina is subverted, Decelia begirt with a wall, Melus * is destroyed, Plateae is captured, Sicyon enslaved, and Delos obliterated ; but through these laws virtue is collected, the soul is filled with disciplines, a house is well inhabited, a city is governed by equitable laws, the land and sea enjoy peace, nothing is sinister, nothing inhuman, no« thing barbaric ; all things are full of peace and amicable leagues, of science and philosophy, and harmonic reasons.
O laws more ancient than laws ! O legislators
Melusy according to Stephanus, is one of the islands of the Cyclades, and has a city of the same name.
more mild than legislators! to which he who willingly submits himself is free and opulent, and fearless of diurnal laws and stupid judges. If, however, there are some men who act illegally and insolently towards these laws, they suffer punishment, not in consequence of being condemned by the Athenians, or led to prison by the eleven ma« gistrates, or of receiving poison from the executioner, but they are immediately punished from spontaneous and voluntary depravity :
They to destruction for their crimes are doom'd *."
Alcibiades for transgressing this law was unfortunate, not when the Athenians called him from Sicily, nor when he was devoted by the public cryers and the Eumolpidas, nor when he fled beyond Attica. These are trifles, these punishments may be easily despised, (for Alcibiades flying was superior to those who stayed at home, since, when exiled, he lived among the Lacedaemonians with renown, surrounded Decelia with a wall, was the friend of Tisaphernes, and the general of the Peloponnesians) but the true punishment of Alcibiades was far more ancient, originating from a more ancient law and more ancient judges. When he left the Lyceum, was condemned by Socrates, and proscribed by philosophy, then Alcibiades was exiled, then he was taken prisoner. O bitter condemnation, implacable execration, and lamentable wandering! The Athenians, indeed, afterwards
entreating received him ; but philosophy, science^ and virtue remain inaccessible and irreconcileable to those whom they have once exiled. Such, then, is science, and such is ignorance.
But I also call the laws of Minos science, which Jupiter taught for the space of nine years, which Minos learnt, and which made the race of the Cretans happy. I also call the virtue of Cyrus royal science, which Cyrus, indeed, taught, but neither Cambyses, nor Xerxes learnt. For Cyrus was the leader of the Persians in the same manner as a shepherd of his sheep, preserving and nourishing the flock, warring on the Medes, capturing Babylon, and permitting no barbarous and rapacious wolf to be mingled with the flock. But Cambyses, and afterwards Xerxes, from good shepherds became base wolves, fleecing the flock and expelled from science. I also call the laws of J^ycurgus harmonic science.
DISSERTATION XLI.
WHICH ARE THE MORE NOXIOUS DISEASES, THOSE OF THE BODY OR THOSE OF THE SOUL.
A CERTAIN ancient verse is sung in the form of a prayer :
' Oldest of th' immortal pow'rs ! Grant, for what remains of life, That I, O Health I may dwell widi thee *.'
But I would ask the maker of the verse, what this health is which he invokes in prayer to come and dwell with him ; for I, indeed, suspect that it is a certain divine thing and worthy of prayer ; since it would not rashly and casually have been celebrated in song, and still continue to be sung. If, then, it be a thing of this kind, such as I suspect it to be, let reason itself answer us for the poet. For as there are two things in the harmonious composition of man ; viz. soul and body, if disease was not natural to the soul, this verse would cer-
This is the beginning of that Paean which the Sicyoniai^ Ariphron composed m praise of health* The whole of it is ej^^ tant in Athenaeus^ lib. zv. p. 702.
tainly be the prayer of the body, which is naturally adapted both to be diseased and to be in a healthy condition. But if both are similarly mingled together by nature for the most beautifiil purpose, and at the same time are disturbed through the insolence of the members, when something in them vindicates to itself unjust prerogative, like the people or a tyrant in a city, so that other things are impeded, and the symmetry of both is injured ; and if also we denominate both of them avarice, the one of the soul, the other of the body, each with respect to itself being similarly indigent of health; but with respect to its neighbour nt>t being arranged according to equality of appella^ tion ; if this be the case, to the symmetry and salvation of which of these two shall we give the name of the most ancient of the blessed immortals ? But that we may survey the disease of each from its contrary, and see which is the greater evil to man, let us discuss the whole affair as follows :
Man consists of soul and body, the former of which governs and the latter is governed, in the same manner as in a city. The governor, also, and the governed are similarly parts of the city. ^ This being the case, which of these parts by acting ill injures the city? In a democracy the people is diseased, but Pericles is in an healthy condition, and a good ruler remedies the disease of the people. The Syracusian Dionysius is diseased with a tyrannic distemper, but the people, though healthy, are imbecile with respect to salvation. Are you willing, therefore, to consider the body
as analogous to the people, but the soul as analogous to a potentate? behold, therefore, and compare the resemblance. Is the people to be more esteemed than the governor, and the soul than the body * ? The pe6ple, however, is stupid, and this is likewise >the case with the body. The people is manifold, loquacious, and abundantly pa5- sive, and this is alsd the rase with the body. The people is coilipOsed from many and all-various dissimilafs, and such likewise is the body. The people is a thing rapid in impulse, strong in desires, dissolute in pleasures, sorrowful in pains, severe in anger : and these also are the passions of the body ; for it is agitated by desire, is rash, aspires after pleasure, and is impetuous. Let us also compare ruler with ruler: the ruler in a city is most authoritative, .most honourable, and most powerful, and the same also may be said of the soul in man. The ruler is naturally most thoughtful and ratiocinative, and this also is true of the soul. The ruler acts from his own authority, and this is likewise the case with the soul. These things, therefore, thus subsisting, which shall we say is the more noxious disease both in man and in a city ?
Is not the more excellent part, when diseased, more noxious to the whole ? for though the people is sick, yet if the ruler is well the city still preserves its liberty, but if the ruler is sick the city
I have made this sentence interrogative^ the sense, as it appears to me, requiring it.
is enslaved. In short, the soul is move honourable than the body, and the good of that which is more honourable is a greater good. But the contrary to a greater good is a greater evil, and the health of the soul is a greater good than the health of the body. The disease of the soul, therefore, is a onreater evil than the disease of the body. The health' of th ■ -body, indeed, is the work of art, but the health of the soul is the work of virtue. The disease of the soul is depravity, the disease of the body is calamity : depravity is voluntary, calamity involuntary. Things involuntary are the subjects of pity, such as are voluntary of hatred. Assist^ ance too is given to the subjects of pity, but the subjects of hatred are punished: and things to which assistance is afforded are more excellent than those that are punished
Again, consider health in each of these. The one is unindigent, the other indigent of all things* T'he one supplies felicity, the other imparts infelicity. The one is without any portion of evil, the other falls into depravity. The one is perpetual, the other diurnal health. The one is stable^ the other unstable. The one is immortal, the other mortal. Consider also the diseases. The disease of the body is easily removed by art, the disease of the soul is with difficulty cured by law. The one, through the sorrow which it brings, renders its possessor more obedient to the remedy, but the other, entirely dissolving its possessor, prepares him to despise the laws. The gods afibrd assistance to the one, but they hate the other.
There are no wars through the disease of the body, but there are many through the disease of the soul. No one through bodily disease acts the part of a sycophant, or plunders sepulchres, or is a robber, or perpetrates any other mighty evil. The disease of the body is noxious only to its possessor, the disease of the soul is noxious also to its neighbour.
Survey, however, what is said more clearly as follows, from a political image. A pestilence invaded Athens under the magistracy of Pericles, a democratic city, flourishing from the multitude of its inhabitants, the magnitude of its dominion, the power of its riches, and the great number of its generals. This pestilence, originating from JEthiopia, descending through the land of the kingf ended in Athens, where also being established, it destroyed the city, A war from Peloponnesus, also, was combined with the accession of this evil. However, though the land was laid waste, the city destroyed, the bodies of its inhabitants consumed, its power wasted, and the whole country become desperate, yet there was one man, Pericles himself, who was as it were the soul of the city, and who, remaining free from disease and in a healthy condition, raised and renovated the city, and opposed himself both to the pestilence and the war. Survey, likewise, the second image. When the pestilence ceased, the people were restored to health, and power regained its vigour, then the ruling part of the city laboured under a dreadful disease, and which bordered on
insanity t this disease invaded the multitude, and compelled the people to partake of the malady* For did not this people partake of the insanity of Cleon, the disease of Hyperbolus, and the ardour of Alcibiades ; and did they not at length waste away, become involved in error, and perish, together with their demagogues ? Different persons calling on the miserable city, from different places,
" Approach, dear nymph I and deeds divine survey *."
And Alcibiades, indeed, pointed out to them Si-^ cily, Cleon Sphacteria, and some other a different land or sea, just as if they were showing fountains | and wells to a man in a fever. These, O base men ! are your divine works, destruction, and subversion, the acme of evils, and the inflammation of disease. This also the disease of the soul is capable of effecting when compared with the disease of the body. The body is diseased, disturbed, and corrupted, but if you place over it as a ruler a robust soul it will pay no attention to the disease and will despise the evil f. In this manner
t The greatest discipline, says Plotinus, in hh book on Felicity, always resides with the good man, and is perpetually at hand, and this more so, though he should be placed in the bull of Phalaris, which is ridiculously called pleasant, when twice or frequently pronounced. For what is there pronounced in agony is pronounced by that which is placed in torment, the external and shadowy man, which is far different from the true man (the rational part of the soul) who dwelling by Jiimself, so far as he necessarily resides with himself, never ceases from the contemplation of universal good." See p. 45 of my translation of five books of Plotinus.
Pherecydeii despised it when lying in Syrus, his fleshy indeed, being in a corrupt state, but his soul standing erect, and expecting the liberation from this cumbersome vestment.
I, indeed, should say, that neither is the cor-> ruption of the body unpleasing to the generous soul. Just as if you conceive a man in chains, who, while he sees the wall of his prison decaying and crumbling in pieces, waits for the egression and liberation from his bonds, that, from the abundant and profound darkness in which he has hitherto been buried, he may survey the aetherial regions and be filled with splendid light. Or do you think that a man who has been well exercised, and who has strenuously laboured with his body, would be disturbed in consequence of his garments being torn ; and that he would not willingly throw them away, and deliver his body to the air, the naked to the naked, the friend to the friend, and the free to the free ? what else, then, do you think this skin, these bones, and this flesh are to the soul than a diurnal robe and slender and effeminate rags ? these the sword cuts, fire liquifies, and ulcers consume. Hence the worthy soul, that has been inured to labour and exercise, desires to be divested of these with the utmost celerity ; so that some one, on surveying a generous man diseased in body, may exclaim, in the language of the suitors to Ulysses,
' See what a hip the old -man's rags disclose * I"
VOL. II. a
But the degenerate soul being buried in body, as some sluggish reptile in its place of retreat, loves its den, and is never willing to be liberated from, nor to creep out of it ; but when the body is burnt it burns with it, is dilacerated when it is torn in pieces, is pained when it is in pain, and when it bellows exclaims.
says Philoctetes. Leave it, O man ! and do not bellow, nor revile your dearest friends, nor disturb the land of the Lemnians :
' O death ! of evils the physician f-"
If you thus speak, being about to exchange evil for evil, I do not accept the prayer : but if you I
think in reality that death is the physician of, and liberator from, this evil, insatiable, and diseased thing the body, you think well : pray and invoke the physician.
My discourse, however, brings me to a more manifest example, which I have for some time been desirous of exhibiting to you. For among the Greeks, during the Trojan war, there were myriads of bodies, as numerous
' As leaves and flowers, the progeny of spring %," all healthy, without disease, strong, and entire,
From the Philoctetes of iEschylus.
t This, too, is from the Philoctetes of ^schylus. See also the liippolytus of Euripides.
and spreading round the wall of the enemy ; yet for nearly the space of ten years they accomplished nothing, neither Achilles by pursuing, nor Ajax by standing firm, nor Diomed by slaughtering, nor Teucer by discharging his arrows, nor Agamemnon by counselling, nor Nestor by speaking, nor Calchas by prophesying, nor Ulysses by his crafty harangues. But divinity said to them : ** O beautiful and generous progeny of the Grecian land ! ye labour in vain, and in vain pursue, discharge your arrows, and consult ; for you will never capture this wall till a man comes as your helper, whose soul is, indeed, robust, but his body diseased, offensive to the smell, lame, and emaciated." The Greeks were obedient to the god, and led from Lemnos a man ^, as their associate in battle, whose soul was healthy, but his body diseased.
If you are willing, also, consider the adair by transferring a diseased soul into a healthy body. The soul is distempered with the disease of pleasure, dissolves, and wastes away. What will you do with this diseased man ? of what advantage is the body to such a soul ? Sardanapalus laboured under this disease. Do you not see that the evil proceeded to the body itself? Hence the miserable man is rubbed and made smooth, wastes away through his eyes, and at length, being no longer
Philoctetes. See Homer's Iliad, ii, ver, 721. andHygin .
able to endure the disease, he destroys himself by fire. Alcibiades, also, was diseased: a fire abundant and fierce consumed him, disturbed his reason, so as to render him nearly insane, and impelled him everywhere, from the Lyceum to the assembly of the people, from the assembly to the sea, from the sea to Sicily, from thence to Lacedaemon, afterwards to Persia, from Persia to Samos, from Samos to Athens, from Athens again to the Hellespont, and everywhere. Critias was distempered with a bitter and alUvarious disease, which could not be cured ^ and which the whole city could not endure. The bodies, however, of these men were healthy and entire: for Sardanapalus was robust, Alcibiades beautiful, and Critias strong : but I hate the health of these men. Let Critias be so diseased that he may not tyrannize ; let Alcibiades be so diseased that he may not lead the Athenians to Sicily ; let Sardanapalus be diseased^ for it is better that he should die through disease than through pleasure ; or, rather, let every one perish into whom depravity flows with a perpetual stream. For as ulcers of a creeping kind, when they attack the body, make continual advances, always corrupt some sound part, and are hostile to remedies, till art cuts away the foundation and seat of the disease ; in like manner an ulcerated, corroded, and putrid soul continually infects whatever is proximate to it with its malady. Hence the powers of the body must be cut off and taken away from it, in the same manner as hands from a
robber, eyes from the lascivious, and the belly from the glutton. For, though you should appoint judges, prisons, and executioners for this disease, yet the evil prevails, and creeps, and mocks all such attempts. For the acrimony of depravity is incurable, when it has once occupied the soul, and obtained for its subject-mavtter fearless licence and unpunished audacity.
ADDITIONAL NOTES.
VOL. n.
p. 63. 1. 1 . — In the cavern ofTrophonius, too. The follow* ing remarkable account of this cavern is given by Pausanias. The narration is peculiarly interesting and valuable, because Pausanias was himself a spectator of what he relates.
" When any one desires to descend into the cave of Trophonius, he must first take up his residence, for a certain number of days, in a building destined to this purpose. This building is a temple of the Good Deemon, and of Good Fortune, While he stays here he purifies himself in other respects, and abstains from hot-baths. The river Hercyna is used by him for a bath: and he is well supplied with animal food from the victims which are sacrificed. For he who descends hither sacrifices to Trophonius and his sons ; to Apollo, Saturn, and Jupiter the king ; to Juno the chariot'driver^ and to Ceres, whom they call Europa, and who, they say, was the nurse of Trophonius. A diviner is present to each of the sacrifices, who inspects the entrails of the victims, and, while he beholds them, prophesies whether or not Trophonius will propitiously receive the person who consults him. The other victims do not in a similar manner disclose the mind of Trophonius ; but each person who descends to him sacrifices, on the night in which he descends, a ram in ^ ditch, invoking at the same time Agamedes. They pay no regard to the former entrails, even though they should be favourable, unless the entrails of this ram are likewise auspicious. And when it happens that the entrails thus correspond in signification, then the person who wishes to consult Trophonius descends with good hope, and in the following manner :
The sacrificers bring him by night to the river Hercyna, there they anoint him with oil ; and two boys belonging to the city, each about thirteen years old, and whom they call Mercuries, wash him, and supply him with every thing necessary.
He is not immediately after this led by the sacrificers to the oracle, but is first brought to the fountains of the river, which are very near to each other. Here he is obliged to drink of that wliich is called the water of Lethe, that he may become oblivious of all the former objects of his pursuit. Afterwards he must drink of another water, which is called the water of Mnemosyne^ that he may remember the objects which will present themselves to his vie>y on descending into the grove. Having, therefore, beheld the statue, which, they say, was made by Daedalus, (and which the priests never show to smy but those who desire to consult Trophonius) performed certain religious ceremonies, and prayed, he proceeds to the oracle, clothed in white linen, begirt with fillets, and having on his feet such slippers as are worn by the natives of this place. The oracle is above the grove, in a mountain, and is inclosed with a wall of white stone, whose circumference is very small, and whose altitude is not more than two cubits. Two obelisks are raised on this wall, which, as well as the zones that hold them together, are of brass. Between these there are doort, and within the inclosure there is a chasm of the earth, which waai not formed by nature, but was made by art, and is excavated in according proportion with consummate accuracy and skill. The shape of this chasm resembles that of an oven. Its breadth^ measured diametrically, may be conjectured to be about four cubits: its depth does not appear to me more than eight cubitf. There are no steps to its bottom ; but when any one designs to descend to Trophonius they give him a ladder, which is both narrow and light. On descending into this chasm, between its bottom and summit there is a small cavern, the breadth o^ which is about two spans, and its altitude appears to be about one span.
'* He, therefore, who descends to the bottom of this chasm lays himself down on the ground, and holding in his hand sops mingled with honey, first of all places his feet ih the small cavern, then hastens to join his knees to his feet ; and imm^iately after the rest of his body, contracted to his knees,i is
drawn within the cavern, just as if he was hurried away by the vortex of the largest and most rapid river. But those that have descended to the adytum of this place are not all instructed in the secrets of futurity in the same manner : for one obtains this knowledge by his sight, and another by his hearing ; but all return through the same opening, and walk backwards as they return. They say that no one who descended here ever died in the chasm, except one of the spear-bearers of Demetrius, who would not perform any of the established religious ceremonies, and who did not come hither for the purpose of consulting divinity, but that he might enrich himself by carrying away the gold and silver from the adytum. It is also said that his dead body was thrown up by a different avenue, and not through the sacred opening. Other reports are circulated about this man> but those which I have mentioned appear to me to be the most remarkable. When the person that descended to Trophoniut returns, the sacrificers immediately place him on a throne, which they call the throne of Mnemosyne, and which stands not far from the adytum. Then they ask him what he has either seen or heard, and afterwards deliver him to certain persons appointed for this purpose, who bring him to the temple of Qood Fortune, ^nd the Good Damon, while he is yet full of terror, and without any knowledge either of himself, or of those that are near him. Afterwards, however, he recovers the use of his reason, and laughs just the same as before. Iwriie this, 7iotfrom hearsay y hut from what I have seen Jiappen to others, andfrovi what I experienced my self y when I consulted the oracle of Trophonius. All too that return from Trophoniut are obliged to write in a table whatever they have either heard or seen : and even, at present, the shield of Aristomenes remains in this place." Vol. 3, pi 92, of my translation of Pausanias.
Concerning the dtemon of Socrates, p. 74. Agreeably to our promise, we here present the reader with a copious account of daemons in general, and of the daemon of Socrates in particii^' lar. The whole of it is derived from s^ncient sources, and is extracted from vol. 1, of my translation of the works of Plato.
As there is no vacuum in corporeal, so neither in incorporeal natures. Between divine essences therefore^ which are the firs;
of things, and partial essences such as ours, which are nothing more than the dregs of the rational nature, there must necessarily be a middle rank of beings, in order that divinity may be connected with man, and that the progression of things may form an entire whole, suspended like the golden chain of Homer from the summit of Olympus. This middle rank of beings, considered according to a two-fold division, consists of daemons and heroes, the latter of which is proximate to partial souls such as ours, and the former to divine natures, just as air and water subsist between fire and earth. Hence whatever is ineffable and occult in the gods, daemons and heroes express and unfold. They likewise conciliate all things, and are the sources of the harmonic consent and sympathy of all things with each other, lliey transmit divine gifts to us, and equally carry back ours to the divinities. But the characteristics of divine natures are unity, permanency in themselves, a subsistence as an immoveable cause of motion, transcendent providence, and which possesses nothing; common with the subjects of their providential energies ; and these characteristics are preserved in them according to essence, power, and energy. On the other hand the charactensiics of pariiai souls are, a declination to multitude and motion, a conjunction with the gods, an aptitude to receive something fi*om other natures, and to mingle together all things in itself, and through itself; and these characteristics they also possess acording to essence, power, and energy. Such then being the peculiarities of the two extremes, we shall find that those of daemons are, to contain in themselves the gifts of divine natures, in a more inferior manner indeed than the gods, but yet so as to comprehend the conditions of subordinate natures, under the idea of a divine essence. In other words, the prerogatives of deity characterize and absorb, as it were, by their powerful light, whatever daemons possess peculiar to Inferior beings. Hence they are multiplied indeed, bijt unitedly, ihingled but yet so that the unmingled predominates, and are moved but with stability. On the contrary, heroes possess unity, identity, permanency, and every excellence under the condition of multitude, motion and mixture; viz. the prerogatives of subordinate predominate in these, over the characteristics of superior natures* In short, daemons and heroes are composed from the properties of the two extremes—- o^ods and
I
partial souls; but in daemons there is more of the divine, and in heroes more of the human nature.
Having premised thus much, the Platonic reader will, I doubt not, gratefully accept the following admirable account of dxmons in general, and also of the daemon of Socrates, from the MS. Commentary of Proclus, on the first Alcibiades of
Let us now speak, in the first place, concerning daemons in general ; in the next place, concerning those that are allotte^l us in common ; and in the third place concerning the daemon of Socrates. For it is always requisite that demonstrations should begin from things more universal, and proceed from these as far as to individuals. For this mode of proceeding is natural, and is more adapted to science. Daemons, therefore, deriving their first subsistence from tlie vivific goddess*, and flowing from thence as from a certain fountain, are allotted an essence characterized by soul. This essence in those of a superior order is more intellectual and more perfect according to hyparxisf ; in those of a middle order, it is more rational ; and in those which rank in the third degree, and which subsist at the extremity of the demoniacal order, it is various, more irrational and more material. Possessing therefore an essence of this kind, they are distributed in conjunction with the gods, as bein^; allotted a power ministrant to deity. Hence they are in one way subservient to the liberated gods* {a-noxvloi ^eoi) who are the leaders of wholes prior to the world ; and in another to the mundane gods, who proximately preside over the parts of the universe. For there is one division of daemons, according to the twelve supercelestial gods, and another according to all the idioms of the mundane gods. For every mundane god is the leader of a certain daemoniacal order, to which he proximately imparts his power ; viz. if he is a demiurgic god, he imparts a demiurgic power; if immutable an undefiled power; if telesiurgic, a perfective power. And about each of the divinities, there is an innumerable multitude of daemons, and which arc dignified with the same apt>ellations as their leading gods.
X i* e. Gods who immediately subsist above the mundane deities, and are therefore called supercelestial.
Hence they rejoice when they are called by the names of Jupiter, Apollo, and Hermes, &c. as expressing the idiom, or peculiarity of their proper deities: and from these, mortal natures also participate of divine influxions. And thus animals and plants are fabricated, bearing the images of different gods; daemons proximately imparting to these the representations of their leaders. But the gods in an exempt manner supemally preside over daemons ; and through this, last natures sympathizer^ •uch as are first. For the representations of first are seen in last natures ; and the causes of things last are comprehended ia primary beings. The middle genera too of daemons give completion to wholes, the communion of which they bind and connect; participating indeed of the gods, but participated by mortal natures. He therefore will not err who asserts that the mundane artificer established the centres of the order of the universe, in daemons ; since Diotima also assigns them this order, that of binding together divine and mortal natures, of deducing supernal streams, elevating all secondary natures to the gods, and giving completion to wholes through the connexion of a medium. We must not therefore assent to their doctrine, who say that daenK)ns are the souls of men, that have changed the present life. For it is not proper to consider a daerooniacal nature according to habitude (%ala ax^triy) as the same with a nature essentially daemoniacaF, nor to assert that the perpetual medium of all mundane natures consists from a life conversant with multiform mutations. For a daemoniacal guard subsists air ways the same, connecting the mundane wholes ; but toul does not always thus retain its own order, as Socrates says in thf Bepublic ; since at different times, it chuses different lives. Nor do we praise those, who make certain of the gods to be dx* mons, such as the erratic gods, according to Amelius ; but we are persuaded by Plato, who calls the gods the rulers of the universe, but subjects to ihem the herds of daemons ; and we shall every where preserve the doctrine of Diotima, who assigns the middle order, between all divine and mortal natures^ to a daemoniacal essence. Let this then be the conception respecting the whole of the daemoniacal order in common.
In the next place, let us speak concerning the daemons whicli ure allotted mankind. For of these daemons which, as we hanre said^ rank in the middle order, the first and highest are divine
demons, and who often appear as gods, through their transcendent similitude to the divinities. For in short, that which is first in every order, preserves the form of the nature prior to itself. Thus the first intellect is a god, and the most ancient of souls is intellectual: and hence 9f daemons the highest genus, as being proximate to the gods, is uniform and divine. The next to these in order, are those daemons who participate of an intellectual idiom, and preside over the ascent and descent of soulsi and who unfold into light and deliver to all things the produc* lions of the gods. The third are those who distribute the productions of divine souls to secondary natures, and complete the bond of those that receive defluxions firom thence, l^he fourth are those that transmit the efficacious powers of whole natures to things generated and corrupted, and who inspire panial natures with life, order, reasons, and the all-various perfect operations, which things mortal are able to effect. The fifth are corporeal, and bind together the extremes in bodies. For how can perpetual accord with corruptible bodies, and efficients with effects, except through this medium ? For it is this ultimate middle nature which has dominion over corporeal goods, and provides for all natural prerogatives. Tlie sixth in order, are those that revolve about matter, connect the powers which descend from celestial to sublunary matter, perpetually guard this matter, and defend the shadowy representation of forms which it contains.
Daemons therefore, as Diotima also says, being many and all-various, the highest of them conjoin souls proceeding from their father, to their leadmg gods: for every gcd as we have said, is the leader in the first place of daemons, and in the next of partial souls. For the Demiurgus disseminated these, at Timaeus says, into the sun and moon, and the other instruments of time. These divine daemons therefore, are those which are essentially allotted to souls, and conjoin them to their proper leaders: and every soul though it revolves together with its leading deity requires a dzmon of this kind. But daemons of the second rank preside over the ascensions and descensions of souls ; and from these the souls of the multitude derive their elections. For the most perfect souls who are conversant with generation in an undefiled manner, as they chuse a life conformable to their presiding god, so they live according to a di-
vine daemon, who conjoined them to their proper deity, when they dwelt on high, f lence the Egyptian priest admired Plotinus, as being governed by a divine daemon. To souls, therefore who Hve as those that will shortly return to the intelligible world whence they came, the supernal is the same with the daemon which attends them here ; but to more imperfect souls the essential is diiferent from the dsmon that attends them at their birth.
If these things then are rightly asserted, we must not assent to those who make our rational soul a daemon. For a daemon is different from man, as Diotima says, who places daemons between gods and men, and as Socrates also evinces, when he divides a daemoniacal oppositely to the human nature: for, sayshe, not a human, but a daemoniacal obstacle detains me. But man is a soul using the body as an instrument. A daemon, therefore, is not the same with the rational soul.
This also is evident from Plato in the Umaeus, where he says that intellect has in us the relation of a daemon. But this is only true as far as pertains to analogy. For a daemon according to essence, is different from a daemon according to analogy. For in many instances that which proximately presides, subsisting in the order of a daemon with rcsf)ect to that which is inferior, is called a daemon. Thus Jupiter in Orpheus, calls his father Saturn an illustrious daemon, and Plato in the Timaeus, caUs those gods who proximately preside over, and orderly distribute the realms of generation, daemons : ** for," says he, " to speak concerning other daemons, and to know their ^^eneration, exceeds the ability of human nature." But a daemon according to analogy is that which proximately presides over any thing, though it should be a god, or though it should be some one of the natures posterior to the gods. And the soul, that through similitude to the daemoniacal genus produces energies more wonderful than those which belong to human nature, and which suspends the whole of its life fi-om daemons, is a daemon xttca ax^aiy, according to habitude, i. e. proximity or alliance. Thus, as it appears to me, Socrates in the Republic calls those, daemons, who have lived well, and who, in consequence of this are transferred to a better condition of being, and to more holy places. But an essential daemon, is neither called a daemon through habitude to secondary natures, nor
through an assimilation to something different from itself ; but is allotted this peculiarity from himself, and is defined by a certain summit, or flower of essence (hyparxis) by appropriate powers, and by different modes of energies. In short, the rational soul is called in the Timaeus the daemon of the animal. But we investigate the daemon of man, and not of the animal ; that which governs the rational soul itself, and not its instrument ; and that which leads the soul to its judges, after the dissolution of the animal, as Socrates says in the Phaedo. For when the animal is no more, the daemon which the soul was allotted wliile connected with the body,'conducts it to its judge. For if the sou! possesses that daemon while living in the body, which is said to lead it to judgment after death, this daemon must be the daemon of the man, and not of the animal alone. To which we may add, that beginning from on high it governs the whole of our composition.
Nor again, dismissing the rational soul, must it be said that a daemon is that which energizes in the soul : as for instance, that in those who live according to reason, reason is the daemon ; in those that live according to anger, the irascible part ; and in those that live according to desire, the desiderative part. Nor must it be said that the nature which proximately presides over that which energizes in our life, is a daemon : as for instance, that reason is the daemon of the irascible, and anger of those that live according to desire. For in the first place to assert that daemons are parts of our soul, is to admire human life in an improper degree, and oppose the division of Socrates in the Republic, who after gods and daemons places the heroic and human race, and blames the poets for introducing in their poems heroes in no respect better than men, but subject to similar passions. By this accusation therefore it is plain that Socrates was very far from thinking that daemons who are of a sublimer order than heroes are to be ranked among the parts and powers of the soul. For from this doctrine it will follow that things more excellent accordmg to essence give completion to such as are subordinate. And in the second place, from this hypothesis, mutations of lives would also introduce multiform mutations of daemons. For the avaricious character is frequently changed into an ambitious life, and this again into a life which is fermed by right opiaion, and this last into a scientific life.
The daemon, therefore, will vary according to these changes! for the energizing ^art will be diiferent at diifcrent times. If therefore, either this energizing part itself is a daemon, or that part which has an arrangement prior to it, daemons will be changed together with the mutation of human life ; and the tame person will have many dxmons in one life, which is of all things the most impossible. For the soul never changes m one life the government of its dxmon ; but it is the same dzmon which presides over us till we are brought before the judges of our conduct, as also Socrates asserts in the Phaedo.
Again^ those who consider a partial intellect, or that intellect which subsists at the extremity of the intellectual order, as the tame with the dasm'on which is assigned to man, appear to me to confound the intellectual idiom, with the daemoniacai essence. For all daemons subsist in the extent of souls, and rank as the next in order to divine souls ; but the intellectual order is different from that of soul, and is neither allotted the same essence, nor power, nor energy.
Farther still, this also may be said, that souls enjoy intellect then only when they convert themselves to it, receive its light, and conjoin their own with intellectual energy ; but they experience the presiding care of a daemoniacal nature, through the whole of life, and in every thing which proceeds from fate and providence. For it is the daemon that governs the whole of our life, and that fulfils the elections which we made prior to generation, together with the gifts of fate, and of those gods that preside over fate. It is likewise the daemon that supplies and measures the illuminations from providence. And as souls indeed, we are suspended from intellect, but as souls using the body, we require the aid of a daemon. Hence Plato, in the Phaedrus, calls intellect the governor of the soul; but he every where calls a daemon the inspector and guardian of maiikind. And no one who considers the affair rightly, will find any other one and proximate providence of every thing pertaining to us, besides that of a daemon. For intellect, as we have said, is participated by the rational soul, but not by the body ; and nature is participated by the body, but not by the dianoetic part. And farther still, the rational soul rules over anger and desire, but it has no dominion over fortuitous events. But the daemon alone moves, governs, and orderly disposes all our affairs. For he
gives perfeaion to reason, measures the passions, inspires na« ture, connects the body, supplies things fortuitous, accoinplishes the decrees of fate, and imparts the gifts of proTidence. In short, he is the king of every thing in and about us, and is the pilot of the whole of our life. And thus much concerning our allotted dsemons.
In the next place, with respect to the dzmon of Socrates, these three things are to be particularly omsidered. First, that he not only ranks as a dsemon, but also as a god : for in the course of this dialogue he clearly says, " I have long been of opinion that the god did not as yet permit me to hold any con- '^rsation with you.*'
He calls the same power, therefore, a daemon and a god. And in the Apology, he more clearly evinces that this daemon is allotted a divine transcendency, considered as ranking in a dae* moniacal nature. And this is what we before said, that the daemons of divine souls, and who make choice of an intellectual and anagogic life, are divine, transcending the whole of a dscmoniacal genus, and being the first participitants of the gods. For as is a daemon among gods, such also is a god among daemons. But among the divinities the essence is divine ; but in daemons, on the contrary the idiom of their essence is dsemoniaeal, but the analogy which they bear to divinity evinces their essence to be godlike. For on account of their transcendency with respect to other daMnons, they frequently appear at gods. With great propriety, therefore, does Socrates call his daemon a god : for he belonged to the first and highest daemons. Hence Socrates was most perfect, being governed by such a presiding power, and conducting himself by the will of such a leader and guardian of his life. This then was one of the illustrious prerogatives of the daemon of Socrates. The second was this : that Socrates perceived a certain voice proceeding from his daemon. For this is asserted by him in the Theaetetus and in the Phaedrus. And this voice is the signal firom the daemon, which he speaks of in the Theages; and again in the Phaedrus, when he was about to pass over the river, he experienced the accustomed signal from the daemon. What then does Socrates indicate by these assertions, and what was the voice, through which he says the daemon signified to him his will ?
In the first place, we must say, that Socrates throc^hhis dia-
noetic power, and his idence of things, enjoyed the inspiratioo of his dsmon, who continually recalled him to divine love. In the second place, in the affairs of life, Socrates supemally direaed his providential attention to more imperfect souls ; and according to the energy of his daemon, he received the light proceeding from thence, neither in his dianoetic part alone, nor in his doxastic* powers, but also in his spirit, the illumination of the demon, suddenly diffusing itself through the whole of his life, and now moving sense itself. For it is evident, that reason, imagination, and sense enjoy the same energy differently ; and that each of our inward parts is passive to, and is moved by the dzmon in a peculiar manner. The voice, therefore^ did not act upon Socrates externally with passivity ; but the daemoniacal inspiration proceeding inwardly through, his whole soul, and diflusbg itself as far as to the organs of sense, became at last a voice, which was rather recognized by consciousness, (vmuia-^na-is) than by sense : for such are illuminatiims of good daemons, and the gods.
In the third place, let us consider tlie peculiarity of the dae« mon of Socrates: for it never exhorted, but perpetually recalled him. lliis also must again be referred to the Socratic hfe : for it is not a property common to our allotted daemosis, but was the characteristic of the guardian of Socrates. We must say, therefore, that the beneficent and philanthropic disposition of Socrates, and his great promptitude with respect to the communication of good, did not require the exhortation of the daemon. For he was impelled from himself, and was ready, at all times to impart to all men the most excellent life. But since many of those that came to liim were unadapted to the pursuit of virtue and the science of wholes^ his governing good daemon restrained him from a providential care of such as these. Just as a good charioteer alone restrains the impetus of a horse naturally well adapted for the race, but does not stimulate him, in consequence of his being excited to motion from himself, and hot requiring the spur, but the bridle. And hence Socrates, from his great readiness to benefit those with whom he con* versed, rather required a recalling than an exciting daemoQ
i. e. Tht powers belongiDg to optmorif or (htt part cC the toul ikhkk kaavs that a thing is, but not why it is.
For the unaptltude of auditort which is for the most part con* cealed from human sagacity requires a demoniacal discrimina* tion ; and the knowledge of favourable opportunities^ can by this alone be accurately announced to us. Socrates therefore being naturaUy impelled to good, alone required to be recalled in his unseasonable impulses.
But farther still, it may be said that of demons, some are allotted a purifying and undefiled power ; others » generative ; others a perfective ; and others a demiurgic power : and in short they are divided** according to the characteristic peculiari* ties of the gods, and the powers under which they are arranged. Each, likewise, according to his essence uicites the object of hit providential care to a blessed life ; some of them moving us to an attention to inferior concerns, and others restrdning us from action, and an energy vergmg to externals. It appears there* fore, that the demon of Socrates being allotted this peculiarity, viz. cathartic, and the source of an undefiled life, and being ar« ranged under this power of Apollo, and uniformly presiding over the whole of purification, separated also Socrates from too much commerce with the vulgar, and a life extending itself into multitude. But it led him into the depths of his soul, and an energy undefiled by subordinate natures: and hence it never exhorted, but perpetually recalled him. For what else it to recall than to withdraw from the multitude to inward energy ? And of what is this the peculiarity except of purification ? Indeed it appears to me that as Orpheus places the ApoUoniacal monad over king Bacchus, which recalls him from a progression into Titannic multitude, and a desertion of his royal throne, in like manner the demon of Socrates conducted him to an intellectual place of survey, and restrained his association with the multitude. For the demon is analogous to Apollo, being his attendant, but the intellect of Socrates to Bacchus : for our intellect is the progeny of the power of this divinity.
P. 101. — For a f able is a more elegant interpreter of things, Sfc. The following account of divine fables, by Proclus, IS extracted from the Introduction to the second book of my translation of the Republic of Plato,
Since Socrates accuses the mode of fables, according to which Homer and Hesiod have delivered doctrines concerning the
godsi and prior to these Orpheus, and any other poet who with a divine mouth tv9nff cof^l* have interpreted things which have a perpetual sameness of subsistence, it is necessary that we should in the first place show that the disposition of the Homeric £»• bles is adapted to the things which it indicates. For it may be said how can things which are remote ^m the good and the beautiful, and which deviate h-om order, how can base and illegal names ever be adapted to those natures whose essence is cha« racterited by the good, and is consubsistent with the beautiful, in whom there is the first order, and from whom all thing* are unfolded into light, in conjunction with beauty and undefiJed power ? How then can things which are full of tragical portents, and phantasms which subsist with material natures^ and are deprived of the whole of justice, and the whole of divinity, be adapted to such natures as these? For is it not unlawful to ascribe to the nature of the gods^ who are exempt from all things through transcendent excellence, adulteries, and thefts, precipitations from heaven, injurious conduct towards parents, bonds, and castrations, and such other particulars as are celebrated by Homer and other ancient poets? But as the gods are separated from other things, are united with the good, or the ineffable principle of things, and have nothing of the imparfiection of inferior natures belonging to them, but are unmingled and undefiled with respect to all things, presubsisting uniformly according to one bound and order; in like manner it is requisite to employ the most excellent language in speaking of them, and such appellations as are full of intellect ; and which are able to assimilate us according to their proper order, to their in* eOable transcendency. It is also necessary to purify the notions of the soul firom material phantasms in the mystic uitellectual conceptions of a divine nature, and rejecting every thing foreign and all false opinions, to conceive every thing as small with respect to the undefiled transcendency of the gods, and believe in right opinion alone, and the more excellent spectacles of intellect in the truth concerning the first of essences.
Let no one, therefore, say to us, that such things harmonize with the gods as are adapted to men, nor endeavour to introduce the passioni of material irrationality to natures expanded above intellect, and an intellectual essence and life : for these symbols
do not appear similar to the hyparzis* of the godi. It it, there* fore, requisite that fables, if they do not entirely wander from the truth inherent in things, should be in a certain respect assi* milated to the particulars, the occult theory of which they endeavour to conceal by apparent veils. Indeed, as Plato himself often mystically teaches us divine concerns through certain images, and neither any thing base, nor any representatkn of disorder, nor material and turbulent phantasm is inserted in his fables, but the intellectual conceptions concerning the gods are concealed with purity, before which the fables are placed like conspicuous statues, and most similar representations of the inward arcane theory ; in like manner it is requisite that poets, and Homer himself, if they devise fables adapted to the gods, should reject these multiform compositions, and which are at the same time replete with names most contrary to things, but employing such as regard the beautiful and the good, should through these exclude the multitude from a knowledge conceming the gods, which does not pertain to them, and at the same time employ in a pious manner fabulous devices respect* ing divine natures.
These are the things, which as it appears to me, Socrates objects to the fables of Homer, and for which, perhaps, some one besides may accuse other poets, in consequence of not admitting the apparently monstrous signification of names. In answer then to these objections we reply that fables fabricate all that apparatus pertaining to them which first presents itself to our view, instead of the truth which is established in the arcana, and employ apparent veils of conceptions invisible and unknown to the multitude. This, indeed, is their distinguishing excellence, that they narrate notUng belonging to natures truly good to the profane, but only extend certain vestiges of the whole mystic discipline, to such as are naturally adapted to be led from these to a theory inaccessible to the vulgar. For these, instead of investigating the truth which they contain, use only the pretext of Bibulous devices, and instead of the purification of intellect, follow phantastic and figured conceptions. Is it not,
Hyparxis signifiei the summit.of eisence ; and in all the divinities, except the first god ii ike one considered as participated by essence. See tlic lutrodaction to the Parnicnides.
therefore, absurd in these men to accuse fables of their own i^ legitimate conduct, and not themselves for the erroneous manner in which they consider them ?
In the next place, do we not see that die multitude are injured by such thmgs as are remarkably venerable and honourable, from among aU other things, and which are established in and produced by the gods themselves? For vrbo will not acknowledge that the mysteries and perfective rites lead souls upwards from a material and mortal life, and conjoin them with the gods, and that they suppress all that tumult which insinuates itself from the irrational part, into intellectual illuminations, and expel whatever is indefinite and daik, from those that are initiated, through the light proceedmgfrom the gods ? Yet, at the same time nothing can restrain the multitude from sustaining from these all-various distortions, and in consequence of using the good and the powers proceeding iinom these, according to their perverted habit, departing from the gods, and truly sacred ceremonies, and falling into a passive and irrational life. Those indeed that accuse the mysteries for producing these effects in the multitude, may also accuse the fabrication of the universe, the order of wholes, and the providence of all things, because those that receive the gifts of these, use them badly ; but neither is such an accusation holy, nor is it fit that fables should be calumniated on account of the perverted conceptions of the multitude. For the virtue and vice of things are not to be determined from those that use them perversely; but it is fit that every thing should be estimated from its own proper nature, and the rectitude which it contains. Hence the Athenian guest, in the Laws of Plato, is of opinion, that even intoxication ought not to be expelled from a welHn* stituted city, on account of the views of the multitude, and its corrupt use ; for he says it greatly contributes to education, if it is properly and prudently employed. And yet it may be said, that intoxication corrupts both the bodies and souls of those that are subject to it, but the legislator does not, on this account detract from its proper worth, and the aid it affords to vinue.
But if any one accuses fables on account of their apparent depravityi and the base names which they employ, since thingrof this kind are by no means similar to the divine exemplars of which fables are the images ; we reply, in the first place, that
there are two kinds of fables, those adapted to the education of youth, and those full of a divme fiiry ; and which rather regard the universe itself than the habit of those that hear them. la the next place we must distinguish the ^ lives of those that use fables ; and we must consider that some are juvenile, and conversant with simple habits, but that others are able to be excited to intellect,, to the whole genera of the gods, to their progressions through all tilings, their series, and their terminations which hasten to be extended as far as to the last of things. This being premised, we must say that the fables of Homer and Hesiod, are not adapted to the education of youth, but that they follow the nature of wholes, and the order of things, and conjoin with true beings, such as are capable of being led to the elevated survey of divine concerns. For the fathers of fables j perceiving that nature fabricating images of immaterial and in- , telligible forms, and diversifying the sensible world with the ' imitations of these, adumbrated things impartible partibly, but expressed things eternal, through such as proceed according to time, things intelligible through sensibles, that which is immaterial materially, that which is without interval, with interval, and through mutation that which is firmly established, they also, conformably to the nature, and the progression of the phaenomena, devising the resemblances and images of things divine in their verses, imitated the transcendent power of exemplars, by contrary and most remote adumbrations. Hence they indicated that which is supernatural in things divine, by things contrary to nature, that which is more divine than all reason, by that which is contrary to reason, and that which is expanded above all partial beauty, by things apparently base. And thus, by an assimilative method, they recalled to our memory the exempt supremacy of divine natures!
Besides this, according to every order dl the gods, which beginning firom on high, gradually proceeds as far as to the last of things, and penetrates through all the genera of being, we may perceive the terminations of their series exhibiting such idioms as faUes attribute to the gods themselves, And that they give subsistence to and are connective of such things as those, through which fables conceal the arcane theory of first essences. For the last of the daemoniacal genera, and which revolve about matter, preside over the perversion of natural powers, the
baseness of material natures, the lapse into yice, and a disof derly and confused motion; For it is necessary that these things should take place in the universe, and should contribute to fill the variety of the whole order of things, and that the Cause of thdr shadowy subsistence and of their duration should be comprehended in perpetual genera. The leaders of sacred rites perceiving these things, ordered that laugher and lamentations should be consecrated to such-like genera in certain definite periods of time, and that they should be allotted a oonve* nient portion of the whole of the sacred ceremonies pertaining to a divine nature. As, therefore, the art of sacred rites distil buting in a becoming manner the whole of piety to the gods and the attendants of the gods, that no part of worship m%fat be • omitted, adapted to such attendants, conciliated the divinities by the most holy mysteries and mystic s3rmbols, but called down the gifts of daemons by apparent passions, through a certain arcane sympathy : in like manner the fathers of these fables, looking, as I may say, to all the progresaons of divine natures, and hastening to refer fables to the whole series proceeding from each, established the imagery in their fables, and which first presents itself to the view, analogous to the last genera, and to those that preside over ultimate and material passions ; but to the contemplators of true being they delivered the ctmcealed meaning, and which is unknown to the multitude, as declarative of tl^ exempt and inaccessible essence of the gods. Thus every fable is daemoniacal according to that which is ap* parent in it, but is divine according to its recondite theory, if these things, tlien, are rightly asserted, neither is it proper to deprive the fables of Homer of an alliance to things which have a true subsistence, because they are not serviceable to the edu* cation of youth ; for the end of such fables is not juvenile tuition, nor did the authors of fables devise them looking to this, nor are those written by Plato to be referred to the same idea with those of a more divinely inspired nature, but each is to be considered separately ; and the latter are to be established as more philosophic, but the former as adapted to sacred ceremonies and mstitutions. The latter, likewise, are fit to be heard by youth, but the former by those who have been properly conducted through all the other parts of learning. Socrates, indeed^- sufficiently indicates this to those who are
sble to perceive his meaning, and also that he only blames the fables of Homer so far as they are neither adapted to education, nor accord with the restless and simple manners of youth. He, likewise, signifies that the recondite and occult good of fa« bles requires a certam mystic and entheastic (i, e. divinely in* spired) mtelligence. But the multitude not perceiving the meaning <^ the Socratic assertions, and widely deviating from the conceptions of the philosopher, accuse every such tike kind of fcibles. But it is worth while to hear the words of Socrates,*^ ^ ' and through what cause he rejects such a mythology : ** The ^ young person (says he) is not able to judge what is allegory and what is not; but whatever opinions he receives* at such an age are with difficulty washed away, and are generally immove* able. On these accounts care should be taken, above all things, that what they are first to hear be composed in the most handsome manner for exciting them to virtue." With great propriety, therefore, do we say that the Homeric fables do not well imitate a divine nature ; for they are not useful to legislators for the purposes of virtue and education, nor for the proper tuition of youth, but in this respect, indeed, they do not appear at all similar to things themselves, nor adapted to those that preside over the politic science ; but after another manner they harmonize with the gods, and lead those who possess a naturally good disposition to the contemplation of divine natures ; and the good which they contain is not disciplinative but mystic, nor does it regard a juvenile but an aged habit of souL This, also, Socrates himself testifies when he says, ** That such fables should be heard in secrecy, by as few as possible, after they had sacrificed, not a hog, but some great and wonderful sacrifice." Socrates, therefore, is very far from despising this kind of fables, according to the opinion of the multitude ; for he evinces that the hearing of them b co-ordmated with the most holy initia* tions *, and the most subtle mysteries. For to assert that such fables ought to be used in secret with a sacrifice the greatest and most perfect, manifests that the contemplation of them is
The Eleusinian, which Produs calls the most holy of the mysteries, are, likewise, always denominated by him Tt\flai ' and Soidas informs us that Tt>{Ti] signifies a mysterious sacrifice, the greatest and •most honourable. So that Socrates in the above passage clearly indicates that such fables beloDg to tlit most sacred of the mysteries.
mystic^ and that they elevate the soult of the hearert to sublime ■peculations. Whoever^ therefore^ has divested himself of every puerile and juvenile habit of the soul, and of the indefinite impulses of the phantasy, and who has established intellect as the leader of his life, sudi a one will most c^portunely participate of the spectacles concealed in such-like fobles ; but he ^^o stiU requires instruction and symmetry of manners cannot with safety engage in their speculation
It follows, therefore, according to Socrates himself, that there is a twofold species of fables, one of which is adapted to the instruction of youth, but the other is mystic ; one is preparatory to moral virtue, but the other imparts a conjunction with a divine nature ; one is capable of benefitting the many, the other is adapted to the few ; the ortt is common*, and known to most men, but the other is recondite, and unadapted to those ^^o do not hasten to become perfectly established in a divine nature; and the one is co-ordinate with juvenile habits, but the other scarcely unfolds itself with sacrifices and mystic tradition. If, therefore, Socrates teaches us these things, must we not say that he harmonizes with Homer respecting fables ? But he only rejects and reprobates them so far as they appear unadapt^ to the hypothesis of his discourse, and the narration of the educa* tion of youth.
But if it be requisite that legislators should in one way be conversant with mythical fictions, and those who endeavour to cultivate more imperfect habits, but in another way those who indicate by the divinely-inspired intuitive perceptions of intellect the ineffable essence of the gods to those who are able to follow the most elevated contemplations, we shall not hesitate to refor the precipitations of Vulcan to the irreprehensible science concerning the gods^ nor the Saturnian bonds, nor the castrations of heaven, which Socrates says are unadapted to the ears of youth, and by no means harmonize with those habits which require juvenile tuition. For, in short, the mystic kno%vledge of divine natures can never subsist in foreign receptacles. To those, therefore, that are capable of such sublime speculations we must say, that the precipitation of Vulcan indicates the progression of a divine nature firom on high, as far as to the last fabrications in sensibles, and this so as to be moved and perfected, and di« rected by the demiurgus and father of all things. But the Sa-
tomian bonds manifest the union of the whole fabrication of the universe * with the intellectual and paternal supremacy of Saturn. The castrations of heaven obscurely signify the separation of the Titannic f series from the connective X order. By thus speaking we shall, perhaps, assert things that are known, and refer that which is tragical and fiaitious in fables to the intellectual theory of the divine genera. For whatever among us appears to be of a worse condition, and to belong to the in* ferior co-ordination of things, fables assume according to a better nature and power. Thus, for instance, a bond with us impedes and restrains energy, but there it is a contact and ineffable union with causes. A precipitation here is a violent motion from another, but with the gods it indicates a prolific progression and an unrestrained and free presence to all things, without departing from its proper principle, but in an orderly manner proceeding from it through all things. And castrations in things partial and material, cause a diminution of power, but in primary causes they obscurely signify the progression of secondary natures into a subject order from their proper causes ; things first at the same time remaining established in themselves undiminished, neither moved from themselves through the progression of these, nor mutilated by their separation, nor divided by their distribution in things subordinate. These things, which Socrates justly says are not fit to be heard by youth, are not oh that account to be entirely rejected. For the same thing takes place with respect to these fables which Plato somewhere says happens t» divine and all-holy dogmas: for these are ridiculous to the multitude, but to the few who are excited to intellectual energy they unfold their sympathy with things, and through sacred operations themselves procure credibility of their possessing a power connate with all that is divine. For the gods hearing these symbols rejoice, and readily obey those that invoke them, and proclaim the characteristic of their natures through these, as signs domestic and especially known to them. The mysteries, likewise, and the greatest and most perfSect of
Hence, according to the fable, Saturn vras bound by Jupiter, who 18 the demiurgus or artificer of the universe
f The Titans are the ultimate artificers of things. X See the notes to the Cratylus,
ncrifices (tiXeIcu) poMcss their efficacy in these^ and enable the mystics to perceive through these^ entire, 8table> and simple vbtons, which a youth by his age, and much more his mannen, is incapable of receivuig. We must not, therefore, say, that Buchrlike fables do not instruct in virtue ; but those that object to them should show that they do nob in the highest degree accord with the laws pertaining to sacre^ rites. Nor must it be said that they dissimilarly imitate divine natures, through ob* scure symbols ; but it it must be shown that they do not pre* pare for us an ineffable sympathy towards the participation of the gods. For fables which are composed with a view to juvenile discipline should possess much of the probable, and much of that which is decorous injthe fabulous, in their apparent fbrmsi but should be entirely pure from contrary appellations, and be conjoined with divine natures through a similitude of symbols, liut those fables which regard a more divinely inspired habit, which co-harmonize things last with such as are first through analogy alone, and which are composed with a view to the sympathy in the universe between effects and their generadve causes ; such fables, despising the multitude, employ names in an allvarious manner for the purpose of indicating divine concerns. Since, also, with respect to harmony, we say that one kind is poetic, and which, through melodies exciting to virtue, cultivates the souls of youth, but another divine, which moves the hearers and produces a divine mania, and which we denominate better than temperance : and we admit the former as completing the whole of education, but we reject the latter as not adapted to political administration. Or does not Socrates expel the Phrygian harmony from his Republic, as producing ecstasy in the soul, and on this account separate it from other harmonies which are subservient to education ?
As, therefore, harmony is twofold, and one kind is adapted to erudition, but the other is foreign from it ; in a similar manner, likewise, is mythology divided, into that which contributes to the proper tuition of youth, and into that which is subservient to the sacred and symbolic invocation of a divine nature. And the one, viz. the method through images, is adapted to those that philosophize in a genuine manner ; but the other, which indicates a divine essence through recondite signs, to the leaders of a more mystically-perfective operation ; from which Plato
Inmself also renders many of his peculiar d<^mas more credible and clear. Thus in the Phsedo he ireneratet with a becoming silence that recondite assertion^ that we are confined in body at in a prison secured by a guard, and testifies accordmg to mysteries the different allotments of the soul when in a pure or impure condition, on its departure to Hades, and again, its habitudes, and the triple paths arising from its essence, and this according to paternal sacred institutions ; all which are full of a symbolic theory, and of the ascent and descent of souls celebrated by poets, of dionysiacal signs, what are called Titannic errors, the triyix and wandering in Hades, and every thing else of this kind. So that Plato does not entirely despise this mode of my* thologizing, but considers it as foreign firom juvenile tuition, and on this account delivers types of theology commensurate witb the manners of those that are instructed »
It likewise appears to me that whatever is tragical,, monstrous, and unnatural in poetical fictions, excites the hearers in an all-various manner to the investigation of the truth, attracts us to recondite knowledge, and does not suffer us through ap* parent probability to rest satisfied with superficial conceptions,, but compels us to penetrate into the interior parts of fables, to explore the obscure intention of their authors, and surrey what natures and powers they intended to signify to )}osterity by such mystical symbols *,
Since, therefore, fables of this kind excite those of a naturally more excellent disposition to a desire of the concealed theory which they contam, and to an investigation of the truth estab* lished in the adyta f, through their appjirent absurdity, but prevent the prophane firom busying themselves about things which it is not lawful for them to touch, are they not eminently adapted to the gods themselves, of whose nature they are the interpreters? For many genera are hurled forth before the gods, some of a daemoniacal and others of an angelic order, who terrify those that are excited to a participation of divinity, who ar&
^ Such fables also call forth oar unperverted conceptions of divino nattires, in which they efficaciously establish us by untaught sacred disciplines j and, iti shorty they give perfection to the vital powers of the soal.
f A^-^yarots is errooeously printed in the origin:d for uhrotg
exrrciied for the receptioii of dhrine light, and are sabHmeif elevated to the union of the gods. But we may especially per cetve the alliance of these fihles with the tribe of daaximih whose energies manifest many things s3rmbolically, at those know who have met with daemons when awake *, or have enjoyed their inspiration in dreams^ unfolding many past or future events. For in all such phantasies, after the manner of the an* thors of fables, some things are indicated by others. Nor of the thmgs which take place through this are some images, but othen paradigms, but some are symbols, and others sympathize with these from analogy, if, therefore, this mode of composing far bles is daemoniacal, must we not say that it is exempt from evoy other variety of fables, as well that which regards nature and interprets natural powers, as that which presides over the in* struction of the forms of the soul.
P, 107.— AF7ie///er it be necessary to /Drfly.— Agreeably to my promise, I shall now present the reader with the concep tions of the most eminent philosophers of the Platonic sect on prayer. The whole is extracted from my Introduction to the translation of the second Alcibiades of Plato. No apology will, I trust, be requisite for the length of these observations, when it is considered that they are not to be equalled in any other writers for their profundity and sublimity, and that, prior to the publication of my translation of Plato^ they never appeared in any modern language.
In the first place, then. Porphyry observes f, that prayer especially pertains to worthy men, because it is a conjunctioa with a divine nature. But the similar loves to be united to the similar ; and a worthy man is most similar to the gods. Since those also that cultivate vinue are inclosed in body as in a prison, they ought to pray to the gods that they may depart from hence. Besides, as we are like children torn from our parents, it is proper to pray that we may return to the gods as to our true parents : and because those that do not think it requisite to pray and convert themselves to more excellent natures are like those that are deprived of their fathers and mothers. To which
For intt^, as in the original, read L>7a§.
we may add> that> at we are a part of the universe^ it is fit that we should be in want of it : for a conversion to the whole imparts safety to every thing. Whether, therefore, you possess virtue, it is proper that you should invoke that which causally comprehends* the whole of virtue. For that which is allgood will also be the cause to you oi that good which it is proper for you to possess. Or whether yoa< explore some corporeal good there is a power in the world wUch connectedly contains every body. It is necessary, therefore, that the perfect should thence be derived to the parts of the universe. Thus far Porphjnry, who was not without reason celebrated by posterior philosophers for his u^^t^en von/Mc1», or conceptions adapted to sacred concerns
Let us now attend to lamblichus f , whom every genuine Platonist will acknowledge to have been justly sumamed the divirtt.
As prayers, through which sacred rites receive their perfect consummation and vigour, constitute a great part of sacrifice, and as they are of general utility to religion, and produce an indissoluble communion between the divinities and their priests, it is necessary that we should mention a few things concerning their various species and wonderful effects. For prayer is of itself a thing worthy to be known, and gives greater perfection to the science concerning the gods. I say, therefore, that i\ie first species of prayer is coUeciive, producing a contact with divinity, and subsisting as the leader and light of knowledge. But the second is the bond of consent and communion with the gods, exciting them to a copious communication of their benefits prior to the energy of speech, and perfecting the whole of our operations previous to our intellectual conceptions. But the third, and most perfect species of prayer, is the sealojineffa^ ble union with the divinities, in whom it establishes all the power and authority of prayer : and thus causes the soul to repose in the gods, as in a divine and never-failing port. But
^ The word used by Porphyry here is ^r^fiXq^o;, which always signifies in Platonic writings causal comprehension; or the occait and indistinct prior to the actual and separate subsistence of things. After this manner numbers subsist causally in the menad.
from these three termt, in vdiich all the diviDe measures are contained^ suppliant adoration not only conciliates to us the friendship of the gods, but supemaliy extends to us three finiitif being as it were three Hesperian apples of gold *. The fitit pertams to iUumimUion^ the second to a cotmnunion qf igpf ration ; but through the energy of the third we receire a per' feet plenitude of divine fire. And sometimes, indeed, snpplicatioQ precedes; like a forerunner preparing the way bdbre the sacrifice appears. But sometimes it intercedes as a mediator, and sometimes accomplishes the end of sacrificing. No operation, however, in sacred concerns, can succeed without the intervention of prayer. Lastly, the continual exerne of prayer nourishes the vigour of our intellect, and renders the receptacles of the soul far more capacious for the communicirions of the gods. It likewise is the divine key, which unfolds to men the penetralia of the gods, accustoms us to the splMid rivers of supernal light, in a short time perfects our inmoit recesses, and disposes them for the ineffable embrace and coatact of the gods, and does not desist till it raises us to the summit of all. It likewise gradually and silently draws upwards the miB- ners of our soul, by divesting them of every thing foreign from a divine nature, and clothes us with the perfections of the gods. Besides this, it produces an indissoluble communion and friendship with divmity, nourishes a divine love, and inflames the divine part of the soul. Whatever is of an opposing and contrary nature in the soul it expiates and purifies, ezpeb wiut' ever is prone to generation, and retains any thing of the dr^ oi mortality in its aetherial and splendid spirit, perfiects a good hope and faith concerning the reception of divine lig^t ; and^ in one word, renders those by whom it is employed the finnilitn and domestics of the gods, if such, then, are the advantages of prayer, and such its connection with sacrifice, does it not appear from hence that the end of sacrifice is a conjunction ¥rhh the demiurgus of the world ? And the benefit c^ prayer is of the same extent with the good which is conferred by the demiurgic causes on the race of mortals. Again* from hence ifae
^ This particular respecting the applet of gold is added from the vtfsion of Scutellius, who appears to have made his transIaUon of lainblichus from a more perfect manuscupt thaa that which was used by Galft
4tnagogic , perfective^ and replenishing power of prayer appears ; likewise how it becomes efficacious and unific> and how it possesses a common bond imparted by the gods. And, in the third and last place, it may easily be conceived from hence how prayer and sacrifice mutually corroborate and confer on each other a sacred and perfect power in divine concerns.
The fbllowmg translation from p. 64 of Proclus on the H- maus, containing the doctrine of lamblichus on Prayer, with the elucidations of Proclus, may be considered as an excellent commentary on the preceding observations.
All beings are the progeny of the gods, by whom they are jnroduced without a medium, and in whom they are firmly established. For the progression of things which perpetually subsist, and cohere from permanent causes, is not alone per* fected by a certain continuation, but immediately subsists from the gods, from whence all things are generated, however distant they may be frxxn the divmities : and this is no less true, even though asserted of matter itself. For a divine nature is not absent from any tiling, but is equally present to all things. Hence, though you consider the last of beings, in these also yoti will find divinity: for the one is everywhere; and in consequence of its absolute dominion every thing receives its nature and coherence from the gods. But at all things proceed, so, likewise, they are not separated frxym the gods, but radically abide in them, as the causes and sustainers of their existence : for where can they recede, sinoe the gods primarily comprehend all things in their .embrace ? for whatever is placed as separate frx>m the gods has not any kind of subsistence, fiut all beings are contained by the gods, and reside in their natures, after the manner of a circular comprehension. Hence, by a wonderfril mode of subsistence, all tHngs proceed, and yet are not, nor, indeed, can be separated from the gods ; (for all generated natures, when torn from thehr parents, immediately recur to the wide-spreading immensity of non-being,) but they are afrer a manner established in the divine natures : and, in fine, they proceed m themselves, but abide in the gods. But since, in consequence of their progression, it is requisite that they should be converted, and return, and imitate the egrets and conversion of the gods to their ineffable cause, that the natures thus disposed may again be contained by the gods, and the first
unities, according to a telesiurgic, or perfective triad, they receive from hence a certain secondary perfection, by which they may be able to convert themselves to the goodness of the gods; that after they have rooted their principle in the divinities, they may again by conversion abide in them, and form as it were a circle, which originates from and termmates in the gods. All things, therefore, both abide in and convert themselves to the gods, receiving this power from the divinities, together with twofold symbols according to essence : the one that they may abide there, but the other that, having proceeded, they may convert themselves : and this we may easily contemplate, not only in souls but also in inanimate natures. For what else inge- Derates in these a sympathy with other powers, but the symbols which they are allotted by nature, some of which contract i familiarity with this, and some with that series of gods ? For nature supemally depending from the gods, and being distributed firom their orders, impresses also in bodies the symbols of her familiarity with the divinities. In some, indeed, inserting solar symbols, but in others lunar, and in others again the oo cult characters of some other god. And these, indeed, convert themselves to the divinities: some, as it were, tq the gods simply, but others as to particular gods ; nature thus perfecting her progeny according to different pecuharities of the gods. The Demiurgus of the universe, therefore, by a much greater priority, impressed these symbols in souls, by which they might be able to abide in themselves, and again convert themselves to the sources of their bemg : through the symbol of wiitv conferring on them stability, but through 'intellect affording tbem the power of conversion.
And to this conversion prayer is of the greatest utility : for it conciliates the beneficence of the gods through those ineffable symbols which the Father of the Universe has disseminated in souls* It likewise unites those who pray with those to whom prayer is addressed ; copulates the intellect of the gods, with the discourses of those who pray ; excites the will of those who perfectly comprehend good, and produces in us a firm persuasion, that they will abundantly impart to us the beneficence which they contain : and, lastly, it establishes in the gods what* ever we possess.
But to a perfect and true prayer there is required, first, a
knowledge of all the divine orders to which he who prays approaches : for neither will any one accede in a proper manner unless he intimately beholds their distinguishing properties : and hence it is that the oracle * admonishes^ that a fiery inteHeC" Hon obtains the first order in sacred veneration. But after^ wards there is required a conformation of our life with that which is divine : and ihis accompanied with all purity t chastity^ discipline, and order. For thus while we present ourselves to the gods, they will be provoked to beneficence, and our souls will be subjected to theirs, and will participate the excellencies of a divine nature. In the third place, a certain contact is necessary, from whence, with the more exalted part of the soul, we touch the divine essence, and verge to a union with its ineffable nature. But there is yet farther required an accession and inhesion, (for thus the oracle calls it, while it says, the mortal adhering to fire will possess a divine light,) from whence we receive a greater, and more illustrious part of the light proceeding from the j gods. In the last place, a imion succeeds with the unity of the gods, restoring and establishing unity to the soul, and causing our energy to become one with divine energy : so that in this case we are no longer ourselves, but are absorbed as it were in the nature of the gods ; and, residing in divine light, are entirely surrounded with its splendor. And this is, indeed, the best end of prayer, the conjunction of the soufs conversion, with its permanency: establishing in unity whatever proceeds from the divine unities, and surrounding our light with the light of the gods.
Prayer, therefore, is of no small assistance to our souls in ascending to their native region : nor is he who possesses virtue superior to the want of that good which proceeds from prayer^ but the very contrary takes place ; since prayer is not only the cause of our ascent and reversion, but with it is connected piety to the gods, that is, the very summit of virtue. Nor, indeed, ought any other to pray than he who excels in goodness : (at the Athenian guest in Plato admonishes us) for to such a one^ while enjoying by the exercise of prayer familiarity with the gods, an efficacious and easy way is prepared for the enjoyment of a blessed life. But the contrary succeeds to the vicious:
Viz. One of the ChaldeMi Oracles.
since it it not lawful for pority to be toocfaed by impurity. It is necessary, therefore, that he who generously enters on the exercise of prayer ^ould render the gods propitious to him, and ihouhl excite in himself divine conceptions, hill of intellectual light : for the farour and benignity of more exalted beings b the most effectual incentive to their communication with our natures. And it is requisite, without intermission, to dwell in the venenr tion of divinity: for, according to the poet, the gods are accus' tomed to be present with the mortal constantly employed in prefer. It is, likewise, necessary to preserve a stable order of divine works, and to produce those virtues which purify the soul finom the stains of generation, and elevate her to the regions of intellect, together vnth/aith^ truth, and love : to preserve this triad, and bope of good, this immutable perception of divine light, and seggregationfrom every other pursuit ; that thus tdi^ tary, and hte horn material concerns, we may become united with the solitary unities of the gods : since he who attempts by multitude to unite himself with uitity acts preposterously, and dissociates himself from divinity. For as it is not lawful for any one to conjoin himself by that which is not with that which it ; to neither is it possible with multitude to be conjoined with unity. Such, then, are the consequences primarily apparent in prayer ; viz. that its essence is the cause of associating our sooli with the gods ; and that on this account it unites and copulates all inferior with all superior beings. For, as the great Tkeo* dorus * says, all things pray, except the FIRST,
fiut the perfection of prayer, beginnmg from more commoo gtx>ds, ends in divine conjunction, and gradually accustoms the soul to divine light. And its efficacious and vigorous enei^ both replenishes us with good, and causes our concerns to be common with those of the gods. We may also rationally suppose that the causes of prayer, so far as they are effective, are the vigorous and efficacious powers of the gods, convenbg and calling upwards the soul to the gods themselves. But that, to far as they are perfective, they are the immaculate goods of the soul, firom the reception of which souls are established in the gods. And again, that, so for as they are paradigmatical, they are the primary fabricating causes of beings ; proceeding from
Viz. Theodoras Asinceas, a disdple of Porphyry.
ihegood, and conjoined with it by an ineffable union. But that^ 90 far as they are formal^ or possess the proportion of fbrms> they render souls similar to the gods, and give perfection to the whole life of the soul. Lastly, so far as they are material, or retain the proportion of matter, they are the marks, or symbols, conferred by the Demiurgus on the essences of souls, that they may. be wakened to a reminiscence of the gods, who produced both them and whatever else exists.
But we may also describe the modes of prayer, which are various, according to the genera and species of the gods. For of prayers, some are operative, others of a purifying nature; and others, lastly, are vivific. I call those operative which are offered for the sake of showers and winds. For the operative gods (^DjtAitf^O are also the causes of these : on which account it is customary with the Athenians to pray to such divinities, for the sake of obtaming winds, procuring serenity of weather. But I call those prayers, of a purifying nature, which are instituted for the purpose of avening diseases, originating from pestilence and other contagious distempers : such as are written in our temples. And, lastly, those prayers are vivific, with which we venerate the gods, who are the causes of vivification, on account of the origin and maturity of fruits. Hence it is that prayers are of a perfective nature, because they elevate us to these divine orders : and those who consider such prayers in a differ^- ent manner do not properly apprehend in what their nature and efficacy consists. But, again, with respect to the things for which we pray ; those which regard the safety of the soul ob* tain the first place : those which pertain to the proper disposition and strength of body the second : and those claim the last which penain to external concerns. And, lastly, with respect to the distribution of the times m which we offer up prayers, it is either according to the seasons of the year, or the centers of the solar revolution ; or we establish multiform prayers accord? ing to other such-like conceptions.
With the above admirable passage the following extract from lamblichus de Myst. sect. i. cap. 12. maybe very properly conjoined. Its design is to shew that the gods are not agitated by passions, though they appear to be moved throu^ the influence of prayer,
Prayen arie not to be directed to the godt 9$ if they werfi
pauive, and could be moved by tupplicatioiit : hr tbe dhrnie irradiatioD, which takes place through ihe exercise of pnijrer, operates spontaneously^ and is hr remote from all material attraction ; since it becomes apparent through divine energy and perfection, and as much excels the voluntary motion of our na* ture as the divine will of the geod surpasses our electkxi. Through this volition, the gods, who are perfectly benevolent and merciful, pour their light without any parsimony on the supplicating priests, whose souls they call upwards to their owa divine natures, impart to them a union with themselves, and accustom their souls, even while bound in body, to separate themselves from its dark embrace, and to be led back by an ineffable energy to their eternal and intelligible original. Indeed it is evident that the safety of the soul depends on such divine operations. For while the soul contemplates divine visions it acquires another life, employs a different energy, and may be considered with the greatest propriety as no longer ranking in the order of man. For it often lays aside its own proper life, and changes it for the most blessed energy of the gods. But if an ascent to the gods, through the ministry of prayer, confers on the priests, purity from passion, freedom from the bonds of generation, and a union with a divine principle, how can there be any thing passive in the efficacy of prayer? For invocation does not draw down the pure and impassive gods to us, who are passive and impure '; but, on the contrary, renders us, who are become through generation impure and passive, immutable and pure.
But neither do invocations conjoin through passion the priests with the divinities, but afford an indissoluble communion of connection, through that friendship which binds all things in union and consent. Nor do invocations incline the intellect of the gods towards men, as the term seems to imply ; but, according to the decisions of truth, they render the will of men properly disposed to receive the participations of the gods ; leading it upwards, and connecting it with the divinities by the sweetest and most alluring persuasion. And on this account the sacred names of the gods, and other divine symbols, from their anagogic nature, are able to connect invocations with the gods themselves.
And in chap. 15, of the same section, he again admirably du* courses on the same subject as follows :
Ttiat which in our fiature is divme> intellectual, and one, 0^ (as you may be willing to call it) intelligible, is perfectly excited by prayer from its dormant state ; and when excited ve-^. hemently seeks that which is similar to itself, and becomes copulated to perfection itself. But if it should seem mcredible that incorporeal natures can be capable of hearing sounds, and it is urged, that for this purpose the sense of hearing is requisite, that they may understand our supplications ; such objectors are unacquainted with the excellency of primary causes, which consists in both knowing, and comprehending in themselves at once, the universality of things. The gods, therefore, do not receive prayers in themselves through any corporeal powers or organs^ but rather contain in themselves the energies of pious invocations ; and especially of such as through sacred cultivation are consecrated and united to the gods : for in this case a divine nature is evidently present with itself, and does not apprehend the con-« ceptions of prayers as different from its own. Nor are supplications to be considered as foreign from the purity of intellect : but since the gods excel us both in power, purity, and all other advantages, we shall act in the most opportune manner by in^ voking them with the most vehement supplications. For a consciousness of our own nothingness, when we compare ourselves with the gods, naturally leads us to the exercise of prayer. But, through the benefits resulting from supplication, we are in a short time brought back to the object of supplication, acquire its similitude from intimate converse ; and gradually obtain divine perfection instead of our own imbecility and imperfection.
Indeed, he who considers that sacred prayers are sent to men from the gods themselves, that they are certain symbols of the divine natures ; and that they are only known to the gods, with whom, in a certain respect, they possess an equal power: I say, he who considers all this' cannot any longer believe that supplications are of a sensible nature, and that they are not very justly esteemed intellectual and divine , and must acknowledge it tb be impossible that any passion should belong to things, the purity of which the most worthy manners of men cannot easily equal.
Nor ought we to be disturbed by the objection, which urges, that material things are frequently offered Ia supplications ; and
thii M if die godi poiMited a sentstite and animal nature. For» indeed, Sf the offerings cootittfd solely of corporeal and oMoposite powers, and socli as are only accommodated to organkal purposes, the objection would have some weight : but since they participate of incorporeal forms, certain proponions, and more simple measures ; in this alone the correspondence and connection of offerings with the gods ought to be regarded. For whenever any affinity and similitude is present, whether greater or less, it is sufficient to the connection of which we are now discoursing : since there is nothmg which approaches to a kin* dred alliance with the gods, though in the smallest degree, to which the gods are not immediately present and united. A con* nection, therefore, as much as is possible subsists between prayers and the gods : at the same time prayers do not regaiti the divinities as if they were of a sensitive or animal nature ; but they consider them as they are in reality, and according to the divine forms which their essences contain.
In the third place, let us attend to the admirable observations on prayer of Hierocles, who, though inferior in accuracy and sublimity of conception to lamblichus and Proclus ; yet, as Da* mascius well observes, (in his life of Isidorus apud Phot.) heun* commonly excelled in his dianoetic part, and in a venenible and magnificent fluency of diction. I'he following is a translation of his comment on the Pythagoric verse :
AXX' i^iv wr* ffyoy
i, e, " fietake yourself to the work, havbg implored the gods to bring it to perfection.'
The verse briefly describes all that contributes to the acquisition of good ; viz. the self-moved nature of the soul, and the coK)peration of divinity. For though the election of thmgi beautiful * is in our power, yet as we possess our ^edom of the will firom divinity, we are perfectly indigent of his co-operating with and perfecting the things which we have chosen. For our endeavour appears to be similar to a hand extended to the reception of things beautiful ; but that which is imparted by divt-
By things beantifttl, with PUtonic writen, every thing txoellent and good is inelndcd.
Bity is the supplier and the fountain of the gift of good. And the former, indeed^ is naturally adapted to discover things beautiful, but the latter to unfold them to him by whom they are rightly explored. But prayer is the medium between two boundaries ; viz. between investigation by us and that which is imparted by divinity, properly adhering to the cause which leads us into existence and perfects us in well-being. For how can any one receive well-being unless divinity imparts it : and how can divinity, who is naturally adapted to give, give to him who does not ask, though his impulses arise from the freedom of his will ? That we may not, therefore, pray only in words, but may also corroborate this by deeds; and that we may not confide only in our own energy, but may also beseech divinity to co-operate with our deeds, and may conjoin prayer to action^ as form to matter ; and, in short, that we may pray for what we do, and do that for which Vve pray, the verse conjoining these two says, ** Betake yourself to the work, having implored the gods to bring it to perfection." For neither is it proper alone to engage with alacrity in beautiful actions, as if it were in our power to perform them with rectitude, without the co-operation of divinity ; nor yet should we be Satisfied with the words of mere prayer, while we contribute nothing to the acquisition of the things which we request. For thus, we shall either pursue atheistical virtue (if I may be allowed so to speak) or unenergetic prayer ; of which the former, being deprived of divinity, takes away the essence of virtue, and the latter, being . sluggish, dissolves the efficacy of prayer. For how can any thing be beautiful which is not performed according to the dir vine rule ? and how is it possible that what is done according to this should not entirely require the co-operation of divinity to its subsistence ? For virtue is the image of divinity in the ra* tional soul ; but every image requirji its paradigm in order to its generation, nor is that which it possesses sufficient unless it looks to that from the similitude to which it possesses the beai:^ tifiil. It is proper, therefore, that those should pray who hasten to energetic virtue, and, having prayed, that they should endeavour to possess it. It is, likewise, requisite that they should do this, looking to that which is divine and splendid, and should ex* tend themselves to philosophy, adhering at the same time, in a becoming manner, to the first cause of good. For that te
tractys *, the fountain of perennial nature, it not only the eternal cause of bemg to all things, but likewise of well-bemg, expanding proper good through the whole world, like undecaying and intellectual light. But the soul, when she properly adheres to this light, and purifies herself like an eye to acuteness of vision, by an attention to things beautiful is excited to prayer ; and, again, from the plenitude of prayer she extends her endeavours, conjoinmg actions to words, and by divine conferences giving stability to worthy deeds. And discovering some things, and being illuminated in others, she endeavours to efr<&ct what she prays for, and prays for that which she endeavours to effect. And such, indeed, is the union of endeavour and prayer.
In the last place, the pseudo Dionysius has decorated his book on the Divine Names with the following admirable observations on prayer, stolen f from writers incomparably more sublime than any of the age m which he pretended to have lived :
Divinity is present to aH things, but all things are not present to him ; but when we mvoke him with all-sacred prayers, an unclouded intellect, and an aptitude to divine union, then we also are present to him. For he is neither in place, that he may abtent from any thing, nor does he pass from one thing to another, fiut, indeed, to assert that he is in all things, falls far short of that infinity which is above, and which comprehends all things. Let us, therefore, extend ourselves by prayer to the more sublime intuition of his divine and beneficent rays. Just as if a chain, consistmg of numerous lamps, were suspended
This teiraciys, which is the same at the Phanet of Orpheus, and Ihe avro^wm, or animal itself, of Plato, first subsists at the extremity of the intelligible order, and is thence participated by Jupiter the £sbri* cator of the universe. See my introduction tathe Timcus.
<^ Fabricias, in the fourth volume of hit Bibliotheca Graeca, has incontestably proved that this Dionysius lived several hundred years after the time of St. Paul ; and observes, that his worics are, doubtless, competed from Platonic writings. In confirmation of this remark, it it necessary to inform the learned reader^ that the long discourse on Evil, in the treatise of Diony tius, iti^i ^tiun nofjLamn, appears to have been tiJEen almost verbatim from one of the lost writings of Proclus on the subtitt* ence of Evil, as will be at once evident by comparing it with the Excerpta from that work, preserved by Fabricius in Biblioth. Grsc. torn, viifc
from the lummit of heaveiii and extended to the earth. For if we ascended this chain, by always alternately stretching forth our hands^ we should appear, indeed, to ourselves to draw down the chain, though we should not in reality, it being present upwards and downwards, but we should elevate ourselves to the more sublime splendors of the abundantly luminous rays. Or as if we ascended into a ship, and held by the ropes * extended horn a certain rock to us, and which were given to ui for our assistance ; we should not in this case draw the rock to ut, but we in reality should move both ourselves and the ship to the rock. Just as, on the contrary, if any one standing in a ship pushes against a rock fixed in the sea, he, indeed, effects nothing in the firm and immoveable rock, but causes himself to recede from it : and by how much the more he pushes against, by so much the more is he repelled from the rock. Hence, prior to every undenaking, and especially that which is theological, it is necessary to begin from prayer, not as if drawing down that power which is everywhere present, and is at the same time nowhere, but as committing and uniting ourselves to it by divine recollections and invocations.
P, 144. — The sacred rites of Bacchus are celebrated in the spring, &c. The following account of the festivals of the ancients, from the Descriptions of Libanius, represents to us the Hberal, philanthropic, and hospitable spirit of Paganism in the most amiable point of view, and naturally leads the truly benevolent mind to regret that such philanthropy has been for so long
This part is evidently stolen from the Commentaries of Simpliciui on Epictetus, as is evident from the following extract: Tavm* mv Vjump i«*f ^»iv ffgof avlcn (3"rov) wf avrvj wgof n^Jux^ Xtyofjuv' Toiovrm t» vaymrtst Moy 01 irtl^g rtyog ira^'Kiag xaXwv t^a^^rregf %bu tw cxcivoy titioTctto'^eu tavloug Tf xai 7o axarioy rn ittl^ ^goo-ayovrc;. xai ii* aitti^ieci *nv ytvofjLswu ioawwrt; ovx auToi n^tnui r>j fctlfot oKXa riff vtl^y xaV oXiyov c^r* uvtovq inwei* f^frufxtkiteu ht xect ixtTuaiy xat ti/y^ah xat la rotavTa^ uva'koyovo-i 7^ MtsXw, p. 223, octavo. i,e, « We speak of this our conversion to divinity, at if it was a conversion of him to us ; being affected in somewhat the tame manner as those, who, fastening a rope to a certain rocic in the tea, and drawing both themselves and the boat to the rock by pulling it, appear, through their ignorance of this circumstance, not to approach themselves to the rock, but think that the rock gradually approaches to them. For repentance, supplication, prayer, and things of this kind, are analogous to the rope."
a period banished from the earth ; that the essence of dxf ukfk no longer considered as essentially necessary to the tpkndor ti ivstivity ; and that a festival at present is every thing but a solemnity.
' Solemn festivals when approaching produce desire in dia hnman race, when present they are attended with pleasure, ad when past with recollection : for remembrance places menfcqr near the transactions themselves. The rccollectioa also poH sesses a certain advantage. For in speak mg of solemn festMs it is also necessary to speak concerning the gods in whose bs- Donr they are instimted. Men prepare themselves for these festivab when they approach with joy. The multitude, iiUieed, procure such things as may furnish them with a splendid entertainment, but the worthy those things by which they may re^ yerence the gods. Cattle and wine, and whatever else is the produce of the fields, are brought from the country. Garmeats also are purified ; and every one is anxious to celebrate the festival in perfection. Those that are in want of garments are permitted to borrow such as are requisite to adorn themselves on this occasion from those that have abundance. When t)ie appointed day arrives the priests open the temples, pay diligent attention to the statues ; and nothing is neglected whidi contributes to the public convenience. The cities too are crowded with a conflux of the neighbouring inhabitants, assembled to celebrate the festival ; some conung on foot, a&d others in ships.
At sun-rise they enter the temples in splendid garments, worshipping that divinity to whom the festival is sacred. Every master of a house, therefore, precedes bearing frankincense : t servant follows him carrying a victim ; and children walk by the side of their parents, some very young, and others of a more advanced age, already perceiving the strong influence (^ the gods. One having performed his sacrifice departs; another approaches to perform it. Numerous prayers are everywhere poured forth, and words of good omen are mutually spoken. With respect to the women, some offer sacrifices in the templei, and others are satisfied with beholding the crowd of those that sacrifice. When such things as pertain to the divmities are pn^erly accomplished, the tables follow, at which hynms are tung in praise oi the god who is honoured in the festivaL So
cial drinking suceeeds, with songs, which are partly serious and partly jocose, according to the different dispositbns of the com* pany. Some, likewise, feast in the temples, and others at home ; and citizens request strangers to partake with them of the banquet. In the course of drmking, ancient friendships are rendered more firm, and othen receive their commencement. After they have feasted, rising from table, some take the strangers, and show them whatever is worthy to be seen in the citv, and others sitting in the forum gaily converse. No one is sorrowful, but every countenance is relaxed with joy. The exaction of debts gives place to festivity, and whatever might cause afflictionis deferred to another time. Accusations are silent, and the judge does not pass sentence; but such things as produce pleasure alone flourish. The slave is not afiraid of blows from his master, and pedagogues are mild to ytfuth.
In the evening they sup splendidly, at which time there are «o many torches that the city is full of light. There are also many revellers, and various flutes, and the sound of pipes is heard in the narrow streets, accompanied with sometimes the same, and sometimes different songs. Then to drmk even to intoxication is not perfectly disgraceful ; for the occasion in a certain respect appears to take away the opprobrium. On the followmg day the divinity is not neglected ; but many of those that worshipped on the preceding day do not again come to the shows. Those that contend in the composition of verses attend on this, but those with whom the contest is in the scenes on the preceding day. The third day also is not far short of these ; and pleasure and hilarity are extended whh the time of the festival. "When the solemnity ends, prayers are offered for futurity, that they, their children, and families, may again be spectators of it ; after which the strangers depart, and tlie citizens accompany ihem."
The same author, Kkewise, in his account of the Calends observes as follows : ** Tliis festbal is extended as far as the dommion of the Romans ; and such is the joy it occasions, that if it were possible time could be hastened for mortals, which, according to Homer, was effected by Juno respecting the sun, this festival also would be hastened by every nation, city, house, and individual of mankind. The festival flourishes on every
hill and mountain, and in every lake and navigable river. It also flourishes in the sea, if at that time it happens to be undk* turbed by tempest: for then both ships and merchants cat through its waves and celebrate the festival. Joy and fesMidt^ everywhere abound. The earth is then full of honours, inoon* sequence of men honouring each other by gifts and hospitality, llie foot-paths and the public roads are crowded with meD» iii^ four-footed animals bearing burdens subservient to theoccasioo; and the ways in the city are covered, and the narrow streets are full. Some are equally delighted with givmg and receiving; but others, though they do not receive any thing, are pleased with giving, merely because they are to give. And the spring by its flowers, indeed, renders the earth beautiful, but the festival by its gifts, which, pouring in firom every place, are eveiywhere diffused. He, therefore, who asserts that this is the most pleasant part of the year will not err ; so that if the whole dme cf life could be passed in the same manner, the islands of the blest would not be so mach celebrated by mankind as they are at present. The first appearance of the swallow is, indeed, plea* sant, yet does not prevent labour ; but this festival thinks proper to remove from the days of its celebration every thing laborioa^ and permits us to enjoy minds free from molestation. These days free the youth from twofold fears, one arising Arom their preceptors, the other from their pedagogues. They also make slaves as much as possible free, and exhibit their power even in those in chains, removmg sorrow from their countenances^ and exciting some of them to mirth. They can also persuade a father who expects the death of his son, and through sorrow u wasting away, and averse to nourishment, to be reconciled to his condition, to abandon darkness, lay aside his squalid ap* pearance, and betake himself to the bath : and what the moiC skilful in persuasion are unable to accomplish, that the power of the festival effects. It also conciliates citizen with citizen^ stranger with stranger, one boy with another, and woman with woman. It likewise instructs men not to be avariciovs, but to bring forth their gold, and deposit it in the right-hands of others." He concludes with observmg, that the altars of the gods in hit time did not possess all that they did formerly, this being forbidden by the law of the Christians ; hot that before this prohi* bition much fire, blood, and fume of sacrifice ascended toheayea
irom every region, so that the banquets in honour of the gods were then splendid during the festival."
llie most remarkable circumstance in these festivals was the cause of this universal joy, which was no other than the firm persuasion that divinity was then present and propitious, as it evident from the following beautiful passage from Plutarch, in the treatise in which he shows that pleasure is not attainable according to Epicurus : " Neither the discourses (says he) of those that wait in the temples, nor the seasons of solemn festivals, nor any other actions or spectacles, delight us more than those things which we ourselves do concerning the gods, when we celebrate orgies, or join in the dance, or are present at sacrifices, or the greatest of the mysteries. For then the soul is not sorrowful, abject, and languid, as if conversing with certain tyrants, or dire avengers, which it is reasonable to suppose she then would be ; but where she especially thinks and rationally conceives divinity is present, there she especially banishes sorrow and fear, and care, and lets herself loose even to intoxication, frolic, and laughter. In amorous concerns, indeed, as the poet once said,
' Remembrance of the joys that Venus gave Will fire the bosom of the aged pair.'
But in public processions and sacrifices not only the old man
and the old woman, not only the poor and the plebeian, but
also
< The dusty thtck-Iegg'd drab that turns the mill,
and household slaves and hirelings are elevated with joy and gladness. Banquets and public entertainments are given both by the wealthy and kings ; but those which take place at sacrifices and solemnities, wherif through inspiration, we appear to approach njery near to a divine nature, are attended with much greater joy and pleasure, in conjunction with honour and veneration. Of this the man who denies a providence has no portion. For it is not the abundance of wine, nor the roasting of meat, which gives delight in solemn festivals ; but the good hope and belief that divinity is propitiously prC" sentf and gratefully receives what is done. From some of our festivals we exclude the flute and the crown ; but when
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